I limp to my room, straight to the tattered backpack slung over my chair. It's a relic from my teenage years—the last gift my parents gave me. Somehow, it has survived all this time, just like me, so I always carry it with me on errands. I guess it makes me feel like they're still here. Like I'm not completely alone.
Dumping the bag on my bed, I make my way to the walk-in closet, where I peel off my clothes in front of the mirror. The sight stops me cold. The ugly, purple swelling on my hip stands out like a trophy of Dario's latest victory, a fresh addition to the fading bruises already decorating my stomach. My lips press together as I twist for a better look. At least this time he stopped at shoving me against the wall. Lucky me…
I grab a pain relief patch from the back of my underwear drawer—my makeshift first aid kit, stocked up over years of "accidents"—and carefully smooth it over the worst of the swelling. Then I turn to the racks of clothes.
