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"You are so strong, Niamh," I murmur, my fingers tracing patterns through her hair.
"That is what Diarmuid told me," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"Hm?" I lean in closer, unsure if I heard her right.
"That’s the only voice I remember," she continues, her eyes staring into the distance. "Diarmuid’s. Telling me how strong I am."
A pang of sadness hits me. "He wouldn’t wait for help. He went in immediately after you."
"I am grateful," Niamh says, a faint smile touching her lips.
I squeeze her hand, feeling the fragility in her grip. "Once you’re better, we’ll arrange for you to see Ella. I’ll deal with your parents."
Niamh laughs softly, a sound so delicate it almost breaks my heart. "That won’t be necessary anymore."
Her words hang in the air, confusing me. What does she mean? But I can’t bring myself to ask. Not now, not when she’s like this.
Instead, I hold her hand tighter, offering silent comfort. The mysteries and questions can wait. Right now, all that matters is that Niamh is here with me. Alive and strong.
I hear the door open and instantly hope surges in my heart. Diarmuid steps in, wearing a heavy jacket, and he looks utterly exhausted.
He glances at Niamh, who has finally fallen asleep. "How is she?" he asks, his voice rough with fatigue.
I hold a finger to my lips, gently untangling myself from Niamh. Together, we tiptoe out of the room and head to the master bedroom. I close the door behind us, giving us a moment of privacy.
"How are you?" I ask softly.
Diarmuid's eyes flicker with concern. "How is Niamh?" he counters, ignoring my question.
"She is recovering. She is alive. Thanks to you," I reply, gratefulness filling my voice.
As I watch him, I notice Diarmuid moving stiffly, his movements labored. Worry knots in my stomach. "Let me help you with that," I say, reaching forward to help him take off his jacket. He’s too stiff to do it on his own.
The sight that greets me is horrifying. His flesh looks ruined; not a single piece of skin has its regular color. It’s all inflamed, and blood is caked in patches.
"Oh, Diarmuid," I breathe, my heart aching. "Victor?"
Diarmuid nods, a grim confirmation.
A surge of anger and sorrow threatens to knock me over, but I hold firm. "We need to get you cleaned up. Sit down," I instruct, trying to keep my voice steady. I can’t afford to lose it now.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, and instead of staring at him in horror, I leave,enter the bathroom, and grab a washcloth, running it under the tap until it’s soaked with warm water. My hands are steady, but my heart feels like it’s breaking. From under the sink, I retrieve the first aid kit and some fresh towels, bracing myself for what I have to do next.
Diarmuid is still sitting on the bed when I return, the soft glow of the chandelier casting shadows across his back. The sight stops me in my tracks, a lump forming in my throat. His back is a mess of cuts and bruises, and the stark reality of his suffering hits me like a physical blow. Everything about this is so wrong. Did he struggle? Did he fight back? Or did he have to just accept the whipping, like he must have as a child?
Tears run down my cheeks, but I force myself to keep the emotion out of my voice. He’s been so strong through all of this, and I need to be strong for him now. “Diarmuid,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice steady, “I’m going to clean you up, okay?”
He nods without looking at me, his shoulders tense. I walk over and sit beside him on the bed, carefully dabbing the washcloth against his wounds. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken pain and questions. My hands tremble slightly, but I keep going, gently wiping away the blood and dirt.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, his voice rough with fatigue and pain.
“I want to,” I reply, my voice firmer than I feel. “You’ve done so much for us. Let me take care of you now.”
He doesn’t argue, and I continue my task, each touch a silent promise that I’m here for him. The tears keep falling, but I brush them away quickly, not wanting him to see. He needs strength right now, and I’m determined to give it to him.
As I finish cleaning his wounds and start applying bandages, I steal a glance at his face. The pain etched there is almost too much to bear, but I force myself to keep going. He’s always been the strong one, but tonight, I need to be strong for him. I can’t help but think of the sacrifices he’s made, the pain he’s endured for us. The gratitude and love I feel for him are overwhelming.
"We’ll make it through this," I whisper, more to myself than to him, determined to heal these wounds, both seen and unseen.
