Chapter 3
500 Words
I didn't even know how long I had been crying. Brian didn't pass me tissues, didn't try to comfort me, just stood there watching in silence. Then, without warning, he lifted me straight off the exam bed.
I instinctively pushed against him. His shoulders were wide, his arms solid as steel, and he pinned me down effortlessly.
My back slammed into his chest. He caught the back of my head and pressed my face into the hollow of his shoulder.
"Crying doesn't change anything, Wendy. The weak don't make it." His hand traced down my spine and slipped into the wet heat between my thighs. Two fingers pressed in and moved slowly.
My legs tightened. A chill ran through my skin. My breathing turned shaky, uneven. It wasn't an exam, it wasn't treatment. It was a man touching a woman.
He lowered his head, his lips almost at my ear. "Do you want him to pay for it?"
I looked up. "Yes."
"Good." Brian withdrew his hand, pulled out a prescription pad, and started writing. "Take this home tonight. Tell him your pelvic nerves were damaged after childbirth, and you need long-term physical therapy."
He handed me the prescription and briefly held my fingers. "Come to the clinic at two every afternoon. I'll show you the next step."
I looked down at the paper. The diagnosis line read: manual rehabilitation.
"One session a day, for at least 40 minutes. No fixed end date."
"Will he buy it?" I tightened my grip on the paper.
"He wants you to be sick." Brian removed his glasses and slowly wiped the lenses. "The worse you seem, the happier he gets."
He patted my head. "Starting tomorrow, at 2 p.m. Go home now."
I walked out of the clinic holding the prescription. At home, I slapped it onto the dining table. Ryan looked up from his phone, frowned as he read it, then smirked.
"I told you," he said, tossing the paper back at me with a satisfied look. "There really is something wrong with you. Start treatment tomorrow and stop imagining I'm sick of you. I'm not touching you for your own good."
I smiled too. At 11 p.m., Ryan took sleeping pills and knocked out completely. I went down to the basement.
Inside was a gray safe. In it were two boxes of medication. Benzathine penicillin. Beneath them was an envelope. I opened it. Bank statements. Same date, same amount, every month for six months.
Payee: Tina Jones.
At the bottom was a photo. Ryan had his arm around a woman's waist beside a car. She wore a red dress, her face slightly turned toward the camera.
On the back, there was one line.
AzureBay Resort.
I took photos of everything, one by one: the picture, the bank statements, the medication boxes. I sent them out. Three seconds later, a reply came.
Brian: Tomorrow, 2 p.m.
I deleted every trace and put the safe back exactly where it had been.
- Writer
