“I’m sorry,” she says, but the words slide right over me, too soft, too late.
“You told me to stay here.” I pull the rosary tighter, winding the beads until they tear the skin, until the pressure feels like something I can keep. “You told me he’d pick someone else.”
Her throat locks. Her breath collapses.
“You told me if I was quiet, if I was good, if I stayed, I’d be safe.” I look at her now. She’s shaking like she’s the one who broke. But she didn’t. I did. “You told me to stay.”
The chapel hums. The cold stays inside my ribs. She tries to speak, but the words choke. Her fingers brush the edge of the rosary around my wrist. I flinch. Hard. Sharp. The burn snaps me back into the shape I’m supposed to be. Her breath shudders. Her tears fall. But I can’t hold them. I press my palm to the stone.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
She shakes her head. She says she didn’t mean to. But she did. Her hand cups my cheek. It’s too soft. Too warm. Too late. I freeze. I can’t breathe under the weight of her touch. Because she’s not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be alone in the quiet place. I’m supposed to be the one who stayed.
“You forgot me,” I say, my voice splintering. “You let him keep me.”
Her breath catches. She tries to pull me into her. But I lock myself against the floor, gripping the cracks, gripping the rosary so tight I can’t feel where I end.
“I waited for you.”
Her sob punches through her ribs. I hear her saying she came back. I hear her saying she didn’t forget. But I know. I know I stayed. I know I was good. I know I let him keep me.
Because she told me to. Her arms wrap around me. Her breath breaks against my hair. Her voice whispers that she’s sorry, that she’s here now, that she won’t leave me again. But I don’t believe her. Because the rosary is still around my wrist. Because his breath is still in my throat. Because the door never shut. I think I never left. And I think I don’t want to.
Her arms wrap tighter around me.
She’s smaller now. Her breath shudders against my hair in short, panicked gulps, her chest heaving like she ran all the way back here. Like she didn’t think I’d still be here. But I didn’t leave. I stayed where she told me to stay.
“You’re safe now,” she whispers, her voice high and cracking. But I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel anything except the weight of his hands and the rosary biting into my wrist. I don’t move.
“You told me to stay,” I say, my voice small, hoarse. Her hands shake against my back. “You told me he’d pick someone else.”
Her sob hiccups against my temple. “I didn’t mean—” she chokes. “I thought— I thought he would?—”
“You said I’d be safe.” The cold floor clings to my skin, the bruises burn, the rosary wraps around my wrist like another lock. “You told me if I was good, he wouldn’t hurt me.” Her tears fall into my hair. “You said you’d come back.”
Her breath breaks in pieces. “I came back,” she sobs. “I’m here— I didn’t know— I thought he would?—”
“You said he’d pick someone else.” Her arms wrap tighter like she’s trying to pull me off the floor, but I stay in the cracks.
Her hands cup my face, trying to tilt me to her. “I didn’t know it would be you— I didn’t know he’d— I thought—” Her voice collapses. “I thought he’d pick me.”
The words don’t make sense. Or maybe they do. Her thumb brushes under my eye. “I told him to pick me,” she cries. My chest stutters. Her hands tremble on my cheeks. “I thought if I ran— if I told him to follow me— he’d pick me— he’d let you go.”
But he didn’t.
Her hands drag through my hair, cradling me, rocking me. “I thought I was saving you,” she sobs. I lock my grip around the rosary tighter, the beads biting deep. “You told me to stay,” I whisper.
Her breath breaks. “I didn’t know— I thought— I thought I could trick him— I didn’t think he’d stay with you.” I press my face harder into the floor. Her arms cage me tighter. “I thought I was saving you.”
But I don’t feel saved. I feel kept. I feel quiet. I feel like I stayed where she told me to stay. “I waited for you.”
Her breath shudders. “I came back— I came back— I didn’t know he’d?—”
Her voice breaks into silence. I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t let her untangle the rosary from my wrist. Because I don’t know if she really came back. Or if I’ve just been waiting here ever since.
The chapel fades. The floor softens. The cold doesn’t leave my ribs. The weight of the rosary still burns around my wrist even though it isn’t there. Even though I crushed it years ago. But I still feel it. I still feel him. I still feel her. I still hear her voice telling me to stay.
She’s here now. Her breath shakes against my throat, her hands buried in my hair, her body pressed to mine like she’s stilltrying to put me back together. “Damien—” Her voice cracks. “You’re safe.”
