Her arm snakes around my shoulders which is answer enough. As her words sink in further, a flush burns from deep inside accompanied by a hollow ringing in my ears.
How selfish am I? I only thought about myself. I think I’m going to throw up. My eyes get blurry, and my head swims with dizziness.
“Simona, dear, put your head between your knees. You’re going into shock.” With a gentle press she guides my head down. “Close your eyes and breathe slowly.”
I do exactly what she says. It takes a while to slow the giddiness enough for me to stand up. Getting home is a blur, and no matter how hard I try I honestly don’t remember anything about travelling. What I do remember is the look on Brody’s face when he finds me in my father’s hospital room a few days later.
“You didn’t want to message and let me know you were here?” he hisses softly.
My eyes stay focused on Lawson, and somehow,watching him wake up means more to me than the doctor’s confirmation he will be fine.
I don’t look at Brody because he’s not why I am here. “I have been busy. Sorry, Brody.” I say the words but there’s nothing behind them.
Without a word of a lie, his anger surges so suddenly it feels like a shove to my chest. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down—otherwise I might’ve stumbled. Now all it does is piss me off.
Standing up, I fuss with Lawson’s blankets before walking out of the main room and into the attached bathroom. Brody’s intent to follow is pretty obvious, and he does. Like I knew he would.
He shuts the door behind him, careful not to make a sound. And I didn’t come in here to give him the opportunity of lashing out at me with his words or touch, I came in here to give him a piece of my mind.
“What is wrong with you? My father is out there, after having, what looks like a mini-stroke, and you’re angry because I didn’t text? My parents knew I was here, yours did too, just because you didn’t is not my issue,” I whisper furiously. Before I can get another word out, Brody charges forward, but I expected it, and I leap out of his way. Not all the way, but I manage to avoid most of the impact of his hit.
Instant fire burns down my face where his punch landed. I stagger backwards, pinballing off the wall and falling on my ass.
His leg raises, like he’s going to kick me, I get ready for it, everything happening in slow motion, but we’re interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Simona, honey, are you in there?”
I throw my hands up, still not trusting Brody. “Hey, Mom. Brody’s here, we didn’t want to wake Dad.”
“Okay.”
A few seconds later a chair scrapes along the linoleum floor and it’s obvious she’s sitting out there. Probably not waiting for us but we also can’t hide in here forever.
I’m so relieved and thankful I nearly start laughing. Except Brody does the unthinkable and leans down to kiss me. Roughly. His mouth isn’t soft or gentle as he plunders, the unmistakable iron leaks from my lip.
He pulls away, his eyes doing all the talking—clearly, I’m not meant to say a word. I fight the urge to recoil from his touch, but like his kiss, his grip is rough. He drags his fingers through my hair near the spot where he hit me, then he’s against my ear.
“I forbid you,” he barks once, and that familiar sense of disconnection pounds in my head. And then he’s repeating the same words over and over until he’s confident in the damage he’s done.
Brody’s command forms a barrier around my freewill, and corrals it, making it impossible for me to share with the world what a vile piece of shit he is.
I feel like I’m watching one of those shocking movies or documentary shows about people who get abused by their partner. After his bark, it’s like I’m viewing it from a distance, aware of how wrong it is but unable to do a thing about it.
Except no matter the barrier he puts up, he can’t stop the hate festering inside me. It’s a goddamn miracle no one’s seen it in my eyes yet—some days I can’t even see it when I look in the mirror. Today is one of those days, I realise, as he yanks me toward my reflection. I move too slowly, and he slaps my hands aside, straightening my clothes like I’m nothing more than a doll. Then, without pause, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door, wrenching it open.
“Hey, Mrs. Vanderling,” he whispers softly, sincerely, giving my mom a kiss on the cheek. “How’s he doing?”
Brody doesn’t let me go, and when he sits down, he makes me sit on his lap, positioning me so Mom can’t catch the mark on my face. His fingers dig against my back, warning in everything he does.
The past few days have been a drawn-out game of cat and mouse. Brody toys with me at every chance he gets, but I’ve made it harder than perhaps I should, by refusing to leave the hospital.
Since I arrived, I have slept, eaten, and showered here because I’ve been so worried dad might suffer another setback. It didn’t feel right leaving Lawson alone, but I also felt safer with him. I also didn’t feel right to be any other version of me but the wallflower I am in this world. I don’t check in with the Scorned Girls, and I definitely don’t turn on Hendrix’s phone or message Rye. I go completely radio silent on that side of my life and hone all my attention to what’s happening with Lawson.
“Dad,” I whisper, trying to wake him up from his afternoon nap. It’s me or the nursing staff doing it, and they wouldn’t be as gentle as I am. I give him another shake and I get a sleepy huff from him as he turns his head away.
The medication they’ve been giving him is making him sedate and calm. The doctors have been lessening his dose but perhaps they need to relook at it.
“Dad.” I shake him a little harder.
