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“You knew how it was,” Beatrice said. “Why didn’t you save me before now?”
And it wasn’t his father coldly watching his mother slit her wrists in his memory. It was him standing by and watching Beatrice.
He couldn’t fight his inner demons, so he took it out on what furniture there was left. He punched and slammed until his hands were bloody. As he slid down the farthest wall, lying among the rubble he’d created, his mother’s voice faded.
His head fell to his knees as the blankness he’d been searching for seeped in.
The click of the door wasn’t enough for him to lift it. Neither was the shove against broken wood that followed. Let Vespa deal with it herself.
Only it wasn’t Vespa’s voice that muttered as some of the debris was lifted away so the door could shut again.
Shame wormed its way inside, blasting the calm away.
“I know I raised you better than this,” Giulia said as she lowered herself among the debris beside him.
He hated that her voice reeked of disappointment. “You did.” The words made his throat ache, and he wondered how much he’d shouted to make it that way. “You were always the one taking care of me.”
Giulia snorted. “You’re old enough to take care of yourself now. Start acting like it, Montrell.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tongue thick in his mouth. He thought he’d held off the tears. Now that the anger was gone, the urge to bawl like a baby was slipping back in.
Giulia leaned against his thick arm, one of her own snaking around to his back. “You’re a good boy. Don’t forget that.”
He shook his head against his knees. “I never helped her.”
“This isn’t about that wife of yours, is it? You’ve let your mother back in your head. Don’t get the two confused.” Giulia’s hand began stroking his back, reminding him of how he had touched Beatrice the night before. Of course it did. Giulia had been the only one to comfort him as a child. He’d mimicked her type of care because it had been the only care he had known.
“How can I not compare them?” He opened his eyes to stare at his slacks. “She has scars,” he whispered. “On her wrists.”
“I’ve seen them,” Giulia said, her voice emotionless.
Montrell lifted his head with a frown. “How?”
Giulia snorted, letting her arm drop away. “She slept naked that first night. You’d know that if you went to her then. It’s not right, you two not sleeping together.”
“Her husband raped her.”
“You’re her husband now.”
He wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. “I thought it was Beatrice who needed time, but I’m the one who’s afraid.”
“Everyone feels fear. Only cowards let it hold them back.” Giulia lightly whacked the back of his head. “I didn’t raise a coward, did I?”
“No, Miss Giulia,” he said, feeling like the scolded little boy he used to be.
“I’ve been trying to stay out of things. It seemed like you two were making good progress. Did something change?”
“I just saw the scars today,” he murmured. It had been a brief sighting, but the image of her arm was seared in his mind.
“Don’t you dare judge her.” Giulia turned to glare at him. “Did you even ask her for the story?”
“Not yet,” Montrell admitted. “I kind of lost it and…” He waved his hand around the room. “It made me realize how badly my wallowing in self-pity hurt her. First I failed my mother. Then—”
“You didn’t fail your mother. She failed you.” Giulia’s face hardened as it often did when they talked about his mother. “If she hadn’t used you as a punching bag, you’d have wanted to do more.”
“She was hurting,” Montrell said. It was difficult to remember how life had been.
“And she wanted everyone else to hurt,” Giulia said. “Especially the innocent child who was too young to understand why his mother was beating him.”
