She wore cardigans because they hid the bruises. Black and blue and purple, they lay on her skin like an ink stain, covering not just her arms, stomach, chest and legs, but her mind and her soul. His angry words pierced her heart like a knife, his threats a glaring reminder of what he could do. His hands – his big, strong, calloused hands – were devastatingly heavy, like bricks on her alabaster flesh. Her tears didn’t cry anymore, the pain didn’t hurt anymore, his excuses didn’t come anymore. It was a wrong kind of beer, pick your towel up off the floor, make me dinner kind of thing. But she couldn’t feel it anymore. The original pain dressed itself in numbness, taking out the glow of her eyes and the smile on her lips.
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It was an early Monday morning when Pam stood in the ladies bathroom of Dunder Mifflin Scranton, blotting her left cheek and eye with powder, trying desperately to cover the previous night’s accident. He almost never hit her on the face – too many people would question that – and God knows he couldn’t have a tarnished reputation. Besides, he was her fiancé… or boyfriend... or something that needed no explanation.
With another quick glance in the mirror, grimacing at the bruise that still shone through the cover up, she slowly walked back to her desk, sitting down and pulling out documents that needed to be signed by Michael that day. She could feel their eyes on her, everyone in the office, as she started to work. “They know…” she thought, terrified.
Jim was sitting at his desk, on the phone with a client and trying desperately to find a product number, when he saw her retreat, the bruise apparent and painful on her psyche. “Let me call you back when I find that number, Mr. Cross,” he told the client, placing the phone down. He stood and walked slowly to Pam’s desk, the thought of Roy beating her hitting his stomach like a rock, anger and stress and hate billowing in his heart.
“Pam?” he asked her softly, as he bent over the reception desk, “What happened?”.
Her eyes traveled slowly to his, a dead kind of stare. “Nothing,” she mumbled. She didn’t want to talk, especially to Jim, the one person she always thought she’d be able to talk to. She could feel his eyes traveling over her, from her hair to her brow, to the eggplant discoloring on her cheek, to her lips and chin. “Pam…” he begged. But nothing. She stared down at her desk, and the edges of her sleeves, and the small bruise that formed at some point on the inside of her wrist.
“Go back to work, Jim,” she said flatly.
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Later that afternoon, she went to grab a soda from the vending machine, and he trapped her there. He stood with his back to the door, eyes resting on hers, his body tall and broad and looming.
“Did he hit you?” Jim asked quietly, averting his eyes, wincing in the knowledge that he didn’t really want to know.
“What does it matter?” Pam retorted, her anger bubbling. He was with KAREN, he flaunted their relationship around her like a kid with a new bike, and NOW he wanted to have a serious conversation?
Jim snapped his head up, pain resonating on his face, his cheeks flushed. “It matters to me, Pam”. She rolled her eyes, a fake smile pushing at the corners of her mouth.
“Sure it does, Jim,” she countered. “Of course it matters to you. Because as my best friend, you obviously know me so well that you know how my life’s been lately. You know me like the back of your hand. You know what art classes I’m taking, you know the real reason I bought a Yaris, you know why I splurged on new pastels last weekend.”
Jim paled slightly. Of course he didn’t know. Her stare made him feel small, smaller than he ever believed he could have felt, and he sighed. “No, Pam, I don’t know any of those things.”
Pam’s fake smile almost instantaneously flipped to a tight lipped grimace. Her eyes smoldered, and the left one he noticed had a small broken blood vessel next to the iris. “I’m not taking art classes. I bought a Yaris because I needed something the complete opposite of a truck. And I splurged on pastels last weekend because… “ She paused, her eyes filling with tears, “Ya know what Jim. Never mind. My best friend would know. I wouldn’t need to be standing in a break room with him freaking crying to get him to know why.”
She moved past him and back to her desk, a solitary tear sliding down her bruised cheek. She shook her head violently. She needed him, but he didn’t need to know that.
Story Notes:
I was thinking about this yesterday as I was watching Season 3, and Roy got all violent when Pam told him Jim and she had kissed.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter End Notes:
And there it is. Good? Bad? Should I keep going? I'm not very good with writing violence, so it would be quite the challenge for me... Any advice?
