Ms. Wren

I woke up on Tuesday morning to Elias sliding his hands all over my hips possessively even though he was still asleep. 

Like he was checking to make sure I was still there, still his. “Stay home today,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear, sending a chill down my spine. “Work can wait.”

I tried to ignore that uneasy feeling I had about Elias. But that feeling always finds a way to come back to my mind.

Forcing a smile, I carefully twisted myself away from him. “Deadlines, Elias. You know how it is.

He propped himself on one elbow, his freckled chest was bare, his beautiful golden hair was scattered from sleep. 

At thirty one, he still looks handsomely tall, tanned skin and with eyes that promise the whole world only if you follow the rules. His rules.

“No problem,” he said, tracing my collarbone with his thumb. “But wear the blue dress. The one I picked for you.”

Ugh, here we go again I thought. Rolling my eyes in my mind.

He kissed my forehead softly, it was a seal of ownership. That he owns me. I swallowed the urge to protest down my throat.

When we talk about control wrapped in affection, that was Elias. He is attentive to fault, he is always rearranging my schedule, always vetoing friends who “didn't fit.”

I try to convince myself that it was love and protection.

After I was shattered and broken by my last relationship, Elias had felt like stability.

After unending therapy sessions, he felt like a rescue. My handsome rescue.

By noon, my stomach was against me. I felt sharp cramps twisting my stomach. With an unending waist pain. My mood became sour. I felt irritated.

My cycle was erratic, just like Elias' moods.

I sat on my desk, the glow of my laptop blurring my eyes as I felt a surge of headache from nowhere.

As a marketing strategist at a medical firm, I had fought hard for this corner office but lately even my work felt foreign to me.

I needed a doctor.

Someone good. Someone discreet.

A search led me to St. Lucia Hospital, a top OB-GYN department, Midtown. 

Same-day appointments if you knew how to ask. I booked an appointment with them.

I booked it under my maiden name. No Elias. No questions.

It was just a check-up, I told myself. Nothing more.

Still, I felt the hairs on my skin rise. I felt chill like i was planning a crime

The day dragged on.

Elias texted me: Miss you. Don’t forget dinner tomorrow. Important people will be there. Wear the blue dress.

I typed of course, deleted it, then sent okay instead.

I was feeling pains beneath my sleeve. A faint yellow bruise was on my wrist. It was a ghost of last week's argument.

“You don't listen," he had said, his fingers tight around my arm. He held my wrist firmly leaving me bruised. “I'm trying to protect you.”

The words were still replaying in my head. When night fell he was calm, his anger was replaced by something rougher, hungrier.

He had pulled me close to him, his hot breath fanning my neck, he traced his fingers on the bruise on my wrist like a silent apology.

“I hate when we fight,” he whispered to me, his voice hungry, not for food but for something raw, something that burned. 

For a second, the anger between us turned into heat. The kind that made it hard to even remember what we were arguing about.

 I wanted to push him away, but my body leaned closer to him instead. I should have said no. I should have seen the red flags waving like big bold banners.

But I stayed. Because for a moment, his touch made the ache go quiet.

When morning came, the bruise was still there, and so was he, watching me like one night could erase everything.

That evening, I stood facing the mirror, wearing a black lace gown that he hadn't chosen. My brunette waves fell loosely on my back.

I pulled my hand in my hair, smiling at my reflection showing off my gap teeth. I looked like a woman harbouring secrets.

The next morning, I lied to Elias. I told him I had an early meeting. A client breakfast.

 He nodded, kissing me goodbye. His hands lingered on my ass for sometime. “Don't forget you will wear the blue dress tonight.”

I smiled then said nothing.

The drive to St. Lucia Hospital was short and peaceful. The hospital is magnificent. With glass walls, a beautiful lobby and a conductive environment. It was really a hospital for the rich.

I handed my keys to the valet, straightened my dress, and then walked in. The hospital's antiseptic smell welcomed me as I walked in.

The lobby was clean, the wall was beautified with health guides, pretty posters and soft paintings that tried too hard to make sickness look gentle.

The nurses moved up and down quietly, neatly dressed. A monitor was beeping somewhere down the hall.

I tightened my grip on my purse and walked towards the receptionist.

I gave my name at reception Ms. Wren and waited, pretending I belonged there.

I waited for about twenty minutes.

Thirty maybe.

My thighs were pressed together. I was feeling nervous.

A nurse appeared. “Ms. Wren? She called and I nodded.

This way.” she said, leading me through a hallway.

We walked through a quiet corridor with closed doors, muted voices, and a faint scent of disinfectant.

We stopped at Exam Room 4 and the nurse led me in.

The nurse handed me a thin gown. I tied it tight, though it felt like paper against my skin. She took my vitals. My blood pressure was high.

“The doctor will be in soon,” she said softly before leaving.

The door clicked shut and silence filled the room.

I counted ceiling tiles.

One. Two. Three. Four…

My skin felt itchy. My palm was cold. I rub them to get warm.

I imagined gloved hands. A calm voice asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

Why are you really here, Isola?

My breath came shallow. I wasn't feeling at ease.

Footsteps echoed down the hall approaching the room.

A shadow passed beneath the door.

The handle turned. I looked up, distracted by the noise at the door.

And the door opened.