Page 23 of Stained Protector

Minutes tick by, voices muffling through my ears as I lean back against the seat. Another ambulance skids to a stop and reels out a car crash patient.

There should be a resemblance of curiosity, a tickle of compassion, or a reaction to the amount of blood on the patient. But it’s only apathy, something I’m acutely aware of as soon as I’m able to remember things.

Children have a vast selection of emotions and a sponge brain to soak up everything they experience.

I liked to watch them play, trip, and get scrapes on their skin. I don’t think about giving them comfort but wonder why broken glass wasn’t on the ground.

I’ve watched myself in reflections descending deeper and deeper into a bottomless void of malice. It’s the disassociation between understanding and caring about it. The advantage, as worrying as some have expressed, is that it removes pointless effort to do something because sympathy compels it.

I’m weak to her sweet voice, to the black and blue on her skin, the trust in her frightened gaze—she’s an intrusive form of poison.

So come to me, pretty, and we’ll decay together.

I’m scared, the text reads.

I smile with a light bounce in my heartbeat. Being the only person she can rely on, it’s a remarkably warm feeling. It’s not surprising when the butterflies merge with the lining of my bones, enforcing them with a layer of steel to power through the short distance to the entrance.

The front desk does their routine questioning before pointing me in the right direction. My steps are steady when passing two talkative officers, subtly picking up on their pity for what Anya went through.

Her head snaps toward the door after I knock. Her arms are bruised, and I’m certain parts of her legs under the blanket are also forming discoloration. She isn’t hooked to a needle, just a heart monitor, so she should be able to go home tonight.

“I didn’t know who to call,” she mumbles and crushes Davis’s business card.

“What happened?” I take a seat on the chair by her bedside, likely from one of the cops who took her statement.

I can guess the line of questions and how Davis’s behavior worked. He must have been borderline aggressive, not too blunt but enough to make a victim withdraw.

He made things easier for me, and I can’t waste this opening.

“I—” she chokes, glassy eyes darting left and right to piece her thoughts. “I was at home, and this man just broke in! I think I cut him with a knife, I don’t know—he came up behind me, and I was…”

I loosen her cold fingers and press my warm palm to them, quelling the fragile trembles with firmness as I hold them in silence. The best thing I can do right now is to give her support, and solving her problem will raise her guard. Because she only knows I’m in the dark about what happened in the last hour, it would be highly suspicious if I coincidentally have the next step ready.

That stupid cretin took two days to act. No articles or news mention a glue-eyed man, so he must have scraped the glue by himself.

Anya sniffles, teardrops falling like pears. I wipe them away and whisper empty reassurances that I brushed up on during the wait for her call.

She’s homeless and jobless now. A purr is concealed in my voice as I repeat nonsense because she’s so out of it that she does nothing when I pull her onto my lap. Rhythmically patting her back, I nuzzle the crown of her head and inhale her scent. Sweet, but it’s mixed with blood and antiseptics.

I won’t offer my help just yet. This is her punishment. My heart aches for the discontent it went through when she ran. That was my first-ever confession.

“Can you help me?” A stammer above a sob, small and vulnerable.

“He knows where you live, which compromises mine and the studio as well,” I note, my hand tracing up her back to knead her slender neck.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, guilt laced heavily in her sniffles.

“It’s his fault,” I chide quietly. “Hebroke in,heattacked you, andhemade you scared.”

Rely on me again. She has no one to protect her. Family, friends, and the police show inadequate support.

The defensive playbook lands her in the hospital. Shifting her mindset to offense meets with resistance as she shakes uncomfortably in my arms. She’s not defending him, just morally against violent retribution, so she stays quiet.

“He didn’t succeed in taking you, and perhaps his goal is to kill you in a secluded area. He broke into your apartment many times, could’ve easily slipped sleeping pills in your drinks, or chloroformed you the first time he attacked you in public.”

He’s not here to defend himself about the break-ins, which I’m gladly passing the blame onto a scapegoat. A perfect name for him.

“He’ll try and try,” I say, hiding the detestable smile in her hair. “One day, you’ll die.”

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