Page 4 of Injustice and Absolution

I watch as her fear begins to morph into anger at my curiosity, and I wonder if I’m the first person to question her like this. The softball excuse is a good one, and had it been the first lie she attempted to feed me, I might have believed her. But it still wouldn’t explain the finger-like bruises.

“Why didn’t you say that the first time, then?” I test her.

“I was embarrassed,” she falsely admits, this time with a little more confidence in her words now that she thinks I may believe her.

Narrowing my eyes, I debate whether to keep peppering her with questions until she has no choice but to divulge the truth. But I decide to try another tactic instead.

“Come with me,” I command then stomp back down the few steps to the foyer.

She needs ice and maybe some Ibuprofen for the swelling. And I need to get to the bottom of what happened because when I find out who gave her that shiner, they’re going to wish they hadn’t. Surprisingly, she follows me before I’m forced to command her again.

Ihategiving an order twice.

“Have a seat at the table,” I tell her when we make it to the kitchen.

I search the cabinets for medicine before pouring her a glass of water. After that, I fish around in our freezer for an ice pack with no luck. Opening the fridge, my eyes lock on the rib eye I was planning to cook for dinner tonight. With a deep sigh, I grab it from the fridge then sit two chairs away from her at the table.

She takes the medicine when I give it to her and swallows it down with a few gulps of water. By the time she’s done, I’ve ripped the plastic wrap off the steak. I meet a confused stare when I hold it out to her.

“For your eye,” I explain, but she still doesn’t move to take it from me. “Like an ice pack. Here, tilt your head to the side a little.”

When she does, I place the cold cut of meat over the swollen area around her eye and temple. She hisses from the pain or the cold, or both, as I nod for her to hold the steak in place. I turn my chair to face hers then lean forward with my elbows on my knees.

“Delilah, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, and I need you to do the same, okay?”

She’s silent a moment before nodding her head.

“I only know a little bit about softball … baseball. I was never on a team when I was younger, but my friends and I would play for fun sometimes. However, I happen to know quite a bit about fighting and throwing punches. Are you with me?”

Her brows furrow. No doubt she’s curious to know what the hell my point is.

“I’ve seen bruises left behind by baseballs. They can appear similar to bruises that a fist would make, I suppose. Though sometimes, you’d also see the unmistakable pattern of the stitching on the skin, depending on which part of the ball hit you.”

When her gaze shifts in and out of focus and she places the steak down on the table, I run my hand down my face and silently curse Maggie’s mother—for the thousandth time—for leaving in the dead of night two years ago.

We didn’t get along, but we had an agreement. And part of that agreement was she would handle shit like this. I’m not built for it. I wasn’t born with the emotional capacity to deal with others, let alone children. Specifically one who has clearly been abused.

“What I’m saying is, no ball or fist would leave two finger-shaped bruises behind like the ones you’ve got there.” She winces and turns away when I lift my hand to her. An act that solidifies my suspicion of abuse.

“So I’m only going to ask you one more time before I get angry. Who hurt you?”

The threat of anger was made to scare her and no, I don’t feel bad about it. Because it’s what finally gets her talking. But what she tells me turns that threat into a fact. Something I fight desperately to keep at bay as she recalls horrific details of the life she’s been forced to endure at her father’s hand for the last eight years.

By the time she’s finished, I know she can easily see the intent to act written across my face.

“Please don’t tell him—don’t tell anyone I told you,” she sobs, begging for my silence. Falling to her knees before me, she grips my shirt tightly in her fists, pleading withme to keep her secret. “He’ll kill me!”

I don’t doubt he’ll be the one to end her life. If not now, because she confided in me, then eventually, sometime down the line.

Because that’s where abuse leads.

It often starts out small.

A touch here.

A slap there.

Maybe an empty apology in the beginning. An excuse for why it happened. A false promise to change. It’s a viciouscycle that has nothing to do with the victim and everything to do with the degenerate committing the abuse.

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