Lilian sat alone at the end of the hospital bench, gazing at nothing before her. The rest of existence came in waves—faces indistinctly blurred by, voices wailing out, and buzzing fluorescent lights above—but none seeped through. Her throbbing, bruised lip thumped to the rhythm of the muffled pain on her temple. Her purple cheek ached with each time her skin closed up from the tightness of a healing wound.
Three times. Three attempts.
Three times when death should have embraced her into its arms, but for some mysterious reason, failed to.
She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, more habit than for warmth. Her body was still recovering from the bruises, but it was the psychic bruises that hurt more than the pain in her limbs. The fact that he held her immobilized. The sneering in his voice. The feel of his hand in her pajama pants—
Her breath caught.
Again, tears flowed, and after this morning's assurance that they would be the last, how many more times would tears have fallen
