Page 127 of Dear Rosie

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My fists clench.

I broke my arm. I had to tell the doctor I fell.

Her dad shoved her to the ground, and she had to fucking lie about it.

I can’t imagine how that must’ve felt. To be in pain, surrounded bya hospital full of people, but to still be alone.

Those doctors failed her.

Society failed her.

I turn off the lights and cross to the bed.

I failed her.

I get into bed as slowly as possible, not wanting to wake her.

Under the blankets, I roll onto my side, facing my Rosie.

She’s on her back, face turned away from me, hands folded on her chest.

I scoot closer.

I need to touch her.

When she let me help her change, I had to grit my teeth at all the bruises and scrapes that covered her body.

The side of her thigh.

Her knees.

Her arms.

Her ankle.

I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.

Hasn’t she been through enough?

I slide my hand across the inches between us, then gently rest it on her stomach. The one place I know it’s safe to touch.

And with my shame hidden in the darkness, I cry.

I did earlier.

Couldn’t stop myself when I was reading those fucking letters.

But I was still trying to hold back.

I still had things to do.

But now, with her in my bed, with her visible wounds treated, I let out the pent-up rage.

The panic.

The sorrow.

The fucking guilt.

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