Page 62 of Brutal for It
Instead, she leans into me, her head finding its place on my shoulder.
“You smell like rain,” she murmurs.
“Washin’ off the day,” I say quietly.
She tilts her face up to mine. “You did what you had to, didn’t you?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“Then don’t carry it,” she whispers. “You already carried enough for both of us.”
Her words undo me.
I kiss her forehead, breathing her in — soap, warmth, home. “They’re safe now,” I share with her. “All of them. The people who hurt you — they’re gone. They won’t hurt anyone else. Every piece of that world is gone.”
She closes her eyes, and I feel her exhale like she’s finally letting go of something she’s held too long.
We sit there until the rain fades, the quiet thick with peace and exhaustion.
When she finally drifts back to sleep against me, I whisper to the empty room, “No one touches her again. No one. Not while I’m breathing.”
Outside, thunder rolls far off in the distance, but inside, everything is still.
The next morning, sunlight breaks through the blinds. The storm’s washed the world clean.
Jami wakes slow, stretching, her fingers finding mine automatically. “You stayed up?”
“Didn’t want to miss a minute.”
She smiles, small and sleepy. “You look tired.”
“Earned it.”
She sits up, brushing her hair from her face. “You really think it’s over?”
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “The women are safe. The men who tried to profit off pain, they’re no ones memory.”
She studies me, then nods. “Then maybe we can start living instead of surviving.”
“Exactly what I was thinkin’.”
Eighteen
Jami
It’s strange how quiet life feels when the chaos stops.
Two months since I got home. Two months learning how to live again. It’s the little things that undo me — grocery lists, clean laundry, a toothbrush in the holder next to Tommy’s.
I keep a small notebook now, one I started in group therapy. Every day I write something real. Some days it’s just I made it through. Other days I surprise myself with gratitude.
Day forty-two: I laughed today without guilt.
Day forty-six: I kissed him and didn’t feel guilt.
Day fifty-three: I want to be alive tomorrow.
It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s everything.
