Page 9 of Unexpected Heroine

She takes a tentative step, her fists unclenching. Meeting my eyes, she reaches for me and laces her fingers through mine.

Then it hits me. Fuck.

She’s scared to be alone.

Even in my house, she’s too terrified to be a room away from me.

Sadness burns a trail from my stomach to my heart.

My independent, stubborn, vivacious butterfly... her wings have been clipped.

No. This is only temporary, I scold myself.

Torn between getting her started on washing the filth away and getting her sustenance, I decide to bring her with me into the kitchen. I work fast, filling a glass with cold water and grabbing a package of peanut butter crackers from the cupboard.

Still and silent, she watches my every move. Her face remains blank and impassive, and her posture is crumpled, resembling a wilting flower.

And it breaks my motherfucking heart.

I meant what I said to her back at Redleg. I will fix this. I’ll make this right.

Somehow.

As I hand her the water, there’s a tremor in her delicate fingers. When the rim of the glass reaches her chapped lips, she starts with a timid sip. Once the first few drops hit her mouth, she gasps in relief. That tiny sip quickly transforms into heaping gulps.

“Easy, baby. Don’t drink too fast. You don’t want to get sick.”

She finishes the entire glass in a matter of seconds. “Ahh,” she rasps. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”

Fuck. She was parched all this time. I’ve been with her for over an hour and haven’t seen to her physical needs.

My throat scratches, as if the guilt is trying to crawl out. I need to shift my thoughts off my pain and sadness and focus on what matters.

Her.

Mentally cataloging her most immediate needs, I attempt to prioritize them.

Pain. Water. Food. Bathe. Infection prevention. Clean clothes. Rest.

That’s what I can manage right now. Everything else must wait.

“How’s your stomach feeling? Did you eat while you were, um...” I can’t fucking finish my sentence due to the acid eating away at my innards as images of her in that disgusting cesspool ravage my psyche.

She had to live it, and I can’t even say the fucking words.

Before she can answer, she sprints to the trash can. Bending at the waist, she heaves out the only fluids she’s probably had in days.

Without conscious thought, I bolt across the room, operating on autopilot to comfort her. I pull her hair out of her face, holding it at her nape. With my other hand, I rub her back in soothing circles.

When she’s done, she straightens her frame. I let her hair go and hand her a paper towel to wipe her mouth.

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking it from me. “I’m sorry about that.”

“There are those manners,” I tease on reflex. It’s an automatic response after a year of her thanking me for every damn thing.

“Perhaps I should have listened to you and gone slower.” There’s a hint of humor in her tone, reminding me that my sugar bear is still in there somewhere.

How could they fucking do this to her?

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