A rush of rage seizes me. Red floods across my vision and my hands clench as though under imminent threat instead of staring at handiwork that must be a decade, two decades old. A helpless choking sound comes out of my mouth instead of the words of reassurance Nadia must need.
I push the anger back, wanting to be here for her, to not fuck this up when we’re already so strained. The moment I do, frustration fills the gap. I stare at the letters, unable to arrange them in a way that makes sense.
Her body tenses and mine does the same in response, expecting her to kick and fight and run like she has before. Then her shoulders slump and somehow that’s a thousand times worse. Like I broke her, though I know it’s not true. No more truthful than the ridiculous distortions she holds about herself.
“I’m not good at reading,” I mutter, wrapping an arm around her waist to bring her close. “I’m sorry.
“I know,” she whispers back and of course she knows because her mind connects things a thousand times faster than mine.
Then she offers, “Do you want me to tell you what it says?” and I wish I could take her up on the suggestion, but I see how much those words cost her. I can’t impose that burden. Not on top of everything I’ve already asked of her.
Instead, I trace the letters with my right forefinger, helping to establish their shapes in my head. As I go, I sound them out beneath my breath, putting them together, trying to make them make sense.
“Pro… per… ty,” I whisper as the vocalisations help draw the different parts of the word together. “Property.”
And the next word is shorter, the cuts deeper, the edge silvery where the years have stolen the elastin from her skin and dragged against the scar tissue to form stretch marks. I know it without having to say it aloud.
Property of…
She clears her throat. “It’s my—”
“Husband’s name,” I say because it’s suddenly obvious. So obvious I’m filled with a dull fury.
I try to give her a calm response, give her reassurance before she concertinas her body into an even smaller space than it currently inhabits, but I can’t. My eyes trace out the design, unable to stop returning to it even when I force their attention elsewhere.
Property of Rod Ostend.
Carved with a knife, each letter over an inch high.
Each word is set on a separate line. Together, it takes up most of her back.
Not even ‘I belong to’ although that would be bad enough. But this…? This doesn’t even recognise her as a person.
I gulp in a mouthful of air, coughing it out again before harshly dragging in another.
I have to say something. Words to break her terrified silence. Something to take away the blow.
When I can’t, my anger turns inwards. She wanted to keep hidden. Why did I keep pushing her? What was the point?
To assert dominance? Make myself feel better after she stripped away my sense of companionship with one click from an unloaded weapon.
The clock is ticking, and I still can’t say a thing. My vocal cords feel like they’re strangling me rather than coming to my aid.
Instead of talking, I move, taking her hand and walking her into the bathroom, turning on the water, testing it with my hand until it’s warm enough, then shuffling us both into the confined space.
I take the washcloth, add a dollop of soap and lather her back, gentle, as though the wounds were still fresh. When I finish, I bend my head and press my lips to each letter, tracing them out with gentle kisses.
Nadia jerks forward, her body trembling, and I pull her firmly back against me, wrapping my arms around her, covering up the message that I can’t stare at any longer. I just can’t.
She tries to push me away, to get away, and I can’t let her do that either. Not until I find the right words to undo all the harm. Not until I can breathe past this choking weight that’s settled on my chest.
So, I trap her arms below mine, linking our fingers before tightening my embrace again, squeezing her as close to me as I can, hiding my face in her wet hair.
But she fights me. Whatever she was waiting for, hasn’t happened. I don’t know what she needs and I’m too chickenshit to offer anything that might fall short. My arms still hold her, but with each passing second, they feel more and more like they’re just a new prison restraining her against her will.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter against the back of her neck. “Please stay.”
And I don’t mean in the shower. Or the motel room.
