I shake my head, sliding away from him. I don’t trust myself now—I feel flayed open in more ways than one. I’m terrified more than just blood will spill from me tonight.
Blood, I can survive. The truth?It’s more than I can endure.
He reaches out again but doesn’t touch me. I watch him watch me, his face twisting into something unreadable—not pity, but something similar.Grief?
“Don’t make me relive it,” I state, crossing my arms across my chest to ward off the sudden chill. My hand stings, and I focus all my energy into feeling the burn.
“Panic attacks. My little brother, Jos…my little brother used to get them after he was in a bad car accident. I knew he was having an attack when he’d touch his lips. He’d get this far off look on his face and touch his lips like this.” He traces the tips ofhis fingers over the ridges of his mouth. I remain silent, even as the damn inside me begins to crack, filling my head with a roar.
“He’d beg me to help him feel. I’d pinch his arm or tickle his feet, anything to make the numbness fade. After a while, he stopped asking me to do that for him.” A forlorn look crosses the hard lines of his face, sweeping away his normally playful demeanor and replacing it with something sad and lonely. “I sometimes wonder if he still had the attacks, and he just got better at hiding them. I stopped asking him if he was okay, and he stopped asking me for help.”
“I not sure they ever go away.” I don’t know where the admission comes from, but the second it leaves my lips, I feel their weight lift from my chest. “I had my first one when I was fifteen. I got better at hiding them because, after a while, everyone just thought I was being dramatic.”
He tentatively reaches for me again, waiting. Instead of fighting him like I know I should, I slip my fingers into his. I can’t tell if it’s the look of understanding on his face or the fact that he’s enough of a stranger in my life that he might be the one person who won’t judge me for my past, but I ache to open up and tell him everything.
“Closer.” He pats the edge of the tub next to him, and I slowly scoot toward him. As I do, I try to pull my hand from his, but he only interlaces our fingers. I stare at the pattern our two bodies make. My hand’s thin and dainty, with perfectly sharp black nails and soft skin. His hand’s large and rough, with jagged nails covered in dirt and skin worn by work and blistered by the sun.
I trace my opposite pointer finger over them—rough, soft, big, small,good, bad.
“I got the tattoo when I was eighteen.”
His hand tightens around mine, and I lift my gaze to his. I expect pity.What I find is so much more.
“Medusa.”
I purse my lips, staring at the fire burning anew in his gaze.Why’s he so angry about a tattoo?
“Why Medusa, V?”
I shrug, nonchalant as I say, “it’s just a symbol for strength and empowerment. For surviving hurtful things.”
He doesn’t say anything.Does he not believe me?I wouldn’t be surprised—no one ever does. Breathing deeply, I focus back on our interlocked fingers, admiring the simple gesture. It’s simple in every culture—the first step in every pre-teen relationship. And yet, this is the first time I’ve ever done it.
No one’s ever held my hand. Not as a form of comfort or affection.Never.
He’s not declaring his love and devotion to me. He’s not even saying he likes me. He’s simply here, listening to me, holding my hand.
“It was my own fault. I never said no.” I breathe the words, barely more than a whisper, and his fingers constrict around mine.
I take in his stricken expression, like I just told him his entire family was killed by the boogie man or something, and it’s more than I can bear. I try to pull away from him. I should make him let me go—I should demand he leave me alone.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way he’s clinging to me—as if he’s drawing as much strength from me as I might from him.
“Don’t pity me.” My voice wobbles. “I was weak. I let them hurt me. I never said no. It’s my own fault.”
“Valentina, I?—”
I shake my head. “Please don’t pity me. I can’t—I’ve never. It’s not worth repeating. No one wants to know, and I don’t blame them.”
“You’re wrong.” His voice sounds like he’s gargled rocks.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” And it’s the truth. Every memory, each as crystal clear as if I was reliving them, is piled onto the next—seemingly with no beginning or end to the torture. I exist in a never ending loop of the evil in my head, running through my veins, atop my skin. Each memory’s there,here, everywhere.They’re the only things that fill my memory, like a permanent black fog, taking up space for any others.
“Anywhere.” His fingers tighten in an encouraging gesture.
I want to tell him, something. Anything.Everything.
Licking my lips, I close my eyes and squeeze his hand to keep from falling so far into the memories, I can never crawl back out again.
