Page 11 of Tortured Whispers
My heart thumped relentlessly, bleeding empathy for her. It trickled into my chest and destroyed my logic. I reached my hand out to her and she grabbed on. When she did, I pulled her against my body and wrapped my arms around her. A shaky breath came rushing out of her lungs. Cough after cough shook her slender frame.
“Brook, look at me,” I tipped her head back and smoothed her damp hair away from her face. “Are you okay? I want the truth. Don’t give me some bullshit, auto pilot answer. You looked scared to death before I came in here.” I was breaking all sorts of rules. If she were my patient I would never talk to her that way.
“I am,” she said, blinking away tears from impossibly thick lashes.
“You are what?”
“Scawed to death,” she stammered. “Maybe I’m just scawed of death.” Her throat dipped and she clutched me like I was her life preserver, pulling her from the deepest sea.
“What’s trying to kill you?” I asked, my lips brushing the top of her hair. It smelled like fruit. Some kind of berries.
I wished she could see how insanely normal she was. She was a young woman, getting ready for bed with wet hair, a clean face, and the day’s events on her mind. She needed someone to tell her that. She needed a friend to pull her out of the endless sea in her mind.
“Evewything. You hate me. Daddy is fwustwated. So am I,” her words were shrouded in whispers. I found myself cupping her face and making her look at me, not down at her feet.
“Brooklyn, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You’re a part of me. I know I haven’t been around but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. I need you to believe me.” My voice was urgent, begging her to not only hear my words but to feel them.
“Y-You don’t hate me?” It sounded as if she couldn’t fathom someone not being annoyed with her or not hating her. What the fuck was going on in that head of hers?
Speech apraxia may have made her words come out imperfectly but her anxiety and depression were worse than the apraxia could ever be. We sat on her bed and it groaned under my weight. “No. I think what you saw on my face when we were in the kitchen was frustration. Not with you but the fact that your father didn’t get you help. I want to help and I think I got pissed that I didn’t have more time with you. More time to help you open up. If I’d been in your life before now, you would have already trusted me, Brook.
Now, I’m like a stranger. That’s why I told you not to call me Uncle Caesar. I know you have trouble with pronouncing your R sounds but I haven’t been much of an uncle to you. I figured maybe I can be the friend you need. Not Uncle Caesar. Not Dr. Powers. Just…Cease.” I bared my soul to her in ways I’d never planned. It was a small sliver but the blatant honesty was so raw it startled me.
Brooklyn looked up at me. Her eyes were more green than hazel at that moment. They looked like orbs of jade with golden specks.
“I’d like that a lot. I don’t have any fwends.” Her brows crashed together and she shook her head.
“It’s okay, Brook. Keep talking. You’ve been through speech therapy. You know that the best way to overcome it is to keep talking. You can only correct it if you hear yourself,” I explained. She gave me an earnest nod like she’d heard all of that shit before but it was still true.
“I want you to be my fwrend.” I heard her trying to pronounce her R sounds and a little bit of pride blossomed inside of me.
“I’d love to be. We have to trust each other though. That’s what friends do. You can’t keep thinking I’m annoyed or that I don’t like you. I have to be able to trust that you won’t push me away without reason. Can we agree on that?” I asked, my voice full to the brim with hope. Brook wasn’t the only person who needed that friendship. Evidently, I needed it to.
“Yes,” she smiled a little and I rubbed the back of her hand with my thumb. Her skin was smooth under my touch.
“Shake on it?” I asked, pulling my hand away. Timidly, she placed her hand in mine, extending her arm. A smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. I smiled when we shook on it then my eyes fell to her arm and my smile disintegrated. Scars littered her skin. Some of the older ones were silvery and the newer ones were bright pink. The newest hadn’t yet turned to scars.
My breathing grew shallow and my heart cracked in my chest. Millions of tiny shards beat in tune with the rush of my blood. She was a cutter.
Brooklyn noticed the moment that it happened and she yanked her hand away, diving beneath the blankets, pulling them up around her shoulders. A sob choked her throat and her entire body shook.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I told her quietly. She wouldn’t move. She wouldn’t turn to look at me. I felt like I’d slammed against a wall that cut off access to her.
“It’s not! I’m bwoken!” I tried to get her to look at me, I tugged on her shoulder but she wouldn’t budge. I tossed the comforter back and squeezed myself into her much-too-short bed.
“Brook, please look at me,” I begged. She shook her head vehemently. “I can help you. Just let me in.” I pulled her close to me and found her hand with mine, examining her scars. She didn’t pull away and that was a good sign.
“You’re hurting,” I said.
“I’m weak,” she gritted out. “Weak and fucking stupid.”
“No,” a growl rumbled in my chest, making her wince and press her back against my chest. I had to calm down so she’d relax but the entire situation was burning me up inside.
How much shit about Brooklyn had Anthony kept to himself?
“These scars show how strong you are, Brook.” I pulled my index and middle fingers down the length of her forearm and shook my head.
It was like reading the most gut-wrenching story on a sheet of braille. Brooklyn let out another sob. It split at the seams with sheer agony and shame. It rolled off of her in thick currents. I would have done anything to absorb it all for her.
