I don’t know how long I’ve been holding her like this.
Minutes? Hours? Days? Time has no meaning in the quiet place. The clocks stopped meaning anything when I locked her here. The only thing that matters is the friction of her skin against mine.
The chain drags when she moves, a low, grinding sound against the floorboards. The weight of it soothes me. It’s the anchor. It’s the truth.
It’s the sound of now. It’s the heavy, undeniable proof that she hasn’t vanished. It’s the sound of her still being here.
But sometimes when I blink, I see something else. The blue light of the monitors fades, and the chapel walls rise up around us.
Something older. Something smaller.
Her hands in my hair. I can feel the ghostly pull of her fingers. Braiding. Tight. Neat. She was always better at braiding—she had the patience for it, the steady hands I never possessed.
I see the dust on the chapel floor, dancing in the light of the stained glass. I see the wax stains on the pews, the dried tears of a thousand candles. I see the rosary tucked in the pocket of my uniform, the beads cold against my thigh.
I see her telling me to count.
Count the candles. Count the steps. Count the breaths. Stay still. Stay quiet. Be good.
I told her I didn’t want to stay. I remember the whining in my voice, the way I tugged at her sleeve.
But she told me I had to. She told me if I was good enough, he’d stop. He’d get bored of a boy who didn’t fight. He’d leave me alone.
She promised.
But he didn’t stop. The worship only grew more fervent. And she left me. She walked out into the sun and let the door latch behind her.
She left me there.
I drag my fingers down the chain until the metal cuts into my palm, the pain grounding me in the present. The weight keeps me here. Keeps me now. Keeps me from slipping too far into the memory that tastes too much like a lie.
Did she really leave me?
The thought is a poison.Or did I make her leave? Did I push her out of the door to save the only piece of light I had left? Or did I leave her?
I can’t remember. The pieces don’t fit. The edges are jagged and don’t line up.
The memory flickers.
Her hands in my hair. Her voice counting—four, five, six.The hum of the quiet place. The sound of the priest’s shoes behind me—that rhythmic, terrifyingclack-clack-clack.
The rosary in his hand. The way his thumb pressed to my lip, soft, careful, checking for the silence he demanded. The way I press to hers now. I am becoming the thing that broke me, just to keep the only thing I love.
The way I begged him not to leave me.
Or maybe I begged her.
Or maybe I begged myself to wake up from the dream that wouldn’t end.
I drag the chain tighter around my fist until my knuckles split, the skin popping under the pressure. The chapel door slams. The echo of it is deafening in my skull.
Or maybe it never closed. Maybe the door has been open this whole time and I’ve just been too afraid to look.
I can’t tell which memory is mine. I can’t tell which one is real.
I press my lips to the scar on her ribs.
“You promised you’d keep me.” Her breath shudders, a broken, weeping sound. “You promised you’d save me.”
