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Before: Living Arrangements


Nick

Three days. That's how long you could see Chris's hand prints on her neck. That's how long it took for her to recover, for the fetal distress to calm, and for the doctors to allow her to go home on the promise that she have someone with her to take care of her. Someone besides her husband. You know, the fucking bastard that did this to her.

I spent all three days beside her.

"You can go home, you know," she said around seven-thirty on the second day, when I was yawning, leaning back in a hard plastic chair - the only chair the nurses could seem to find for me - and watching some goofy show she had on the TV screen. I'd just watched her eat her dinner (a soppy turkey sandwich with a green Jell-O cup, a tiny cardboard box of milk and a side of green beans floating in semi-clear liquid; aren't you jealous?), and the nurse was clearing away her tray.

The nurse cocked her head, interested in what my response would be.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said. We were holding hands, and I tapped our laced fingers against the bed beside her. "I'm perfectly fine right here."

"You should at least get some food," Ashley said, concerned.

"I'm okay," I said, shaking my head.

Truth be told, I didn't dare to leave her alone. I've watched my fair share of horror flicks and suspense movies where the moment the girl is left alone the guy sneaks in the window and kills her or kidnaps her or has her poisoned by his secret double agent parading as an over interested nurse. I eyeballed the nurse, and she quickly sprang back to work clearing off the trays.

I know, I was being ridiculous, but really, there wasn't much of anything that I would've put past Chris after this.

"I could have them bring you something," the nurse piped up. "You don't have to leave."

Ashley squeezed my fingers, "You should eat," she said.

I nodded and asked for the same turkey sandwich they'd provided Ashley with and the milk (notice I left out the green beans and their questionable liquid), and the nurse hurried out of the room to go put in the order for me.

Ashley was staring at me, an unreadable expression on her face.

"What?" I asked.

Tears threatened the corner of her eyes. She smiled and muted the TV. "You," she said, shaking her head, "You're so..." she swallowed, nearly overcome. She drew a deep breath.

"You're so... too," I said.

Ashley squeezed my hand. "You've been my savior since second grade, Nick, and you don't even realize it. Over and over and over again you just keep riding in on your white horse with your shining armor and --"

"I didn't save you," I said, shaking my head, "Ashley, I'm just here."

"Being here is a kind of saving," she answered. "Notice who isn't here."

"That mother fucker better not dare show his face around here," I said.

Ashley looked down at her lap.

"Ash, you should report him," I said quietly. I sat forward in my seat because what I had to say on the topic of reporting Chris was urgent. "Guys like that... they don't deserve to be free."

"I'm afraid to," she said.

"Why?"

"Because. You've seen movies, Nick," she said. And I realized my Secret Window-esque fantasy that kept me from leaving her side was running through her mind, too. "I can't."

"They have restraining orders, they have ways to keep him from ever coming near you again..."

"Nick, again, you've seen the movies. Restraining orders don't do shit. He'll... he'll fucking break into the apartment and kill me or something and..." she shuddered to her very core just thinking about it.

"Move in with me."

"What?"

"Don't go back to the apartment. Move in with me. I'll keep you safe."

"But --"

"I'll protect you. It's not like I'm going anywhere anyways, Ashley, I'm gonna be lonely, and you need someone to take care of you for the next couple days, right? So move in with me."

Ashley stared at me. She clearly didn't know what to say.

"Just say yes," I suggested.

Ashley blinked. "I -- yes," she stammered.




Ashley

The nurse documented my injuries the next day with a camera. Nick got kicked out and I stripped to my panties and bra and stood with my arms apart as she took close-up photographs of the slowly-fading marks on my neck, the welt on my back, the bruises up my legs and my arms and the sides of my face.

I felt violated.

The photos were printed off within the hour and paperclipped into a manilla file.

The nurse introduced me to an officer from the local police department, who asked me to write down exactly what happened, what he'd said to me, what he'd done. Nick was allowed to sit next to me during that part and I saw him reading over my shoulder and I'm pretty sure I heard him whisper, you better run you fucking bastard under his breath - so quiet that the officer didn't hear him - when he'd looked over during my description of my husband kneeling on my arms and attempting to choke me with his bare hands.

Nick got up and paced over to the window, staring out. I glanced over at him. He put his hands down on the sill, leaning heavily on his hands, his head hanging down. All I could see was the curve of his shoulders and his back as he stood there. I don't know why, but he reminded me of a greiving widow.

I pushed the paperwork to the officer who was preparing the kit.

"What happens next?" I asked, nervously.

The officer put the papers into the folder. "I find him," the officer said.

I felt sick. Find him sounded so sinister.

"Take care," the officer said, and he left the room.

Nick was still standing by the window. When Nick turned back, he looked somehow older after the moments he'd spent gazing across the city, and I wondered what he'd been thinking about.
Dr. Scott Edwards knocked at the door before entering. He was holding a clipboard and followed by a posse of younger, less experienced-looking doctors. He came to the end of my bed. Dr. Edwards smiled at me, "You get to leave today Ms. Jackson. Assuming you've made living arrangements?"

I looked at Nick. "Yeah," I said, "I have."