Page 51 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“Me,” I repeat. “Idid this to me.”
His eyelids lower, his brow dips and he shakes his head as if he misheard. When he reopens his eyes, it’s with an emotion I can’t read. “Youdid this?”
My lips tremble. “Yes.”
He sits back further still, wipes a hand over his face. “Why?”
“I—” My gaze darts about the room as I try to think. “I don’t know why I do this.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t believe that.
I panic. “It takes away the pain.”
His lip curls as he rolls his gaze over my thighs again. His head shakes slowly and it reeks of disappointment. Then he spears me with sharp black irises. “What did you use? A razor blade?”
I recoil. It feels as though someone has just traipsed across my softest vulnerability with muddy, studded boots. I’ve never felt more naked, more helpless and moreashamed in all my life.
He gently touches the most recent cut with the tip of his finger and it sends an unexpected spark of longing deep into my skin. He knows this isn’t an old habit—that incision was made only yesterday. He shakes his head again, more sadly this time, and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to read that look on his face any longer. Regret, disappointment, bitterness.
I sit up, curl my knees into my chest and bury my head into them. “Please leave me alone,” I mumble.
I hope with every cell of my heart he honors my request. He’s been sensitive up to now. Please let him care enough to let me process this alone.
“Please,” I beg, unable to look him in the eye.
An eternity passes, then eventually the bed rises as his weight disappears, and through the loud ringing in my ears, I hear the door close.
And then the tears fall.
Andreas
I step off the bed and stare at my wife, curled up like a fetus, her orgasm still tingling the tips of my fingers.
A herd of different emotions collect and collide in my chest. I want to protect her, comfort her, heal her. But there’s a part of me wants to scream at her,punishher, for doing something so despicable to her beautiful skin.
But through all these emotions, I recognize one all too well. Guilt.
She didn’t do this to her,Idid.
Those scars are fresh. Within-the-last-month fresh.
I back out of the room, harsh home truths coming at me like cannonballs. I sink onto a sofa and put my head in my hands. I vastly underestimated how much these developments would impact her.I haven’t stopped to really think about how she’s been feeling these last few weeks.
She loved her job and I’ve taken that away from her.
She valued her freedom and I’ve removed it like a defective organ.
She lives for her sisters and I’m about to take her miles away from them.
I hoped she would learn to love me, but she doesn’t even know how to love herself.
I shake my head trying to regain some perspective. The deal has been done, our fates have been sealed and we can’t turn back now. I’m returning to Boston and I’m going to continue my campaign to remove the gangs. And I’m taking my wife with me.
But I’m going to help her. I owe her that.
I owe her everything.
It takes me the best part of two hours to make all the arrangements, mainly because it’s two a.m. and most of the people I need help from don’t tend to kill for a living and are fast asleep without a burner lying next to their heads.
