Page 43 of You Were Always Mine
I sit on the edge of the mattress, pulling her into me again, my hand cradling the back of her head, rocking her without even thinking. My chest feels like it’s caving in, every sound she makes cutting me deeper than any blade could.
‘Scar,’ I whisper, my voice rough, low, almost pleading. ‘Tell me what happened. Please.’
She shakes her head hard against my chest, tears soaking through my shirt, her fingers fisting in the fabric like she’s trying to hang on.
I tilt her chin up with trembling hands, wiping at her wet cheeks with my thumbs, pushing the hair from her face. ‘Hey… look at me. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.’
Her red eyes flick to mine, shining, hollow. Her lip trembles as she chokes the words out. ‘Stop.’
My stomach twists. ‘Stop what?’
Her hands shove weakly at me, her voice breaking. ‘Stop being nice to me. I don’t deserve it.’
The words gut me. I smooth my palm down her hair, stroke it back as gently as I can, even as my throat burns. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.’
She squeezes her eyes shut, sobbing harder, but I can’t let go. I keep holding her, keep wiping her tears, keep whispering her name like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.
Maybe she thinks she doesn’t deserve kindness.
But I know she doesn’t deserve to break like this.
Her sobs soften for a moment, but her body still shakes in my arms, fragile as glass. I keep stroking her hair, brushing the damp strands back from her face, pressing soft shushes into the crown of her head like I can soothe the storm tearing her apart.
Then she whispers it.
‘You were right.’
My chest tightens. ‘About what?’
Her breath hitches, her voice so small I almost don’t catch it. ‘I shouldn’t wear what I wear. I shouldn’t… act how I act. I brought it on myself.’
My stomach knots so hard it makes me dizzy.
‘No,’ I rasp, cupping her face, forcing her wet eyes up to mine. ‘Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever fucking say that.’
She tries to turn away, but I hold her steady, thumbs brushing the streaks of tears down her cheeks.
‘You don’t understand,’ she chokes. ‘It’s my fault. It’s always my fault.’
Rage floods hot in my chest, but it’s not for her. It’s for whoever made her believe this, whoever put those words in her mouth.
I press my forehead to hers, my voice breaking. ‘Fuck, Scar… did someone touch you?’
Her body stiffens, her eyelashes fluttering shut. Silence.
Her breath comes faster, uneven, but she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t deny it either.
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to shake the truth out of her, to storm out and put my fist through someone’s skull. My hand trembles as I stroke her hair again, gentler now, kissing her temple without thinking.
‘You can tell me,’ I whisper, almost begging. ‘Please. Tell me who.’
But she just buries her face deeper into my chest, her silence louder than any scream.
And it’s killing me.
Her silence cuts deeper than any truth ever could. But I don’t push. I don’t rage. I just hold her tighter, my hand smoothing down her hair, my thumb brushing over her damp cheek like I can wipe the night away if I just keep going.
Her breathing slows, but every tremor in her body still bleeds into mine. I press my lips to her temple, soft, careful, trying to give her something steady when I feel like I’m shattering in my own skin.
