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A lifetime of horrors. Of memories. Of imprinting.
Every moment my father made me hit a woman. Every drop of blood he’d forced me to drink. Every tear, every scream, every cry.
My ribs bellowed.
My head pounded.
A soft hand landed between my drenched shoulder blades.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”
The stinging behind my eyes became daggers.
My ribs broke one by one as pressure swelled bigger, blacker—
Slamming the lid down on my shame, I fumbled with the flush, then landed in a painful, naked heap on top of the toilet.
Icy shivers merged with my shakes.
I was hot and cold, grieving and guilt-ridden.
Golden eyes looked up at me where she rested between my legs. Her fragile hands landed on my knees.
My kneecaps jittered and jumped.
I couldn’t stay still.
Too much.
Too hard.
Too painful.
My legs danced up and down on their own accord as every emotion I couldn’t shed bled out the only way it could.
She shuffled closer, stroked her hands higher until they landed on my quaking thighs.
She.
Her.
Ily.
I.L.Y.
I love you.
I do.
God, I do.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
So, so fucking sorry.
Grabbing her cheeks, I pressed my forehead to hers.
