I do not want to ruin things for Zeke.
I don’t want to wake him.
I don’t want to become my father.
I’m overwhelmed.
Burdened.
Each breath comes out heavier as I gasp for breath. I feel the edge of a breakdown coming. I’m teetering on the ravine, and in moments, I’ll be free-falling into oblivion.
Her soft touch is on my back.
Harper.
I don’t pull away. A small part of me wants to push her away, tell her not to touch me, to leave me be. But I don’t move. My legs crumple to the floor, her arms around me, sheltering me.
Each breath of air feels impossible to take.
My lungs struggle and burn as I gasp and clutch at the air with my lips as though I’m drowning.
Her touch is warm. Comforting. Harper continues rubbing my back, holding me, cradling me as the pain encompasses all of me.
Tears don’t form.
I don’t cry.
But my body wracks with pain. With grief. With fear and undeniable suffering. I’ve seen too much at the hands of my father. I don’t want to become him, and yet I feel the changes surfacing.
I’m becoming the monster I never wanted to be.
The enemy is within me.
Harper is quiet and still, her arms around me like a fortress, giving me strength, hope and, more importantly, love.
At least it feels like it, but without the sentimental words.
She kisses the side of my head, holds me tight to her, and rubs at my back in a soothing motion that dulls the ache in my chest.
Eventually, I can breathe again.
Each breath is my own, and I feel foolish curled on the floor, my hands touching the ground that we walk on. I untangle from her embrace, silence between us.
I can’t meet her stare.
Humiliation.
Embarrassment.
All of it burns through me, but the heat of anger has dissolved.
For now.
Harper shifts her weight but says nothing as I stand. Her hands are on my arms as she rises with me, her touch the only thread bringing me back to a harsh reality.
My gaze stares at her hand on my arm, but I can’t bring her to move it, to push her away.
I don’t embrace her either.
