Bruises

(TW aftermath of domestic violence)

Everything aches.

Not my face. He knows not to hit my face. It would be prudish. Only plebeian men hit their wives on the face.

He’s classy.

A muted laughter escapes me. It’s just a breath of air but the intent was there. No one can tell me that I didn’t try.

You can’t tell me this isn’t funny.

Isn’t it funny that I’m lying here half-dead? Isn’t this everything I ever wanted from my marriage?

He’s handsome and relatively young. He’s one of the most promising politicians in the whole of Rome. That’s why father needs his family as our allies. This is what I need to do.

It’s starting to get more difficult to hide the bruises from my family. Father would probably tear dear husband’s neck open if he knew what was happening.

This is what I need to do.

Someone opening the door halts my thoughts. Hold my breath.

Is it him?

No. Exhale. Thank the gods. It’s not him.

It’s the merchant.

I remain still on the ground as I watch her, my eyes squinting due to the bright light assaulting my vision. Her hair is flowing free, like a cloud. With the opening of the door she brings a breath of fresh air with her.

Has it been that long since I’ve been outside? For some reason the air smells even sweeter than I remembered.

With a gasp of pain I try to get up. It’s not proper to be seen like this. She almost rushes to my help but I halt her movement with a raise of my hand. I can manage, I think and fall back to the ground.

“My lady? Am I… interrupting?” She takes a worried look around her. Just a peek, searching for the man who did this to me.

I shake my head. She takes a note of my wincing features as I try to get up from the floor. Again. I can’t. This is ridiculous. Fresh tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes.

Pathetic.

Pathetic!

A shriek of fear almost forces itself out of me as the merchant takes my hand. I want to recoil from her touch but her grip is strong, yet gentle. It won’t let me leave.

Finally I’m standing. I straighten my posture, my dress, and uncoil my hair. I need to do something with my hands. To remain in control.

The merchant looks at me. Her gaze is soft. I almost fear it’s mocking me. Why would a stranger give me her sympathy?

“What is your name, my lady?” Her voice is beautiful. It’s soft and delicate. But there’s strength behind it.

“Camilla.”

“Camilla.” Her mouth opens just a little as she says my name. My name fits into her mouth, for some reason. Something about the way she says it lifts a weight off my stomach. It makes me take a breath of the air she brought with her.

“Camilla… Do you need help?”

My eyes widen at the words. I have no reason to believe this woman would help me. She could be someone he’s paying to spy on me.

But there's something about her that makes me trust her. For some reason I believe she will help me.

I need to take matters into my own hands before he kills me. 

“Yes. Yes, I do.”