She wanted to curl up and die, and that feeling hung around long after the memory faded. She knew she needed to do something about that shit, but how was she supposed to do that when she couldn't get her own shit together long enough to let anyone come near her? It was a fucking wreck, and God knew Louis wasn't going to be any fucking help, and she didn't want to scare Tess off right away. But she knew what it felt like now - not what it looked like, but what it felt like - and she couldn't turn her back on that.
The bruises, the memories of them lingered long past everything else. She knew exactly where they came from - who - and she reminded herself that they weren't fucking rape stamps, but it was hard.