Читать книгу Woman's Cry - Vanessa Martir - Страница 14

10

I jumped out of the bath. I had fifteen minutes to make it to my Writing Class. It didn’t matter that the doctor in the ER had given me a note permitting me another day of respite. I had to go to class if I wanted to graduate on time. I ignored the stitch of pain in my front as I changed quickly into a Juicy sweat suit and ran out the door. As I sped to class, scanning the block for any signs of Fabian, I turned on my cell for the first time since being released from the hospital. My voicemail signal rang immediately, startling me so that I almost tripped. I put off hearing my messages knowing it was Fabian calling. I just wasn’t ready to take that on. Instead, I called my best friend, James.

“What up, nena? I’ve been calling you. Why’d you have your phone off? Are you okay?” asked James nervously. James was all too aware of my abusive relationship. I didn’t tell him everything but I shared enough for him to know that the partnership was unhealthy. Many times he’d lectured me about how I was selling myself short. He’d remind me of the bright future I had ahead of me and warned that Fabian was the only obstacle in my path. Simply put, I deserved better, there was no denying that.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said almost inaudibly.

“Liar!” James knew me well enough to know when something was wrong. We’d met during our first year at CU and had become immediate friends. Of course Fabian disapproved of our friendship due to his irrational jealousy but I had maintained the closeness in spite of Fabian’s condemnation. “Come through. Let’s smoke an L and talk,” James offered.

“I have to go to class. I’ll call you when I get out,” I replied with moistening eyes.

I was relieved to find that class had been cancelled. I was surprised because Professor Daines was known for holding class even if she was running a high fever and coughing up a lung. I immediately felt guilty when one of my classmates informed me that Professor Daines had sprained her ankle on her way to class.

“I hope she’s okay,” I mused worriedly.

Professor Daines was my favorite professor at Columbia. I’d taken a writing class with her every semester since my freshman year. I loved the way she challenged me and demanded perfection and would call a student out if she saw that they were half-assing their work. I admired the way she brought out the best in her students. She wasn’t just my professor, she was my mentor. She was the one that had put it into my head that I should consider a career in writing. Although I hadn’t confessed to her that I was in a sadistic relationship, Professor Daines had picked up on it in my writing. “All fiction has a basis in reality,” she often said. The professor didn’t pry but always assured me that if I needed someone to talk to or anything at all, I could always feel comfortable coming to her.