Page 53 of Saving Little Clark

Even with a blade to my throat and seconds left to my name, I knew I wouldn't trade a single one of them for the world.

My story might have been cut unbearably short. But in its pages, woven between grief and fear and unspeakable ugliness, there had still been so much beauty. So much love. An entireuniverse of precious gifts I'd carry with me, even into that last good night.

And as I closed my eyes and the darkness finally crashed in, as Sterling's rage-twisted face faded into nothingness and I braced myself for the blinding pain narrowed down to a single, distant point, I exhaled what I knew would be one final, shaky breath. Formed the shape of four precious words with the last of my strength, a benediction and a promise and the truest thing I'd ever known.

"I love you, Daddy."

I waited for the end, the descent into nothingness. Waited for Sterling's blade to pierce my skin, for my life to bleed out onto the polished hardwood.

But it never came. Instead, I felt Sterling's grip on my throat loosen. Heard the clatter of metal on wood as the knife fell from his fingers.

Hardly daring to breathe, I cracked my eyes open. And froze, stunned by the sight that greeted me.

Sterling was crying. Not the crocodile tears I'd seen him employ so often in the past, but real, honest-to-god sobs that shook his broad frame and left his face blotchy and wrecked. He stared down at his empty hands as if he didn't recognize them, horror and self-loathing etched into every line of his expression.

"I can't," he choked out, the words mangled and raw. "Fuck, I thought I could, but..."

He met my gaze then. Beneath the rage and the hatred and the ugliness, there was something else. Something small and broken and terribly, terribly wounded.

"I loved you," he whispered, and it sounded like a confession. A plea for absolution he knew he didn't deserve. "God help me, Clark, but I did. You were everything to me."

Some small, long-buried part of me recognized the truth in his words. He had loved me. Not in any healthy or sustainable way, but with a desperation born of brokenness. Of wounds so deep and festered they'd poisoned everything they touched.

"My father," Sterling continued, gaze distant and haunted. "He was a fucking nightmare. A mean drunk with a vicious streak a mile wide. And my mom just took it. Took every punch and insult and degradation like it was her due. Like she deserved it for daring to exist."

A shudder rippled through him, and I felt an unwilling pang of sympathy. Because I knew that story. Hurt peoplehurtpeople. But understanding wasn't absolution. And even as my heart ached for the wounded child he'd been, I knew it didn't excuse the monster he'd become.

"I'm sorry you went through that," I said, and was surprised to find I meant it. "But what you've done to me... that's not love. That's abuse, plain and simple."

Sterling flinched like I'd struck him, fresh tears spilling over. "I don't know how to be anything else. I thought if I could just make you stay. If I could keep you with me, control you, fucking consume you, maybe I'd finally feel whole. Maybe I'd finally be enough."

Then, so suddenly it made me jump, he buried his face in his hands and screamed. Screamed like an animal caught in a trap, guttural and agonized, muffled against his palms.

He looked at me then, and there was something like pleading in his gaze. Something desperately hungry, yearning for a benediction I wasn't sure I had the strength to give.

"Get help," I said. Calm. Implacable. "Real, professional help, not just running from your demons. Face them head on and don't stop until you've made something better of yourself. Until you can look in the mirror and not hate what you see."

Drawing in a deep breath, he rushed away and out of sight, into the darkness.

Relieved, I locked the front door, tears already blurring my vision. I staggered up the stairs into the playroom and fell on my knees, little fingers scrabbling for something soft. Something safe.

And then, blissful give. Faux fur beneath my cheek, stitched-on smile pressed to tear-stained skin. Bananas, my stalwart simian companion, offering comfort as only the very best of stuffies could.

I didn't know how long I lay there. Curled into a shaking ball, sobs wracking my frame. Long enough for the light to change, shadows lengthening across the floor. Long enough for my limbs to go heavy, sorrow-drunk, leaden with the effort of holding myself together.

But just as consciousness began to fray around the edges, I heard it. A gasp, sharp and pained. The thud of dropped keys, a muttered curse.

"Clark? Baby boy, where are you?"

Daddy.

A whimper slipped past my lips, high and thready with need. I tried to call back, to croak out some pitiful facsimile of his name. But my voice was gone, stolen by tears and terror alike.

But it didn't matter. Because in the next instant, he was there. Falling to his knees beside me, big hands reaching togather me up, to cradle me against the steadfast warmth of his chest.

"I've got you," he crooned, rocking me gently as I shook apart in his arms. "Shh, baby bug, I'm here. Daddy's right here, I've got you."

A fresh wave of tears swamped me, hoarse sobs muffled in the crook of his throat. I clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world, blunt nails scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I could reach.

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