“Okay,” I whisper.
“You ready to do this with me?”
With me. Not alone. Together.
“Yes.”
Cal smiles, the most beautiful, breathtaking smile that I have ever seen. With a renewed purpose, I don’t even bat an eyelid as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks on his camera.
He needs pictures of my body. Evidence. Proof.
Can I really do this?
Can I risk this all going horribly wrong?
It turns out that I can as I undo my shirt and let it fall to the floor. Cal sucks in a breath and begins to photograph me. Every visible part of me that has been tainted by Michael is being captured on camera.
This is how I escape.
This is how I begin the end of my terrifying journey.
This is how I save myself.
Cal stops taking photos and puts his phone away. I pick up my shirt, put it back on and sit down in my chair. My hands are shaking, my body trembling, but I have a renewed hope inside of me.
Cal.
He’s giving me hope.
He’s showing me the light.
I see the pain in his beautiful royal-blue eyes, and I hate that he is hurting because of what I am going through.
“I know you, Lucy, and I know that you want more than these pictures as proof, but this will do something. These pictures will help the police see what you have been going through.
“Come with me now. Leave him. Let me look after you.”
His words cause tears to fall down my cheeks.
“I can’t, Cal… It’s not enough,” I say between my sobs.
“It is, Lucy, it is enough,” Cal urges.
“It’s not,” I say with a shake of my head. “I want him to suffer for a long time, not just for a few months.”
“You don’t know that it would just be for a few months––”
“Yes, I do. I’ve read up on cases like mine. I’ve read about how others live in fear because they only get to breathe a short sigh of relief, if they are lucky. I need to know that he isn’t going to be free after only a couple of months of being locked away, if he were to be locked away in the first place. I need him gone for a long time. I don’t want to always be looking over my shoulder, Cal.”
I probably sound ridiculous, but I’ve done my research. I’ve read enough to know that I need several incidents to get a conviction. It’s not fair, but then nothing about this situation is fair.
“But I will be right beside you. You won’t be alone,” Cal says, the desperation in his voice making me ache.
“You can’t be with me twenty-four-seven.”
“Don’t make me leave here knowing you have to go back with him,” Cal whispers, his hands finding their way to mine.
Statistics don’t lie. The cases I have read about show that most abusers get to walk away because so much evidence is needed. This is why I have to stay and get as much proof as I can. This is why I can’t just walk away now. This is why I have to endure more fucking pain, because the system is just as fucked as I am.
“Cal, I––”
“He’s coming,” I hear Kim shout as she bursts through the door.
“Fuck,” Cal says as he stands, his hands going to his hair, his fingers tugging the strands. He looks pissed off, whereas I am just fucking panicking.
“Go,” I whisper.
“Lucy,” Cal says as he comes back to me and hugs me gently. “I don’t want to go, but I know I have to because we’re out of time. Never forget that I love you, and I’m here. Always.”
“Quick,” Kim says, her eyes wide, the tension in the room ratcheting up a few more notches.
“I love you guys,” I say as I gently push Cal away from me.
“We love you too,” Kim says. “Now come on, he’s going to be coming in here any minute now.”
“Never forget,” Cal says before he disappears, Kim following him, and me waiting to face the music once more.
Chapter Twelve
Upping his game
The rest of the week goes by without incident.
Michael doesn’t hit me again.
The pain in my body starts to subside.
I haven’t seen Cal since the other day.
Kim doesn’t try to talk to me or acknowledge me.
The hope that I felt is slowly starting to diminish.
I’m worrying about the photographs that Cal took.
What if someone else sees them?
What if he loses his phone?
What if Michael finds out about them?
What if Cal decides that this is all too much for him?
What if, what if, what if.
The questions continue, and I have no answers to any of them. I never do.
I sit on the sofa with a cup of coffee whilst Michael takes a shower and gets ready for a night out. He is meeting an old friend for a drink, but I barely showed any interest, so he didn’t give me many details.
I couldn’t give a fuck what he does, I’m just glad that he is going out and leaving me here.
It is the first time that I will have been in the apartment on my own for a long time, and with no way of contacting Cal, my only plans are to watch television and have an early night. I don’t want to be awake when Michael comes back here drunk.
Michael emerges from the bathroom and disappears into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, showing off his physique. It does absolutely nothing for me.
I busy myself by making a small salad and heating up some leftover quiche. I tidy up as I go along so as not to anger the fucking beast that I live with. I know full well that he will do a quick inspection of the kitchen area before he leaves. If I leave it messy then I’ll be in for it. I’ve made that mistake before, and it resulted in me being treated to a whole evening of mental torture about everything that was wrong with me. I don’t wish to experience that again any time soon.
I may be trying to numb myself to his scathing comments, but I’m only human and his words still have an effect on me.
“What do you think?” Michael asks as he enters the kitchen, holds his hands out to the sides and does a twirl. He’s wearing black suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, complete with black jacket and polished leather shoes.
“Nice,” is my only reply. I don’t have any interest in complimenting him.
“Nice? Can you not do any better than that?” he retorts, clearly put out by my bland response.
“What do you want me to say?” I reply with a shrug of my shoulders.
“Well, maybe you could show a bit of fucking interest in me? You know, be a bit more forthcoming.”
Sometimes I really do wonder whether Michael has a genuine mental illness. I mean, he can hardly expect me to fall at his feet after his abuse of me, can he?
“You look smart.” It’s the best that I can do, and even saying that makes me feel sick. I pick my plate of food up off the worktop and make my way over to the sofa, but Michael stops me, clearly having something else in mind.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, his anger at my refusal to douse him in adoration ratcheting up a notch.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you so fucking ungrateful?”
Oh God, here we go again.
“I just want to eat my food, Michael.” Wrong thing to say as he seizes my plate and hurls it across the room. The plate connects with the wall and smashes into pieces, bits of china and food flying everywhere.