Tears streamed down my red cheeks.

“I know you’re furious at me, Chris. And some part of me realizes it’s justified. But for God’s sake! I’m forty-two years old, destitute, and ravaged. I had nothing left except a shred of dignity that you ripped away from me. I mean, what kind of monster does that?!”

I was gasping for air. I tried to stand, but my head went light and I fell back down. Without asking, he scooped me off the floor, opened the vault door, and took me back into the bedroom, laying me on the bed. It was at that time that we both noticed a big red stain at the back of my dress.

“Shit!” he said. “I’ll call the doctor—”

“I don’t need a doctor!”

“You’re pissing blood—”

“It’s my period—”

“Just let me call to make sure—”

“Chris, I know the difference between my urethra and my vagina. I don’t need a doctor!” I was so completely spent I could barely breathe. I was struggling to get my dress off. My whole body was shaking. My teeth would have been chattering, but my jaw was wired. “Can you help me, please?”

He pulled the dress over my head. I balled it up and threw it across the room. Same with my dirty panties. “You wouldn’t have anything for this, would you?”

“What do you mean? Like an aspirin?”

“No, like a Kotex.” I wiped tears from my eyes. “Never mind. Could you get me a wad of toilet paper?”

He got up from my bedside and came back with a bright white washcloth.

“I can’t use that!” I barked. “I’ll stain it.”

“I don’t care—”

“You won’t be able to wash it out.”

“Terry, I don’t fucking care. Just take it, okay?”

I took the cloth and stuffed it between my legs. I generally had light periods. Maybe it would work until he could get me something better. I reached over the bed and pulled the valise he had given me to my side. I retrieved a dress. I undid my bra from the front, threw that across the room. “Help me put this on.” Once he did, I lay down and threw the bedcovers over my face.

He pulled the sheet off and held my chin, regarding my face. He said, “You’ve got a nice-size welt where I beaned you.”

“I’ll survive.” I pushed his hand away and pulled the bedcovers up to my chin and turned away from him. I was trembling under the sheets. “I’ve survived a lot worse.” I was gulping for air. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

“You’re having an anxiety attack.”

“And which medical school did you go to, Dr. Pimp?”

Chris exhaled. “I have some pills—”