Page 79 of Brittle Heart

While he is working, I imagine all the ways I would like to kill this man. I don’t give a fuck anymore how it happens. I just want it to be bloody.

When he is done, he wipes off his knife on my T-shirt and returns to his feet. I just look up at the ceiling, lying there.

“You are never going to steal my money again, or next time, I will not give you the option to choose,” he warns, walking out of the kitchen and into his room.

I lay there for a while, feeling the warm, sticky blood slowly running down my forearm and pooling on the ground. I can’t muster the strength to look at my arm.

Out of nowhere, I feel sick and rush to the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet. After I flush, I sink to the floor.

Gathering the courage, I finally glance at my arm. It’s covered in blood, and I use my ruined T-shirt to wipe it clean. Some of it has dried, making it difficult to see, but eventually, the carving becomes visible. As I read the wordPIGbrutally etched onto my forearm, my heart sinks.

CHAPTERTHIRTY

Carolina

I can’t bear it a second longer.

If I have to stay a moment more alone in my room. I don’t know what I will do to myself, to him. I just can’t. And going to college this early is out of the question.

I’m having a panic attack.

I can barely breathe.

So, I go to the only place I know I will be welcomed with open arms.

* * *

As I walk in, I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone I might know. It’s only seven, so it’s relatively quiet.

When I approach Howie, he’s sitting on his bed with his head hanging.

“About time you came…” He starts, but when he sees my face, he sucks in a breath, “Lina, what—”

I start to sob, not giving a fuck about the people around us, still asleep when I sit next to him on the bed and wrap my arms around his waist. Howie pulls me close, one hand on my back and the other cupping the back of my head.

He pulls away, concern and worry written all over his face as he asks, “What happened? What did he do? Are you okay?”

Howie is the only one besides Chiara who knows about Roberto’s abuse. I never explicitly told him, but he has seen the evidence more than enough.

It’s no secret in the neighborhood that Roberto is a piece of shit.

“No,” I whisper, clutching his shirt tightly in my fist behind his back, going back to sobbing into his shoulder uncontrollably. He tries to comfort me, rubbing my back, but my emotions are overwhelming. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired. My soul is tired. I wake up every fucking day to fight the same fucking battle, and it only leads to more pain.”

“Shh…” he coos, stroking my hair.

“They can’t expect that from me. It’s too much. I tried, I did, but I can’t keep doing this for two more years, Howie. I’m not strong enough.”

“Who expects that?” he asks.

“My parents,” I whisper. “They’re gone, so I have to take care of her because I’m the big sister. Keep her safe. Not let him hurt her.” I sob again. “And who keeps me safe? Who cares for me?” I struggle to breathe. “Who stops him from hurting me?”

“What did he do, Carolina,” Howie asks again, leaning back to look at me. There is a sheen of tears in his own eyes.

I pull back the sleeve of my hoodie, hissing when it presses on the wound. I put some bandages to cover it, so I open them, pulling them off. Howie sucks in a breath when my arm is completely revealed. The cuts are angry and red, and his eyes bolt up to find mine. Tears still flowing, I bite down on my lips, but my breathing is not as panicked as before.

He takes the bandage, wraps my arm up again, and pulls the sleeve of my hoodie down, careful not to hurt me with it. “Did you sleep, kid?” he asks gently. I shake my head in response. “Let’s take care of the basics first before we tackle the big problems,” he suggests.

He sits on the bed and scoots over, his back against the headboard. He sits on the covers but opens them beside him, inviting me to lie down. With my back to him, I curl up on my side, and he arranges the covers over me.

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