Cynthia nodded solemnly. "Gaslighting."

"What?" I asked as I leaned toward my wine glass sitting (previously) forgotten on the coffee table.

Tom had poured it for me a little less than an hour ago once the doctor he had called to bandaged my hand had left. Finally giving in to the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day, I had collapsed on the couch and Tom—wonderful, sweet Tom—had swiftly handed me a full glass from my favorite label.

I'd taken a sip maybe two when the phone rang... and rang. First it was Tom's mother, very quickly followed by my mother, calling to check in. For once, Eliza was the easier of the two to appease. Tom had carried most of the conversation, relaying the significant events of the day and the context, both negligently excluded from the media coverage.

She was silent for most of it, only really interrupting for assurances I was okay.

Has she seen a doctor?

Where was her security?

Have you filed a police report?

Unsurprisingly, my own mother required much more detailed attention to be soothed. She practically demanded I return to Kerry until I put Tom on the phone to describe his building's state of the art security. In the end, she made me promise not to go "running off alone in search of justice" again and to call her every evening.

I sighed dramatically before agreeing, but secretly I was glad to. I still jumped slightly when Tom touched me unexpectedly, but simultaneously I couldn't bare the idea of being alone.

"It's called gaslighting," Cynthia explained as she easily leaned forward and handed me my glass. I accepted it with a lop-sided smile and leaned back into the cushions of the sofa. "What your He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named did to you to make you think you were crazy."

"I know what gaslighting is I just..." I shoved my fingers through my hair in frustration. "I feel like such an idiot is all."

"You're not an idiot," Cynthia retorted sternly before taking a healthy sip of her own glass.

"But I am!"

Cynthia hadn't bothered to call that evening. She'd just shown up with a bottle of wine and her Blackberry, ready to slay dragons.

I could tell when he opened the door that Tom was exhausted and likely wished for a little breathing room from our families, but I for one was glad she was here. Something about Cynthia and her Blackberry always made me feel more at ease.

No matter the storm if anyone could weather it, it was Cynthia and her Blackberry.

"You didn't know then," she chided me.

"But I know now," I whined. "And I still..."

"You still?"

"I still don't want it to have been..." I huffed angrily, hating to have to admit my weaknesses to anyone let alone the gladiator sitting expectantly before me. "I don't want to admit he was abusive, because if he's an abuser then I-I'm a victim."

A treacherous tear slid down my cheek as my voice dropped to barely a whisper."I-I don't w-want to be a victim. It makes me feel weak, and I am sick of him getting to make me feel weak."

"You're not a victim," she whispered back. "You're a survivor. You survived him. You beat him. He can go on as many talk shows as he wants, but that doesn't change the fact that you won. And no one can take that away from you."

My lower lip began to tremble, but before I could blubber a single word Cynthia hooked my chin with her index finger and leaned in close.

She lifted her finger ever so slightly so my eyes directly peered into her.

"No one."

Another tear fell, but this time I didn't mind.

It wasn't a tear of weakness or sorrow, but rather gratitude. Gratitude for my gladiator, for the friend I had needed in the bathroom of Trisha's apartment, for the sister I had always wished for and now had finally found.

💕