by Amy Rose
I struggle to speak, needing to say something to try and even momentarily halt the assault. “I’m sorry Dylan…I was wrong…please forgive me…I know now that I should have never left you…Please stop hurting me…” He laughs, throwing his head back. He laughs at me, his laughter so incredibly loud in such a quiet space. I knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. He doesn’t want an apology, he wants to hurt me badly.
Gaining his composure again, he returns to the matter at hand. He lowers the bat and sets up his next target. It looks as though he is about to connect with a pitched ball. One more blow, but he doesn’t connect with a ball. Instead, this time he connects with my legs. They buckle underneath me as soon as the bat connects with them. I collapse to the floor. He positions himself so he is standing directly over me, he raises his foot above me and then brings it down squarely on my face. And then, everything goes dark.
I wake up screaming, flailing around in my bed, throwing off the covers. When I finally sit up, I feel the beads of sweat that have appeared on my forehead. I’m breathing so hard, struggling for air, the same way a diver does when they break the surface after a dive without oxygen, trying to pull as much air into their lungs as they possibly can.
All the while, I am looking frantically around the room, scanning for any sign of him, trying to see through the darkness. Is he hiding in the shadows? I listen very closely to any sound that might betray his location. After a few minutes, when my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light in the room and my breathing has started to calm, I realize that he isn’t here. He had never been here. It was just another one of those bad dreams.
I slip out of bed and fetch a cold glass of water from the refrigerator, sipping the tasteless liquid while making my way back to the bedroom. It takes me quite a long time to slow my breathing back to a normal rhythm, even longer to calm myself enough to lie back down, and even more so to relax enough to fall asleep. I glanced at the clock sitting beside the bed. It shows 3:42 am.
These nightmares are happening way more frequently now. They are always so cruel and violent, bringing back all the memories that I have tried so desperately to bury and forget all about. After all these years it still affects me the exact same way as it did when it was fresh. When I experienced it the very first time.
You see, these dreams of mine have truth to them. They aren’t just figments of my imagination. The abuse I suffered at the hands of Dylan was frequent and incredibly horrible; bone-shattering, soul-crushingly so.
I’m thankful when my eyelids begin to get heavy. I place the now-empty glass safely beside the lamp and resettle myself in bed, pulling the covers up nice and high around me. As the drowsiness begins to pull me under, I pray to God that no more nightmares would rear their ugly heads again tonight and that I would sleep soundly, not waking up again until morning comes.
“Beep, beep, beep.” Argh, the dreaded alarm clock. Why was that darn thing making such a racket on a Sunday morning? Something is different about today, though, I feel it. What was it again? Then it comes to me. That’s right, I’ve got an appointment at the Belle Meade Homestead this afternoon. A viewing with him. He made an appearance in my dreams last night, early this morning just before the alarm clock woke me. Nothing of consequence, just that he had agreed to purchase the property. That had to be a good omen, surely?
I reach across and press my hand to the snooze button on top of the clock, looking at the large red numbers staring back at me. It’s 7:15 am, which means it’s early enough that I could just simply roll back over and go back to sleep for a couple more hours. That would be nice. God knows I need it; the nightmares are becoming more frequent lately. The past two nights it has been almost the same dream, with only minor changes, different locations they may be, but Dylan used the same weapon both times, he sure loved his baseball bat.
It has been a number of years since I last saw Dylan in person, and yet his voice was still crystal clear in my mind. Every time he speaks in these dreams, it’s as though I have only seen him earlier that day. I need to find a way to get him out of my mind, once and for all. I’m certainly not going to be able to continue surviving on a few hours’ sleep per night. Maybe it is time to open my heart again, just a little. Maybe have a coffee with someone? I’m definitely not ready for anything serious. If I let myself create some new memories, happy ones, maybe these horrible ones will stop making such regular appearances?
I pull myself out of bed and drag my tired ass into the kitchen. It’s time to get busy and start the day. First things first, I turn the kettle on and wait for it to boil before making myself a cup of tea, adding the boiling water along with one lump of sugar and leaving the tea bag in to infuse, before pouring myself a bowl of cereal. I’m so predictable, same routine every morning. I grab the milk out of the refrigerator and pour it onto my corn flakes.
Sitting at the breakfast bar, I eat in silence. It isn’t hard to do when you live by yourself. It’s a comfortable silence. I have lived here in my little abode for just over two years now. It isn’t much, but it’s mine. I was so very proud of myself the day I got the keys. I was twenty-six and I had purchased my first home. Well, it’s technically a condo, but it’s home to me.
I had scrimped and saved every single commission check I had earned, along with birthday and Christmas money from Mom and Dad, as well as a small part of the inheritance I received when my grandmother had passed the year before, in order to save the deposit. I looked around my home; I loved it as much now two years later as I did that very first time I laid eyes on it.
My home is on the second level of an eight-level building. It’s an old warehouse that has been converted into fifty-five residential apartments, ranging from studios to three-bedroom penthouses. Mine, however, is comprised of four rooms: a large open plan living, dining and kitchen area, a double size bedroom with master bathroom, and a laundry room. Plenty big enough for me, myself, and I.
It is filled with an eclectic mix of furniture, older items mainly, some antique pieces handed down from members of my family. There is a photograph wall as you walk into the apartment, consisting of mainly landscapes and buildings. There is only one family photo. It shows Mom, Dad, and me standing in the back yard of their home in the Hamptons, taken the last time I visited, back in February of last year. The same one hangs in Dad’s office at work.
I finish my last mouthful of tea and take my dishes to the sink. I wash and dry them quickly and then put them back where they belong. I do this every single time as I don’t like anything out of place. Sunday is generally my cleaning day. Even though I had to work this afternoon I needed to get my chores done. It was just before 9:00 so I had plenty of time to do a few things. I load the washing machine with a week’s worth of clothing, retrieve the vacuum from its designated spot in the linen closet and quickly fly around the entire space. I spray the entire shower, tiles, glass and faucet with product and leave it to settle for half an hour, as directed on the bottle. I would scrub it off when I showered a little later on.
I wander into the bedroom and throw open the closet doors. I stand there staring at the assortment of clothes hanging in front of me. What on earth do you wear to meet a millionaire? Obviously not my usual top, pants and polished flats combination. No, I would have to make a little more effort today. The only experience I have of meeting millionaires outside of my own family was at a charity ball, and that floor-length, crimson dress with embellishments sewn to the bust won’t work for today.
I pull through all of the items hanging in their color-coded sections. After looking at the entire wardrobe of clothes three times over, nothing is grabbing my attention. I reach in as far as I can go. Tucked away right at the back, along with all of the other clothes I rarely wore, was my one little black dress. That one piece of clothing that every single woman in the world owns. I grabbed onto the hanger and retrieved it out of its hiding spot in the closet. It is professional enough, but it could also pass as dressy at the same time. It sits just below the knee, wi
th capped sleeves and a square neckline that give just a very slight hint of my bust. It is classy, not provocative. And most importantly, it covers my scar.
I choose all my clothing with this in mind. Nothing can be shorter than the knee, especially when I wasn’t wearing colored tights underneath. That was my only exception, I have one long-sleeved black dress that sits about an inch above my knee and I wear dark purple tights underneath with my black boots. No chance at all that anyone would be seeing my legs.
I purchased the dress I had in my hand a few years ago. I needed it for a work function and hadn’t worn it again since, so it looks brand new. I might as well get the use out of it. I turn around and lay it on the edge of the bed. Now that item one has been selected, it was now time to select the appropriate accessories. Turning back around to face the closet, I dropped to my knees on the carpeted floor, looking for one of the two pairs of heels I owned. I find the kitten heels first and decide against them, instead selecting the black wedges—completely the opposite of my ballet flats that were my go-to everyday shoe. Even though these aren’t exactly considered heels, they are strappy and will give me additional height. They will also add a casual feel to the dress so it won’t look super formal.
Next it is time to choose jewelry. I don’t own a lot of it. I generally wear costume jewelry to work, something that looks expensive but doesn’t cost me more than $20.00. I fumble around the top shelf until I find what I am looking for. I pull it down and hold it, cupped in my hands in front of me, a relatively small wooden box with carvings etched into the lid. It was a gift from my grandmother and I loved it. It also easily fits my few genuine gold and white gold jewelry items that I own, which consist of five pairs of earrings, two necklaces and two watches. I select my simple gold ball earrings and the gold heart pendant I received from my parents for my twenty-first birthday, and finally my thin gold-banded watch, with a diamond embedded in the face.
All items now lie beside each other on the bed. Looking down at them, I decide that I’m happy with the ensemble. They are all items that I don’t wear often so it will feel nice to dress in something different. After all, it’s not as though it’s a question you can simply put into the Google search bar. Imagine that: “Hey Google, is there a dress code etiquette to meet someone who could probably buy an island and not even feel it?” Shrugging away those thoughts, I decided that the best way to approach this appointment is to pretend that I don’t know anything other than his name. He can share any other information with me if he feels it is necessary. He would have to know that I am aware of his financial status, though. After all, he wouldn’t be looking at a property which is listed for $2.4 million dollars if he couldn’t afford it, now would he?
Almost an hour has passed when I look over at the clock. It is time to get a move on. I turn and head for the shower, turning on both taps and then undressing, placing my pajamas into the laundry hamper, looking at myself in the mirror before the fog makes it impossible. I take a quick glimpse of my body, I was thinner than I usually was, not that calling me thin would be the right word, I’m certainly not a size zero, or even a four. I’m more along the lines of a size ten on a good day, twelves are more comfortable, though. The thin genes unfortunately missed me, my mother cuts a lovely figure, as did my grandmother. Me though, that’s a different story. All I have to do is walk past a bakery and smell the beautiful smell of fresh hot bread and I can feel the rolls adding themselves to my belly.
Stepping into the steam feels heavenly. I let the water wash over my body for quite some time, enjoying the feel of the hot water biting my skin. Closing my eyes, I let myself imagine it being the lips of someone who loved me, lips that are kissing me all over. My mind betrays me though. It’s not possible, I don’t know anyone. I’m not loved by any man. I reopen my eyes and set myself the task of washing my hair with the expensive shampoo I use only on special occasions. It smells like I’ve just stepped out of a salon. It will have to do as it has been close to six months since I last enjoyed that experience. That is a luxury I am very much looking forward to enjoying when my commission check comes in. Until then it’s supermarket boxed hair dyes for me.
Why don’t I just go and get it dyed? After all, I have a bank account just sitting there, begging to be touched. However, I made a promise to myself that I would only use my own earnings for any day-to-day needs.
I squirt some of the body wash onto my loofah and wash my body twice, hoping that the smell of vanilla will be evident on my skin. I will have to try and remind myself to use the matching body cream before I get dressed. It will help my perfume cling to my skin; layering with matching scents helps to keep the scent strong. That’s why all of those fancy perfumeries try to sell you the matching body wash and body lotion for the perfume you want to purchase.
I shave my legs carefully to ensure no cuts. I always have to concentrate with this job in particular towards the tops of my knees in order to miss the scar that took prime position on my right leg, but I am especially careful today, knowing that I was wearing a dress, I won’t be able to hide a nick of the razor with a pair of jeans or long pants.
Finally, I start my skin care routine. My skin is relatively clear due to the fact that I always wash it morning and night. First a pea-sized amount of my scrub, then one pump of the cream cleanser. Once I have ensured that I have nothing left to do I quickly scrub the tiles and glass and then rinse the cleaning product from the surface.
I turn the water off and exit the shower, wrapping my hair in a small turban and then drying myself off with a towel. Once sufficiently dry, I search the vanity for the cream that matches my body wash. I scoop a generous amount out with my fingers and apply it all over, legs, arms, torso and my décolletage; once complete, I wrap a towel around myself and tuck it in at the top so it won’t fall down.
Wiping the condensation from the vanity mirror, I take up position and look at myself. My bright eyes stare back at me, pleasantly surprised when my reflection doesn’t look overly tired, a bonus I happily accept. After last night I was sure it would show all over my face. This past week I had looked tired every single day. It is horrible knowing that I am starting to get used to the lack of sleep, as the memories seemed to be coming hard and fast in my dreams of late.
I have to start getting ready to ensure I won’t be late for my meeting with Mr. Sands. I withdraw my hairdryer from the bottom drawer of the vanity and methodically brush and dry my hair trying to give it some body, the color was fading now. When it’s fresh, it’s a beautiful glossy black, now it just looks like a dull faded dark brown. It would look even worse if I hadn’t put that “do-it-yourself dye job” in a few weeks ago, I apply a smoothing product next to try and prevent fly-aways and pull my hair back into a ponytail while I continue to get ready. Next it’s time for make-up.
I’m not too bad at applying makeup, what little makeup I do own, anyway. “Just the essential items every woman needs,” my mother would say; foundation, powder, blush, eyeshadow, mascara and lip gloss. Not that my mother would have any less than one hundred items in her makeup bag at one time. I apply a little more mascara then I usually do and then pull the one lipstick I owned out of my small cosmetics bag and apply it to my lips to check the color. Yep. That looks good.
I blot the lipstick off quickly with a pad infused with make-up remover so I could brush my teeth, I still brushed my teeth the way the dentist showed me when I was younger, one minute for the bottom teeth and a further minute to the top.
I reapply the lipstick and then wander into the bedroom to get dressed. I slip into black cotton panties and the matching push-up bra, then I step into the dress. Once zipped in, I pull the hair tie out, letting my hair fall onto my shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I slide my feet into the wedges and fasten the small buckle at my ankle. Next, I insert my earrings in my ears and then fasten the clasp of my necklace. It hangs just below my throat. Last was my small gold watch. When I check the time, it reads a quarter to one. Sheesh, was it that
time already? I really do have to get going, giving myself the once over with a lingering glance in the mirror, I decide that I am happy with my reflection. As happy as I am going to be anyway, after all it wasn’t going to get any better by staring.
I head into the kitchen to grab my phone, keys, work folder and handbag, I also pick up the muffin case and place it next to the front door to ensure I wouldn’t forget it. The keys and informational flyers for the property are already in the car, having not removed them yesterday. Having all the items I need in hand, I lock the front door to my apartment before making my way down the two flights of stairs to my car.
It is approximately a twenty-minute drive to the property in Belle Meade that I am showing Mr. Sands today. It is located on the outskirts of town which allows for the occupants to experience an element of privacy, another important key point to remember when talking about the benefits of this property. I want, well actually I need, to be totally prepared for today, I am going to sell this house, sell it to a New York millionaire, even. I will use all of my practiced selling techniques to get this one over the line. But then again, do I really want this to be the last time I show this beautiful cottage? It truly is one of a kind in Nashville. It deserves someone who will love it and look after it, restore it to its original beauty. So, is it wise to sell it to someone who lives in another state? Someone who might come down once a year to see it and let it go further into disrepair?
I am torn between making sure that what and who this house needs will be fulfilled or just selling the home and acquiring the much-needed commission check I will receive when the sale closes.
