I could taste the ambulance rumbling down the road, smell the voices shouting orders. Everything was so chaotic and yet, I felt relieved. Finally. Finally, he’s done it.
But it hurt so badly. I could feel the blood pouring out of the gash in my side, shards of glass still speckling the wound. My leg throbbed, and a deep purple bruise was already peeking out of my torn sweatpants. A woman grabbed my shoulders and I think I screamed, but I can’t quite remember. Why was the ground so goddamn slippery? And why were my shoulders so sore?
“I need you to tell me your name.” The woman whispered, or shouted. I couldn’t tell. My ears were eating away at my head - when had I gotten this headache? I tried to raise a hand to my temple, past my sticky hair, but the lady pushed it down.
“I need you to tell me your name or I won’t be able to treat you.” My eyes shot open and my ears screamed. No treatment. No care. Again? My head pounded, fists smashing my temple again and again and again-
Everyday after work. I dreaded 6 pm every night when he would arrive and smash his fists again and again and -
“What are you doing?” The woman said as she suffocated my arm with her grip. The flashing red and blue lights created a grotesque halo around her body, around the blue uniform she wore.
I pulled and pulled but she held on. Wasn’t I done with this? Done with being beat over and over again until I started, just started, to feel that I might deserve it?
“Let the poor thing go, Elise.” I looked up at a man. With brown hair, pale skin and caucasian features, he was just another mechanical paramedic. But it was his eyes, the small slice of pain behind each iris, that told me - he’s like you.
He knelt done in front of me, shouting orders to the blue uniforms behind him. His arms felt around my body - checking the cuts, bruises, broken bones. He was asking me questions the whole time but my ears were too busy drilling into my skull to pay attention. He peeled my shirt up and the stickiness grew into a sea of burgundy, my sweats turned black with blood. I heard him suck in a breath and get to work. Everything about him was so gentle, no, cautious. He wasn’t judging me, even though he probably got cases like mine every night.
“Another goddamn Mexican getting the beating they deserve,” I remember hearing a middle aged white couple say, “why do the paramedics keep picking them up? They should leave them to die - like their family over the border.” The words burned.
The ambulance was alive; machines beeping and wheels turning, paramedics speaking about one thing or another. Everything had a smell: the chemicals and metal and cigarette smoke from the blue uniform who swore he would quit two months ago. Like him. I’d stopped bothering to ask him when he would quit. Each time I so much as said ‘cigarette’ I’d have bruises for days.
I turned to the gentle faced paramedic, my side burning underneath the layers of gauze.
“My name is Cruz Paladines.” I whispered. He turned towards me, busying himself with checking my IV.
“My name is Andrew.” The ambulance went over a bump and the gash in my side twisted, black dots filling up my vision.
“Don’t worry,” he said, grabbing my hand, “we’re almost to the hospital.” Our wedding rings clinked against each other; a romantic might say they sounded like church bells. They sounded like shackles to me.
“You too?” I nodded at the silver band strangling his fourth finger.
“Almost our eighth year together.” He said with most faked enthusiasm I had ever heard.
“My husband’s been beating me for” - I paused and squinted my eyes -“I can’t even remember how long.” I could feel Andrew’s heart picking up, each beat bringing back a different memory, a different hurt. I knew that feeling all too well.
“I could never figure out what I was doing wrong, but it had to be something bad.”
He looked away from me, his heart beating faster and faster. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday - everyday of every week of every month. A new hurt each time.
The driver called out to Andrew and he nodded numbly, pushing all of the memories away. The blue uniforms filed out of the ambulance, pens scratching stats on their legal forms. Doctors were running towards my stretcher and shouting orders. I was rolling across the concrete, my view of the sky soon blocked by marching white tiles. Andrew looked at me, the distant ambulance lights casting blue and red shadows on his face. All I could think of was bruises and blood, bruises and blood.
“It’s my wife.” He swallowed. “Every single night.” His gaze was fixed right in front of him, but I saw the way his hands tightened around the gurney. I weakly tugged at my left hand, grabbing again and again at the silver ring. I slipped it off and pressed it into his hand, fingers sticking to his palm and leaving little bloody fingerprints.
“Please don’t-” But my stretcher had already been rolled into another room.
*Quick note! I feel as though this piece is cheesy, please let me know what you think. Thank you!*
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