Nathaly
The last three months I had had a little obsession with the scar under my stomach, not because I liked it (clearly) but because I was embarrassed to have it. I couldn't believe that ninety days have passed since the night I almost died because of my ex-partner.
I met Marcus in high school, he was the brother of a classmate I had, and he always stopped by to pick her up at the exit: that's when I first saw him and he seemed to me a really attractive and striking boy, but I never dared to talk to him, until he gave his sister his phone number for her to give me. I remember how excited I was, because I was the first guy I had a mutual interest in. We talked by text, by calls, we saw each other at the exit of the institute while his sister waited inside the car, until one day he invited me to leave and, with the permission of my parents (permission that, by the way, I had a hard time getting) we went out, had dinner and, two months later, he asked me to be his girlfriend. Everything was perfect, we got along, we had fun together, until his jealousy ran into each other, more specifically when he found out he had applied for the University of Washington. His jealousy was on the rise when he began to come up with ideas of the male friends I would have in college, of fraternity parties, of how far we would be when I left town, of the infidelity he thought I would commit. Her toxicity went to a point where I didn't want her to use the phone unless it was to answer her messages, to stay out of my house at night, making sure she didn't leave my home with any of my friends. I felt bad for a long time, I felt imprisoned, suffocated, but, above all, I felt disappointed.
Five months later, five months after receiving insults from him, pushes and blows, in a strong argument we had, I decided to leave him at once, because I knew how to put myself, my emotional stability and my physical health first before a relationship that was not going anywhere good. Marcus, of course, took it very badly and didn't want to accept it. It was after that that I began to feel real fear of him, when I saw that he could calmly be someone who came to kill. I never wanted to talk to my family about Marcus' treatment of me, but Mom and Dad were already beginning to suspect that something was wrong, because I didn't want to leave the house, I had no more friends and there were bruises on my body that no longer had an explanation. At first I was able to make excuses, my parents would ask me why I had them and I would just say I had been hit or fallen, but those cover-ups stopped making sense afterwards. Then, that same day of the breakup, I returned home quickly and told my parents everything that was happening to me, I told them with a broken soul, because I realized that I suffered gender violence like many of those people who went on television and denounced their partners. I realized that what I thought would never happen to me, I was having to live.
My parents accompanied me to the police station closest to home, we made the complaint and I hoped to feel calm, but because of the neutral expressions of the commissioners, I began to think that my case would be like that of many, that it would not be heard and justice would do nothing. Yes, they issued an order against Marcus, but he ended up fleeing and his search lasted no more than three days. Three weeks later, when I thought Marcus would no longer appear in my life for fear of being arrested, I walked out of my dance class and ran into him in the corner, waiting for me on the side of his car. Of course, I was very afraid and I wanted to run away, but I couldn't move, I couldn't react, not seeing the fury that his face contained: there he pulled me by the arm and put me in his car and started driving like crazy after throwing my phone out the window.
I asked him to stop, because we were going at an inappropriate speed, while he shouted at me that he would kill me, that he loved me very much, but that the complaint I issued against him was a betrayal that I could never forgive me. With trembling hands I put on my seat belt, because I knew we would end up crashing at any moment. I just expected the impact.
And then it happened: we collided. Seconds before, I saw everything slowly, saw the car in front of us, saw how we approached, felt the impact before it happened, and instinctively crouched down and covered myself. The impact was very hard, almost fatal for him. Well, for both of them, but thanks to my instinct I got it cheap. Marcus, not having his seat belt on, flew off the windshield, which left him invalid and died months later from complications in his health. I, on the other hand, received a piece of glass nailed under my stomach and had to undergo surgery.
Go... ninety days of that... Today I was alive and grateful for that. This scar was the reminder that I always had to put myself first and that I should not allow anyone to run my life, because the only owner of my life was myself. It was hard, but I was happy to have survived, to have another chance.
"How are you today?" Celina asked, as soon as she saw me leave my room.
I knew why I was wondering. Celina knew my story with Marcus, because a week ago I decided to tell him my story. We didn't know each other a long time ago, almost nothing, but we shared an apartment and got along wonderfully. Telling someone close to me in Seattle did me good, because it was a difficult day for me and I needed support.
"Okay," I smiled, pulling out a bowl, the milk and my cereal.
"Did you sleep well?" What happened to your hand? "He pursed his eyebrows.
Last night I wanted to tell her about the stupid old man who made me cut off the palm of my hand for not wanting to give me the bottle of whiskey, but Celina was asleep when I got home from work and wasn't going to wake her up to tell her about the incident. There was no rush. In addition, I arrived very tired. The bad thing is that today I had the same Saturday routine again. But how good that the job was only on weekends.
I told Celina about that guy.
"Uh, and the new guard took him out of the bar all angrily?" That's sexy.
Smiled.
"You haven't even seen it."
"But from what you have told me you say that he is handsome, with catching eyes and serious. It's the perfect combination."
"He was waiting for me outside the bathroom to see how I was doing. He helped me clean my wound, he was attentive on his part and that I was somewhat rude, I was in a bad mood and tired. Oh, and he said he likes my perfume," I told him. I smiled a little at the last gossip.
Celina loved that.
"Yes, I have to know you, Nathaly," he said.
During the afternoon I met with Melissa and Dakota, my college classmates. We shared almost every class together, so we put together our small three-piece study group. We got along well, both were nice and fun and we shared a taste for parties. After three hours in the library we walked to the nearest cafeteria, where we met our philosophy professor. Well, my teacher, because Dakota and Melissa weren't in that class with me.
The man noticed my presence and smiled at me slightly, in the form of a greeting, but he stared at me for a moment. Professor Stefan Dhal was very attractive, young, in his twenties, something serious, but he was a great teacher, or so he could tell from the classes he had taken with him until now. I looked away, but when I came back to see him, he was still looking at me, although he ended up diverting his eyes elsewhere so as not to look bad.
"Why does the teacher look at you so much?" Dakota questioned, looking at me with her big brown eyes.
"I have no idea," I shrugged.
"Maybe you're catching your eye, Nathaly," Melissa said, looking sneakily at Professor Stefan.
Dakota and I looked at her.
"Yes, in that case it would not be professional since you are his student, but he is young, he is only 24 years old and you are of legal age and beautiful."
Laughed.
"Anyway, that's not right," I replied, but being totally honest, Stefan Dhal also caught my attention, because not every day you find university professors so young, with green eyes, black hair and so elegant.
The teacher passed by our side with two glasses of coffee. He gave me a quick look.
"I see you in class, Nathaly," my teacher said and walked out of the cafeteria.
Melissa and Dakota gave me mischievous looks.
In the evening I tried to prepare early so I wouldn't be late for work again. I showered, fixed my brown hair, put on mascara to highlight my green eyes, and put on comfortable, warm clothes. The wind in Seattle was fresh today.
The streets were busy, many cars passed by, and people walked along the sidewalk with shopping bags in their hands. I put on my headphones with the music somewhat low to make the road shorter. I kept thinking about the talk I had with mom in the nap, before going to the library: I knew that for her today was also a difficult day because of what happened to me, because the memories were strong, she suffered a lot, she was the worried mother in the waiting room of the hospital, anxious for some doctor to come out and tell her if my condition was good or bad, and terrified to receive bad news. Also, with the distance, I understood her fear, but I told Mom and repeated to Dad that I felt good, within everything, even though I woke up remembering that event, I spent most of the day entertained, spending time with my college friends and Selena.
I heard that I honked and assumed that it was some slug passing by in a car and thought it was cool enough (note the sarcasm) to honk at me like a "compliment". But I heard my name and turned around to see who it was.
It was Daniel Mickerson.
"Do I take you to work?" He asked, looking at me with those gray eyes that ate you.