Page 112 of Past the Broken Bridges

But I can’t speak.

Pain silences me, takes me hostage inside of myself.

“Don’t leave me,” he repeats, almost as if he’s talking to himself and not me.

I black out.

* * *

Cussing under my breath when I lift the garbage bag out of the can, I wince from the pain shooting out of my ribs. “Fuck,” I growl, dropping the bag and scattering the contents everywhere.

I close my eyes as the empty beer bottles roll across the dirty floor, mixing with the food scraps and bloody paper towels.

It’s been almost a week since the incident.

Nearly seven days of being trapped here, unable to move, needing help from the very man who’s responsible for the bruises and swelling covering my body.

I hate it here. Hate that I’ve let it get this bad—that I told myself I couldn’t leave the city because he needed me more than I needed my sanity.

Enabler.

I didn’t answer my phone or go to class. I’m sure my father wouldn’t have wanted me to draw attention by showing up looking like…this. Bruised. Beaten. Hunched over from the pressure in my torso.

Defeated.

Professors emailed me with what I’ve missed, classmates have sent me notes, and my neighbor has left me a few messages that I didn’t have the heart to answer because it would mean explaining.

I can barely explain to myself why I put up with this.

How could I ever explain it to her?

To anybody?

Ever since I gave her the dehumidifier, she’s shut down. The way she stared at it would have made it seem like I’d given her a diamond, not a machine. She barely talked thatnight, except to say goodbye at the door when she walked me to it. Dismissed. That’s what I felt.

And maybe I told myself that was the exact reason I didn’t need to try harder to reach out or respond.

Carefully kneeling down, I break myself from the pitiful thoughts and begin collecting all the garbage that’s been piling up at my father’s house. The only good thing about the injuries is that he plays nice. For a while. He hasn’t hounded me about school or touched a sip of alcohol. I haven’t even seen him light a cigar since he took the one that burned a hole into one of my favorite shirts after it fell when I went down.

A hand comes down on my shoulder, locking my body up. “Let me,” Dad says quietly.

I didn’t even hear him come in.

“I’ve got it,” I murmur, shaking off his touch and cringing at the movement.

He doesn’t stop picking up the trash, his hand pausing over a beer bottle with a crack in it. After a moment, he tosses it into the bag and then does the same with the next one. Then the third. His posture stiffens and his frown settles deeper, as if he actually acknowledges the problem staring him dead in the face.

Not that it matters. He’s seen it for years.

Let it fester. Grow.

He made it what it is.

“I spoke to Laramie today,” he says, clearing his throat once the floor is cleaned. He takes the bag from me and ties it up. “He said he could give you an extension on your assignment if you need it. He hopes you feel better soon. I told him you got the flu.”

The flu.

Of course.

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