Knot Now, Maybe Knot Ever

Chapter 2: Savannah

Savannah, Saturday, March 29th

Light filters through the cracked window, a weak beam cutting across my face like an accusation. I blink awake, my body registering pain before memory—nerve endings screaming from the hard surface beneath me. Not my bed—the floor. The living room floor, where this morning's violence played out.

Memory crashes back in fragments: Tyler's rage-twisted face. The word "Gala" hanging in the air like a death sentence. The first blow. The last. Everything between lost in a haze of pain and terror.

I try to move and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my body, a map of this morning's violence written in bruises and broken skin. My ribs scream in protest as I push myself to a sitting position, my palm slipping in something sticky. Blood—my blood—dark and dried against the worn carpet. Lovely. Now I get to add "clean bloodstains" to today's to-do list, right between "don't die" and "pretend everything's fine."

A whine escapes my throat before I can stop it, the omega in me seeking comfort that won't come. I clamp my mouth shut, silencing the sound even though Tyler isn't here to punish me for it. Ingrained habits die hard—or rather, they keep you from dying hard.

The clock on the wall reads 10:37. Less than two hours before my shift starts downstairs. Tyler will expect me there, bruises or no bruises. The show must go on, and I'm the star attraction in this horror show.

I plant one hand on the coffee table, using it to haul myself to my feet. The room spins the moment I'm vertical, darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. I grab for the wall, bracing myself against it as I wait for the dizziness to pass, breathing through clenched teeth. The peeling wallpaper feels rough under my fingertips, another reminder of how everything in this place is falling apart—me included.

One step. Another. Each movement a negotiation with pain as I shuffle toward the bathroom. My body's a collection of competing aches, each one demanding attention. Sorry, folks, we're at capacity. Take a number and wait your turn.

The door creaks as I push it open, revealing the grimy little space that serves as our bathroom. The overhead light flickers when I flip the switch, casting sickly yellow light over stained porcelain and cracked tiles. The mirror's spotted with age, which is almost a mercy—maybe it won't show every detail of the damage.

I avoid looking in the mirror at first, focusing instead on turning on the faucet. The pipes groan and shudder before releasing a stream of rust-colored water that gradually runs clear. I cup my hands beneath it, splashing my face and immediately regretting it as pain flares across my split lip.

"s**t," I hiss, tasting copper as the cut reopens. Blood swirls pink in the basin, another mess to clean up. I'm like a one-woman crime scene today.

Finally, I force myself to look up.

The girl in the mirror is a stranger, yet achingly familiar. I've seen her before—this hollow-eyed version of myself, mapped in bruises and fear. My cheek is swollen and mottled with purple-red bruising from where his hand connected, the discoloration spreading up toward my eye and down to my jaw. My lip split at the corner, crusted with dried blood. Bruises mottle my jaw and chin where his fingers dug in, dark purple marks that look almost like some twisted piece of abstract art.

I stare at my reflection, mentally updating my internal injury spreadsheet. Who needs a fitness tracker when you can count bruises instead of steps? "Today's Statistics: Four visible bruises, one split lip, and a partridge in a pear tree." I almost laugh at my own gallows humor, but even my bitter jokes hurt today.

The cheap fluorescent light flickers above, casting shifting shadows that make my reflection seem to move, to flinch, to try to escape the mirror's unforgiving testimony. For a moment, I see myself as the customers downstairs will: a broken thing trying desperately to appear whole. Just another Saturday at The Rusty Tavern.

I lift my nightshirt with trembling hands, revealing a patchwork of bruises across my ribs and stomach, varying shades of purple and blue against my pale skin. The worst is over my right side where his boot connected—a perfect boot print, like he was signing his work. I press gently against it and nearly black out from the sharp, stabbing pain. Maybe cracked, not broken. At least I hope. I can't afford a hospital visit, and explaining these injuries to a doctor would just create more problems than it would solve.

My hands tremble as I reach for the small makeup bag tucked behind the sink. Inside is a pitiful collection—cheap concealer, mascara, lip gloss. Tools for making myself presentable for the customers downstairs, not for covering the evidence of a beating. But desperate times call for creative problem-solving, and I've gotten pretty creative over the years.

The clock's steady ticking fills the bathroom, each second bringing me closer to my shift downstairs. In less than two hours, I'll have to wear my customer service smile like armor, serve drinks with steady hands, and pray that the concealer holds up under the bar's unforgiving lights. Tyler will be watching—he's always watching—ready to add fresh bruises over these if I fail to meet his expectations.

I uncap the concealer stick, its beige tone several shades too dark for my skin but all I can afford. My fingers shake as I dab it over the worst of the bruises, starting with my face. The makeup stings against raw skin, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Each layer is a mask, a lie I'm telling the world. "Everything's fine. I'm fine. Please don't look too closely."

The concealer barely makes a difference against the violent purple around my eye. I apply more, pressing harder despite the pain, desperate to hide what can't be hidden. My vanilla-cinnamon scent sours with distress, filling the tiny bathroom with the smell of my fear. Even my own biology betrays me.

"Stupid," I whisper to my reflection. "So stupid."

Asking about the Gala. What was I thinking? That Tyler would just let me go? That I deserved a chance at something better? Hope is a dangerous thing in a place like this.

Water drips from the leaky faucet, each drop hitting the stained basin with a hollow plink that echoes my thoughts. Drip. Stupid. Drip. Worthless. Drip. Broken.

I turn to my hair next, running fingers through tangled platinum strands. A clump comes away matted with blood where my scalp split when Tyler yanked me by the hair. I wet a washcloth and dab at the wound, wincing as it stings. The water in the sink turns pink, then red—more evidence of this morning's rage I need to wash away. Like if I can just clean it all up, maybe it didn't really happen.

The bathroom door creaks on its hinges, swaying slightly in a draft that seeps through the cracked window. The sound makes me jump, heart racing as I whirl toward the empty doorway. Tyler's not there, but he might as well be. His presence lingers in every bruise, every flinch, every racing heartbeat. He's gotten inside my head so thoroughly that I carry him with me even when he's gone.

I turn back to the mirror, to the stranger with my face. The concealer is a poor mask, barely disguising the violence written across my skin. But it's all I have. It'll have to be enough.

It always has to be enough.