Something is off with him.
Not in what he said. Everything he said was right and generous. It's more in what I heard underneath it. The tiredness that goes deeper than just long shifts. The way he talked about surviving like it was something he'd been doing for too long, like he was running out of steam.
He's putting on a brave face for me. I know he is.
And I don't know how much longer he can keep it up before something breaks.
I hope I'm not making a terrible mistake by not being there.
I hope I'm not losing him while I'm trying to build our future.
Chapter 45: Jay
On Monday of the third week without seeing Ivan, I wake up from the nightmares again. It's a new one this time, and somehow that makes it worse. The familiar nightmares I've learned to navigate, learned to wake myself from. But this one catches me off guard, drags me under before I can fight back.
I'm fourteen, sitting on the floor of the barn, and the door creaks open slowly. Ivan slips inside, moving so carefully, like every step sends pain shooting through his body. He's twelve, so small for his age, his frame tiny and fragile. His face is pale and tight with barely controlled agony.
"Henderson got me," he whispers. He turns around and lifts his shirt with trembling hands.
The welts are fresh, angry red lines crisscrossing his lower back and the tops of his thighs. Some of them are already purpling into bruises, the edges dark and spreading. One has split the skin completely, a thin line of blood seeping through, trickling down.
Ivan's eyes are wet, shining in the dim light filtering through the barn slats. I can see him trying desperately not to cry, trying to be brave, and it breaks something in me. I pull him into my arms and hold him while he shakes, while silent tears finally run down his face. And I think about Henderson back in the house, probably pouring himself another drink right now, probably feeling satisfied with his night's work.
That's the part that haunts me most, even now. The way Henderson looked when he was hurting us. The gleam in his eyes, bright and eager. The flush on his cheeks, high color like he'd been running. The way he seemed to stand taller afterward, walk straighter, like beating children gave him something he desperately needed. Like our pain fed something dark and hungry inside him, something that could never be satisfied for long.
I couldn't protect Ivan. Not enough. Not when it mattered. I couldn't be with him twenty-four hours a day, couldn't throw myself between him and Henderson's belt every single time. And every time Ifailed, every time Ivan came to me with fresh marks on his skin, fresh bruises blooming purple and yellow—it felt like dying. It felt like failing the only person who mattered.
I wake up with tears streaming down my face and the taste of bile in my throat, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my temples.
I have to be at Mick's in four hours.
I don't go back to sleep.
I know better than to try.
By Friday, I'm running on fumes. Four nights of broken sleep, four nights of that same fucking nightmare on repeat. The exhaustion is making everything harder. My hands shake when I try to hold tools. My vision blurs at random moments.
I push through my shift at Mick's, forcing myself to focus. My hands want to shake, but I grip the wrench tighter. I will not screw this up. I will not let Mick down.
But he notices anyway.
"You look like death warmed over," he says, coming up beside me. "When's the last time you slept more than a few hours? And don't lie to me."
"I'm fine, Mick. Just some rough nights. Bad dreams."
"Is your boyfriend still working weekends? Still can't make it down here?"
"Yeah. One more week. Then things will go back to normal."
Mick grunts and crosses his arms. "You eating? You look thinner than you did last week."
"I'm eating," I reply. "Betty makes sure of that." Mostly true. Enough to function.
"And the other thing? The drinking? You staying clean?"
"I haven't touched a drop." That part is completely true, and it feels like the only thing I can be proud of right now. Even though every night feels like a battle.
Mick studies me. "You've got my number if you need it. Day or night. And you've still got that card I gave you, right? For the meetings?"
