Where the Violets Grow

Chapter 6- The Righteous Cry Out

"Lucy," Peter asks, "may we come inside?"

Panic sets back in underneath my resolve.

"Uhm..." I say "I don't think that's a good idea." I start to scramble for any reason I can find to keep him outside.

"If you feel like you're not safe here, you can tell me," Peter says, taking a step forward. "If he's hurt you..."

For a moment, I almost give in. I want to throw myself into Peter's arms and tell him everything, beg him to help me. But with the influence of Daniel's family, his father with his established resentment for me, I know that there is no escape. There is no turning back. I'm already in too deep. I square my shoulders and swallow the whimper of pain the movement causes, and I look past Peter's eyes.

"That's really not necessary. There is no emergency, and as you can see— I am fine. Now if you will please excuse me.." I start to step back and close the door.

Peter's hand flies out at me to catch the door before I shut it, and I flinch so violently that I end up hitting my head on the side of the door and falling onto my backside. I cry out in pain and Peter cries out in shock, reaching for me again.

"Lucy!" His voice is panicked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Please, Peter." I say while holding my head in pain, biting back the tears that were building up but having nothing to do with hitting my head. "Just leave. I'm fine. Go."

He hesitates at the clipped tone of my voice, and then places something on the floor and slides it over to me.

"I was just trying to give you this. Call if you need anything. We'll go." There's another pause. "I'm sorry, Lucy." It feels like he's apologizing for a lot more than just startling me. I hear him walking away.

One... two... three... four...

Footsteps on the gravel. One... two...

Eventually, the engine starts and they drive away. I finally look down at what Peter had slid over to me. It was a matte white business card with his direct line number from the police department. On the back in his neat handwriting was the national hotline for domestic violence intervention. In smaller writing just underneath it, it simply says Psalm 34:17

The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.

I remember the verse well from Bible Study, even from several years ago. Peter's family and mine used to attend church together every week, and we attended youth group together.

I don't think anyone there would find me very righteous right now.

I pull myself up and close the front door, the deadbolt snaps closed and the dam breaks.

I break down into uncontrollable sobbing all over again. I slide down the wall and curl around myself, burying my face in my knees and wailing like a sad little kid. Rocking back and forth, beating the back of my head against the wall, none of it soothes the raging windstorm of thoughts tearing through my head.

You killed your boyfriend.

There's a body downstairs.

You lied to the police.

You're a killer.

Killer.

KILLER.

"NO!" I scream the word, hitting the sides of my head with the heels of my hands to drown out the venom-laced accusations.

I stagger to the kitchen in search of something to drown out the pain. It only takes me a second to spy the cupboard where Daniel keeps his liquor. I've never been able to stand the taste, but I rummage through it anyway. I take a bottle with a square body and an ornate label with a suspicious brown liquid inside. I unscrew the cap and hold it to my lips— and choke on the vile burn. I swallow a sip. Then another. Then another until the burn subsides enough and I feel the rush of warmth spread through my chest. The ache in my muscles and joints subsides to a dull throb.

I sit numbly with the nearly empty bottle of booze in my lap and let the tears fall freely, silently.

I don't know how much time has passed, but the silence becomes too much. Then reality hits me all over again.

Everything is over.

I'll never be able to hide this.

There is nowhere left to run.

I have nobody.

Daniel isolated me from all my friends, my parents are both dead.

None of my extended family talks to me after I missed the funeral because Daniel lost his temper the night before and had kicked me so hard he broke two of my ribs.

The nurse at the emergency room didn't even blink that night when he had spun some story about me being clumsy and falling down the basement stairs. She was too busy making eyes at him to entertain any other possibility.

I really have nobody.

That hits me like a punch to the chest. The crushing reality of being completely and utterly alone propels me to my feet to the bathroom. I wrench open the medicine cabinet and rifle through its contents until I find exactly what I'm looking for.

Daniel’s leftover pain medication from his wisdom-teeth surgery. The pills had made him nauseous, so he’d abandoned them and numbed himself with liquor instead. I unscrew the cap and shake a small handful of white pills into my palm.

"What the f**k do you think you are doing?"

I freeze.

The voice needs no introduction. I would know it anywhere.

I knew I’d hear him again. Death would never be merciful enough to spare me from his haunting presence. Whether it is the grief, the alcohol, or my mind finally breaking, it feels as though he is standing in the room with me.

As if…

He is standing right behind me.

I lift my eyes and suddenly realize I must already be in Hell.

Daniel is standing in the bathroom doorway. His expression holds more annoyance than the pure rage I would have expected.

He is standing here, but something is clearly wrong—he is certainly not alive. His skin is grey, blackened blood crusted over his lips, chin, and beneath his nose. His eyes are glazed and beginning to cloud. His arm is still sickeningly bent in too many places.

And his neck—oh God, his neck.

His head is c****d sharply to one side, the snapped bones grotesquely pressing against the flesh.

“Put those down,” Daniel says sternly. “We both know you don’t have the fortitude.”

I stand with my mouth agape, his glaring eyes fixed on me.

“You killed me, Lucy.”

His stare holds me in some kind of trance. My hand begins to lower, the pills trembling in my palm.

“You think killing yourself is going to turn this into some Poor Little Lucy show?” His lip curls. “Do you think people are going to feel sorry for you after what you did to me?”

My mind is hazy, my tongue swollen and fuzzy.

“I just…I…” I stammer.

“Shut the f**k up.”

Daniel’s voice cuts through me, sharp as a blade, and I immediately obey. My mouth clamps shut hard enough that my teeth split my lip. The metallic taste of blood floods my tongue.

“You always do this,” he says. “You ruin everything, then freeze up like a stupid little deer and start making excuses. It was so simple, Lucy. All you ever had to do was obey.”

Obey.

That word is the very definition of my life with Daniel.

Obedience. Submission. Punishment. Repentance.

Over and over again, I was forced to obey.

Anger crashes through me like a scalding wave. I stare directly into his cloudy eyes, my entire body shaking with rage.

I say only two words.

“f**k. You.”

Then I raise my hand, tip the pills into my mouth, and wash them down with another swallow of warm whiskey.

...

Daniel’s laughter rings in my ears as I gag and violently empty my stomach. Bile burns through my mouth and nose, and the dissolving pills lie in the puddle of sour whiskey on the bathroom floor.

"Now that you're done with your stupid little pity-party," he begins as he crouches down beside me "there's something you need to take care of."

He reaches out and grips my chin with fingers that are hard and cold as ice, forcing me to look into his milky eyes.

"My body is still in that basement." he says "You had better dig a hole, stupid."