Page 83 of What I Should Have Done

“And then left me without responding!”

“So I didn’t fucking blow up at you, damn it!” he snapped and ran a hand across his face.

I stumbled back a step. “What are you talking about? Why would you get mad at me?”

“I wasn’t mad at you. I wasn’t going to get mad at you. Look, you were assaulted less than a week ago. I didn’t want to minimize your situation, your abuse, because of my personal triggers. So, I walked away just for a moment to gather myself,” he explained.

“Your personal triggers?” I softly questioned, rolling my shoulders up.

He shook his head, the tenderness that would sometimes peak through his hard exterior completely absent. “You specifically said there was no way I could understand.” He closed his eyes. “I find that rather ironic seeing how you’re getting on Reyes and even me for sexist shit all the time.”

“No, Mikey. I didn’t mean it that way. Men can be abused too, I just—”

“Just what?” He glared at me, and it was then that I recognized the pain behind his eyes.

“Just…” I whispered, defeated.

He chuckled, this oddly maniacal laugh. “You think I put these on myself?” He gestured to his torso, at the scars littering his skin turned beautiful by tattoos. “How the fuck do you think I got these burns, Scottie? Putting out fucking cigarettes on myself?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“So, what the hell did you mean when you said that I couldn’t understand? Please, because right now, I need some sort of explanation that will keep me from exploding because I am really working to remain in control of my shit. Jacob is dead. The Black Box is missing. You were kidnapped and assaulted. I can’t find shit, so please. Please give me an explanation because I’m drowning here, Scotch,” he pleaded with me.

Moisture clouded his crazed expression. Every desperate emotion flooded his system, evidence written upon a face that looked so strange to me. Almost childlike yet hardened with a burden that would’ve killed anyone else.

“I know exactly what it’s like Scottie,” he whispered through his teeth. “Except the man who did it to me was my own fucking father.”

“Wh-what?” I gasped, swallowing stiffly as a tear slid down my face. Mixed warm with guilt and shock, I studied Mikey.

His forehead scrunched and ran his palm under his eyes, swiping away the moisture that leaked down his cheeks. “I was eight the first time he came into my room. I had no idea what the hell was going on, and when he was done, he put his cigarette out on my stomach as a warning to me to make sure I didn’t say anything to anyone. First it was once a week, and then it slowly escalated. My mom was always too strung out on drugs or high on shit to know what was happening.”

“Mikey,” I whispered and he looked at me. The mask of strength he wore completely faded away. Nothing but the pain he was drowning in looked back at me.

“Then he invited his buddies over once I started going through puberty around ten or eleven I think. They were fascinated with the fact that I still looked like a boy but they could get me to…you know…” His voice broke and his jaw trembled. Screwing his face up, agony ripped through his body so intensely, every breath of his became strained.

I reached forward. As gently as I could, my hand found his clenched fist, and I slowly unraveled his fingers, trying to offer reassurance.

He violently whipped his head back and forth. “I’ve never told anyone everything before.” He gasped for air, staring unblinking into my eyes.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed stiffly and tightened his hand around mine, and then continued. “One time I ended up in the hospital bleeding. The staff questioned my dad, but he gave them every damn excuse about how I was a curious, horny pre-teen and problem kid. And I was so scared of ending up dead I just didn’t say anything. But what twelve-year-old boy goes straight to ass stuff?” He hiccuped and clacked his teeth together a couple times. “Anyway, that was fucking painful, maybe even more so than the constant wounds he kept reopening on my stomach and back. But there’s a part of me that saw it as a slight blessing, too, because, for whatever reason, after that, I couldn’t get hard for a long, long time. Though that resulted in more beatings, more cigarettes as punishment for not…”

“All of that was your body simply reacting. All of it, Mikey,” I offered.

He nodded, his breathing slowing. “Yeah, I eventually figured that out.” His eyes softened. “I was twenty-two when I saw my first naked girl, and had my first actual relationship. She dumped me right in the middle of us going at it for the first time because I couldn’t get an erection. Despite knowing my dad was dead, I was absolutely terrified of getting hurt again. So, that kind of sucked.”

“It works just fine now,” I teased.

He smiled, the first genuine smile I’d seen on his face. “You’re certainly pleased that it does.”

“And you’re not?”

“Mmmmm.” He inhaled deeply, softly pulled his hand from mine, and sat back down on the bench. “I’m sorry it seemed like I didn’t care. I do.”

My heart swelled with compassion and all anger swept away. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

His eyes darted up to mine, widening. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to minimize your—”

“I know,” I quickly said. Sucking in my bottom lip, I closed my eyes. What a fool I’d been. “I’m really sorry. With how I’ve been reacting to everything.”

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