It was as if I were nothing more than an enemy, not the woman he once held like she was precious.
When he raised the stick again, Anya tugged on his sleeve. “Erving, stop. Please. If you keep hitting her, something terrible might happen…”
Finally, he lowered his hand. He tossed the stick aside and crouched in front of me.
“Remember this,” he warned. “If you ever hurt Anya again, I’ll make sure you lose your other hand, too.”
By the time I was taken to the hospital, my right hand was swollen twice its normal size. Every slight touch on the misaligned bones sent waves of agony.
The doctor quickly set my hand with a splint and was about to explain the follow-up treatment when Erving called, and I was whisked away.
He said Anya was too shaken to sleep and needed someone to watch over her through the night.
So the doctor left. The room fell silent again, so silent I could hear my own steady breaths.
With my uninjured left hand, I slowly pulled my bag from under the pillow. Inside were my passport and plane ticket—my only chance to escape.