Running Toward
678 Words
She sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, knees pulled to her chest, the curtains drawn against the morning. The divorce papers lay on the nightstand. She had not moved them. She was not ready to.
"What do I do now?" she whispered to no one.
The honest answer frightened her: she did not know. For two years, her life had been organized around Micheal, his moods, his schedule, his expectations. Without him at the center of everything, she did not know what shape she was supposed to take.
Part of her, the part that had loved him before he became cruel but she still wanted to tell him. Maybe the news of a child would soften something in him. Maybe it would bring him back to who he used to be.
She shut down that thought the moment it formed. She knew better. She had watched Micheal use every vulnerability she ever showed him as ammunition. A child would not change him. A child would only give him one more thing to control.
"He would take the baby the moment it was born," she murmured to herself. "He'd call it his right. He'd remind me of it every day for the rest of my life." She pressed her hand flat against her stomach. "No. You are mine. Only mine."
She was pulled from her thoughts by a knock at the door. She sat very still.
"Housekeeping," a muffled voice called from the other side.
"Not right now, please," she called back, her voice steadier than she expected. "Could you come back later?"
A pause. Then footsteps retreating down the hallway.
She exhaled slowly. She knew she could not stay here. This hotel room was temporary, a hiding place, not a home. If she stayed in this city, she would eventually run into someone who knew Micheal, someone who reported back to him the way people always did when money was involved.
She thought of Nancy.
Nancy, who had left Australia two years ago after her own heartbreak and built a quiet, independent life for herself in Paris. Nancy, who always answered the phone. Nancy, who said difficult truths without cruelty. The only person Beatrice trusted entirely.
She reached for her phone before she could talk herself out of it. Her thumb hovered over the contact for a moment. Then she pressed call.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Hello?" Nancy's voice was soft, slightly sleepy.
Beatrice opened her mouth. No words came. She pressed her palm over her lips and a sob broke out, ragged and sudden, the kind she had been holding in for days.
"Bea?" Nancy's voice sharpened immediately. "Is that you? Oh God, where have you been? Are you alright?"
She could not speak. She sat on the bed with the phone against her ear, crying silently while Nancy's voice kept coming, steady, warm, pulling her back.
"Nance," she finally managed. "I need you."
There was a brief silence. Then: "I'm here. Whatever it is, I'm here. Tell me."
She took a breath that shook on the way out. "I can't stay here. He'll find me if I do. I need to leave before that happens." She paused. "Can I come to you?"
"Yes, of course," Nancy said, without a single beat of hesitation. "Come right now. I’m in Paris, Bea. You'll be safe here, I promise."
Beatrice let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for two years. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Nancy said firmly. "Just pack. I'll handle the rest."
When the call ended, Beatrice sat for a moment longer, her hand resting on her stomach in the dark.
She did not know what Paris would look like. She did not know how she would manage, or what kind of mother she would become, or how long it would take before the ache in her chest felt like something she could carry instead of something crushing her.
But she knew this: she was done waiting for someone else to save her.
She reached for the light.
- Writer
