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“I’m not leaving,” she repeated.

“You moved.”

“I got scared.”

“You’re always scared.”

“Because you hurt me.” Her voice went small.

The words hit harder than they should have. For a second, the room went quiet. No mother. No father. No girls in the walls. Just Starla and the rotten truth that I kept hurting her, even when I told myself I wouldn’t.

I had to. That was how things stayed. That was how love survived. You held it down. You kept it close. You made sure it knew the cost of leaving.

“I don’t know when it happens,” I admitted. “Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I hear him, and then I hear her, and then I look down and something’s broken. I try to stop it,” I said, voice lowering. “I do. I try to keep my hands still. I try to stay in the room. But then you look like you’re leaving, and everything goes black around the edges.”

Starla’s lips parted. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to lock her in the basement and swallow the key. I wanted to cut my own hands off before they touched her again.

All three wants lived inside me at once, clawing over each other.

“That doesn’t make it love,” she whispered.

My chest caved in. For one second, I saw myself through her eyes.

A man with blood on his knuckles, asking the girl he kept to understand why his cage had a heartbeat.

My knees almost gave. I backed away because if I stayed close, I would either touch her or ruin her. Maybe both. Probably both.

“You’re wrong,” I said, but it sounded weak now. “It is love.”

She shook her head, barely.

I felt it rise behind my eyes, thick and warm, filling my skull.

Don’t slip. Don’t fucking slip.

I dug my nails into my palm until pain sparked bright enough to hold onto.

I breathed. Once. Twice.

The wall stopped breathing. My mother faded into the corner. The blood on my hand stayed real.

Starla stayed real.

I reached for her slowly this time, giving her enough warning to flinch. She did. It hurt worse than it should have.

Still, I brushed my thumb over her cheek.

“I don’t want to be him,” I whispered.

Her eyes searched mine. For a terrible second, I thought she might believe me. Then I remembered the basement. The chains. Her bruises. The way she looked when she woke up screaming.

I was already him. I was just weeping while I did it.

Chapter 18

Momma, Don’t Leave

Malakar