Page 98 of Riding the Pine

By the time Athena—or Scott, it’s hard to tell until someone opens the door—starts to stir and we hear a toilet flush in the other room, we have food for her, we have a top three list for lawyers, a top three list for therapists, and we’ve made a firm camp in her living room.

No matter what she says when she walks through that door, we’re determined to let her know that she’s not alone, and we’ve got her back.

CHAPTER 41

Athena

Victim.

It’s a word that’s been mentioned no fewer than three hundred times over the last three days. I kind of hate it.

Even though I’ve been asleep for most of those three days, I still hear it, and I still hate it.

I’m exhausted. Every muscle in my body hurts, every hair on my head hurts, every time I take a breath, it hurts. I’ve been in for another x-ray on my foot, and Scott requested they check my chest because every time I do the bare minimum to stay alive, I’m in pain.

He was right, I’ve cracked two ribs that were missed when I was taken into the hospital the other night.

Well, actually, I didn’t crack anything. The men who attacked me did. And now we’re back to victim.

I don’t want to be known as a victim, I want to be known as a survivor, because I did. I survived. And so many people don’t.

I’m so glad Ares said survivor the other morning in my room, he set the tone for the rest of my brothers, because if he’d called me a victim I’d probably have given him a jaw to match my own—even though my hand is fucked up.

Scott hasn’t left my side since he found me behind the library. My brothers aren’t much better. They only leave when I force them to, and never all at once. They take turns to go home, repack their bags, and come back. They’re sleeping in my two spare rooms, they’re cooking and cleaning, and if I so much as sneeze they’re by my side. It’s sweet, and to be honest, such a relief because right now I’m eaten alive by anxiety and terror.

I’ll get tired of it soon enough, and I’m playing it cool, acting as though they’re irritating the fuck out of me, so they don’t know how shredded my insides are. I hate it. I hate feeling like this, but the comfort my brothers and Scott bring me right now is unquantifiable.

Mamá and Abuelita have both come over to visit and sit with me, Savannah, too. Papá hasn’t stopped by, he called yesterday, offering whatever legal assistance I might need, but is out of town so can’t come over.

I’m not sure whether I believe him or not. He’s probably afraid I’ll slap him with my cast if he comes within range.

He’s also probably not wrong.

Not to mention, the boys had a trio of legal counsel for me to look over the other day. I’m all set for resources.

My brothers have kicked into action, hiring the best legal team in the country. The lead counsel is someone Artemis has had dealings with in the past, and the fact that she’s female is just one more check in her pros column.

When she broke the news to me this morning that my rapists had been released on bail, Scott looked murderous, but everyone stayed chill. At least outwardly.

The rapists were barely in custody, but my lawyers made sure DNA samples were taken from both of them to compare with my test kit results. I shiver, trying to blink the memories out of my line of vision.

I’m not sure where the boys are going to vent their emotions, especially given that they’re currently living under my feet, but my brothers have been far too level-headed over the past three days. It’s like they’ve had personality transplants. Everyone’s afraid to look sideways at me, or move near me, or even blink in my direction.

I hate it.

I mean, I understand it, but I still hate it. No one has ever been cautious like this around me before, no one has ever been afraid I’m going to spontaneously burst into tears or have a flashback or panic attack.

To be fair, none of those things have ever happened before now, either.

We’re all figuring this out together, and I really feel for them, because I know it’s not easy.

“Are you ready?” Scott’s voice pierces my thoughts from the doorway to my room as I stand in front of my mirror staring at the bruising all over my face, the cast hanging limply at my side, and the boot covering my still swollen and sore foot.

Today’s the day I start therapy. Or at least the process of finding a good trauma therapist to help me figure this whole thing out. Again, the boys picked a hat trick of highly qualified therapists for me to try. After a quick look around online to double check their homework, I reluctantly agreed they had, in fact, picked the three best qualified people to help me out, and I couldn’t procrastinate reaching out to them for a timeslot.

To their credit, they didn’t strike one name off the list solely because he has a penis, though I’m not sure they’ll leave me alone in the room with him enough to actually get anywhere with a therapy session. I guess only time will tell. I’m booked in to have at least one session with each of them.

Is there such a thing as too much therapy?

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