I stiffen. The words taste wrong.
“You’re safe now,” she says again, but she’s lying. I can feel it in her pulse. I can feel it in the way I’m still on the floor. In the way the chain still cuts into her skin. In the way I’ve never left the quiet place.
I peel my face from the floor, slow, stiff. I don’t think I ever left. I grab the chain and drag her into my lap. Her breath hitches, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll slip away. But I want to stay right here. Where I’m good. Where I’m quiet. Where I can keep her this time.
Her eyes flick to mine, wide, wet, searching. “You told me to stay,” I say, my voice flat, soft, steady like the cane tapping against the floor. Her throat locks. “You told me if I was good, I’d be safe.” Her breath fractures. “You told me you’d save me.”
Her hands clutch me tighter. I press my thumb to her lip, the same way he did, the same way I’ve always done, the same rhythm I never noticed was his. “You forgot me.”
Her breath breaks. “You told me you wouldn’t leave me there.” I drag the chain tighter around my fist until it bites into her ankle. “You told me you’d come back.”
Her pulse stutters. “But you didn’t.” The quiet place hums inside me. “You left me.” Her hands tremble. “You always leave me.”
Her voice cracks. “I won’t— I’m here?—”
“You always leave me.” I press my mouth to her throat, the scar under her ribs burning where my hand clutches her. “You forget me.” Her sob fractures. “But I don’t.”
I don’t. I never did. I never left. And I won’t let her leave me again. Not this time. Not ever.
Her sobs crack against my ribs, her fists tightening in my shirt. I drag my thumb across her lip, slow, tracing the samerhythm he did. The one she never pulled away from. “You told me to stay quiet,” I whisper. “You told me to stay still.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “I—” Her throat locks. “I don’t remember?—”
I press my thumb harder. “You do.” Her pulse kicks. “You just don’t want to.”
She shakes her head, desperate, but I don’t loosen my grip. “I didn’t leave you.”
“You did.” The words slice through me like the rosary still wrapped around my wrist. “You told me to stay in the quiet place.”
Her breath crumbles. “I didn’t know?—”
“You told me if I was good, he’d pick someone else.” I tighten the chain around my fist.
Her voice shatters. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know?—”
“You told me you’d come back.”
Her throat spasms. “I did— I just— I don’t remember that part?—”
“You forgot me.” Her pulse thunders. “You promised you wouldn’t forget me.”
Her breath collapses. “I’m sorry— Damien— I’m sorry?—”
I crush my mouth to hers, savage, desperate, tasting the apology I don’t want. I don’t want her sorry. I want her memory. I want her to remember she left me. I want her to remember she told me to stay.
I tear away, my breath crashing. “You’ll stay this time.”
Her voice stutters. “I’ll stay— I won’t leave?—”
“You’ll stay in the quiet place with me.”
Her breath hitches. “Okay— I’ll stay— I’m here now?—”
“You won’t forget me this time.” Her hands claw into me. “I won’t— I promise?—”
“You won’t leave me in there again.”
Her breath cracks. “I won’t— I’m not going anywhere?—”
