Bathroom Floor

On the bathroom floor, Laura is shaking, holding a baby blue towel to her nose, blood slowly turning it purple. A million thoughts swirl like the stars that circle her head. She's seen them before, these stars. She remembers a time when she thought stars circling one's head was just a silly cartoon convention. But then there was that night four years ago, the first time he hit her, that time between her jaw and her cheekbone. The world faded to black as her vision spun around along with her head. It was a slow dissolve, she saw the floor rising to meet her before things went entirely dark. She couldn't have been out for long because he was still standing where he had been that painful instant ago. The thought of what had happened had not settled upon her yet. Her ears were ringing and she shook her head to get her senses back. And then she saw them, little points of light, bright white centers with fiery orange edges. They orbited around her like tiny neon carousel horses.
And now here they were again doing the same mad laps around her head they did all those years ago. They flare and disappear, fewer and dimmer each time. But thoughts remain, all of them vying for equal time and attention. The thoughts take the form of fearsome questions – why did he, how could he, what did I, stay or go, where could I go, is my nose broken, how will I hide or explain the bruise. And on and on and around again, amplified with each recurrence. They cycle faster than she can think about, let alone answer, them. They pass through her almost viscerally, causing her to tremble.
She can feel her grip on the present moment loosening. A crack appears in the floor, a space large enough to get her fingers between the edges. She prys the hole open and finds that it expands effortlessly. There is darkness beyond, a kind of oblivion. It calls to her, beckons her forth, offering her the blissful tranquility of a mind unhinged - the luxury of soft thoughts, blurry edges, and kaleidoscope ideas. She eyes the opening, head cocked to the side like a puppy issued an unfamiliar command. The crack is widening on its own now, she retreats away from the inching edge. She scampers to the far bathroom wall. She is afforded a margin of safety but despite its sloth-like pace, the creep draws towards her.
She looks around for anything that would serve as a kind of defense. She gathers what ammunition she can and hurls it at the void - shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, and shavers. They are all swallowed, slowly as if dissolving into tar - held, in mid-air, aloft on the viscous surface of the widening maw. Its appetite is relentless, patient, endless.

Outside the door, he hears the clatter. Still unsure of himself, he hesitates then runs to the door. He knocks softly then calls her name. More items hit the floor and he hears something shatter. He knocks louder now, calls her name again, asks what's going on, pleads for some sort of response.

She is fixated on the hole in the floor, still carrying the items she's thrown at it. A kind of terror mutes her, as if cotton balls have been stuffed into her mouth. She wants to scream the void away but she makes no sound. From somewhere beyond the black mass she hears a sound, muted and indistinct. And yet, familiar. She cocks her ear towards the sound to get a better listen. She grabs the crystal vase that sometimes holds flowers, empty today, and launches it at the void. It too is caught, stuck, it hangs in the air like an unresolved chord.
And then that sound again, louder this time. The sound becomes a voice. She tries to divide her attention between the hole and that sound but it is nearly upon her. She can reach up and grab back the things she's thrown at it. But she does not. She cowers closer into the corner and shuts her eyes tight. Now, with her eyes closed, she listens again for the sound. It's him, he's calling to her. Fear of falling into the thick of the black hole replaces her fear of his violence. She whimpers his name and asks for help. The hole, as if in retaliation, presses in upon her faster now. She calls his name again, this time with full voice.
Over the surface of the ooze, she sees the door open. His face parts the darkness like the red sea. The items held aloft come crashing to the ground. She bolts through the center of it and rushes at him. She wraps her arms around him. The unexpected impact catches him off guard and he takes a step back to absorb the inertia. He is bewildered but decides to make the best of it. He wraps his arms around her in return.

And then like a SWAT team Flash-Bang canister, like a fast-ball into a catcher's mitt, reality snaps back into place and she remembers it all - his fist, the pain, the blood. She recoils away from him, pushing him away again with a mixture of horror and revulsion. She looks back and sees the mess she's made, the broken vase. And something entirely unfamiliar, red pools of blood that she does not recognize - she bled from her nose on to her dress and into the towel but not on the floor. An awareness of a new pain comes upon her, not from her nose but from her feet. It shoots up her leg now and she crumbles. She pulls her foot around and sees three, maybe four tiny but not insignificant glass shards gleaming ruby, bloody red.

She closes her eyes and cries. She buries her face in her hands but her nose explodes with pain. She releases a yelp then returns to the business of her tears, hands at her side, palms up, resting on the floor.

"I'll call for help," he says and runs for a phone. More lost than ever, he is glad, in a way, to have this task - in the mad confusion of the last few minutes, calling for help is the only ordered thing he's been able to do. He wants to think - of her, of what to say next, of what to do, of what she was going through in there, of what's become of her, of what's become of them - but he forces himself to concentrate on these orderly steps: get the phone, call for help, get the phone, call for help. Over and over again until it's done.
He picks up the phone, looks at the dial pad, and tries to remember the number for an emergency. Get the phone, call for help. Step by step, one thing at a time. He presses the numbers: nine, one, one. He focuses on necessary details only. He stays on the line with the operator until help arrives. A fire truck, an ambulance - first responders. And then a police car. Questions are asked, reports are made, she is taken to the hospital, he is instructed to stay away the mandatory twenty-four hours following any incident of domestic violence. He does not argue with the authorities.
After everyone is gone he surveys the apartment. For all that's happened, so little has changed as far as appearances go. That seems wrong somehow, incongruous. He returns to the one place where evidence of what has transpired still remains. The blood on the bathroom floor has coagulated and dried. It looks nearly black now. He thinks to clean but then his cell phone rings. He answers it where he stands, "hello?" His manager asks him about the report due in tomorrow. He does not answer. He just keeps looking at the mess on the bathroom floor.