Page 97 of Deliria

She hiccups, her sobs turning erratic. “But this was mine, this was mine!” The awful wail in her voice sounds like it comes fromher very soul. I can feel her pain, her heartbreak, as if it were my own.

It’s clear what I said hasn’t helped, but I feel fucking helpless. I feel useless. Powerless.

Fuck. What do I do?

There’s ultimately nothing I can do. Nothing I can say, nothing that will fix this. I can’t get some magic pill and take away all this horrific trauma. I can’t do a damned fucking thing but sit with her, be with her, hold her hand and hope that my presence alone is enough. Please God, let it be enough.

She clings to me, her nails digging into my skin as she cries, and I welcome that pain. I fucking relish it. If that’s what is needed, if that’s what helps then she can beat me, flog me, fucking kill me. I would die willingly. I would pass her the knife and smile as she cut out my goddamn heart.

I wish I could take it all away, absorb it into myself so she wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. But all I can do is hold her, be her anchor in this storm. I cradle her, letting her pour out all her anguish, all her fear, every awful emotion.

But I’m thinking about my brother. About my father. About my parents. They did this. They allowed this. They created this entire situation because they couldn’t face the thought of the so-called great fucking Forster name disappearing into ruin. They couldn’t face the idea that someone, the Heath’s, could have bettered them. It’s their toxicity, their evil, their desperate need for revenge that has unleashed this destruction on the woman I can’t live without.

I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know at what point she weaved her way into my soul, but that’s what she’s done. She’s ensnared herself there, buried herself there, made a god damn home in the deepest darkest pits of me, and there’s no way of exorcising her.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

“Am I?” She says, blinking back at me, her words a scornful jest. “Am I safe?”

“I won’t let them near you again. I won’t let any more of this happen…”

The hardness sets in her eyes. The old Scarlett seems to rear her head and I swear I can see that defiant flash of a monster stirring. “It’s not over, Rafe. It’s not fucking over until they’re dead.”

Is she serious? She wants to continue this madness? I open my mouth to argue, and then I realise that I have no right to tell her what to do. This was her choice. It always was. She might not have known the finer details of what she was getting into, she might not have realised the level of depravity my family would stoop to, but she knew it was dangerous, she knew her life was on the line.

It was her decision to make then. Just as it is now.

I grit my teeth, too emotionally drained for a conversation and I reach for the soap, lathering it up in my hands before gently washing her.

She freezes for a second before she relaxes enough to tell me she’s comfortable with it.

I start with her shoulders, working my way down her arms, her back, her stomach. I’m careful, so careful, as I clean away the dirt and the blood. She flinches as I wash between her legs, and I shush her softly, pressing a kiss to her temple feeling like it’s the only way I can show her, can prove to her that I understand on some level what she’s going through.

“I’m sorry, Little Bird,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

When she’s finally clean, I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a thick, soft towel.

In slow sweeps, I dry her off, taking note of every mark, every bruise, every awful bit of evidence of what she’s endured over the last few days, and those before that.

She stands mute, silent, like a statue, and I think then that I want the anger, the fury. I want her rage and her destruction because that proves that she’s still her, still Scarlett.

I help her into one of my t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants. She’s swimming in them, but they’ll do for now. In another universe, I’d tease her for how tiny she is compared to me. But right now, that size difference doesn’t feel adorable, it feels like another negative.

She looks so fragile, standing there. Like a work of art that’s very foundations have been compromised. Any second those legs of hers are going to give out, and she won’t be able to hold herself up anymore.

I scoop her up, ignoring the gasp of shock and carry her to my bed, tucking her in before sitting down beside her. The rest will do her good. Sleep will do her good.

I stroke her hair, soothe her until her eyelids flutter closed and her breathing finally evens out.

Only once she’s asleep do I slip out of the room, grabbing my phone from my pocket. I need to get her help, proper help.

I dialthe doctor’s number, pacing the hallway as it rings. But the answer I get is not what I want to hear.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Forster,” the receptionist says, her voice polite but firm. “The weather is too bad. We can’t get clearance for the helicopter.”

“She’s having a goddamned miscarriage.” I bellow down the phone. Do they really think I give a fuck if it’s raining or not?

She mutters about something I don’t catch, and then the doctor’s voice comes over the line.

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