Page 163 of The Colour of Revenge
That’s when I see it—the fear. Not of me.
Of him.
“Nate,” I whisper, tugging at his arm. “You should wait outside.”
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “What? Why?”
I nod toward the women, and realisation dawns. His expression softens, and he leans down to kiss me gently before walking out.
I take an empty seat, murmuring an apology for the disruption. The group leader—a kind-eyed woman in her forties—guides the conversation, but something is missing. She hasn’t lived this.
The stories they share hit me like a tidal wave, each one resonating with the darkest parts of my soul. Stirring something raw inside me. For the first time, I realise I’m not alone in my pain.
My throat tightens when the leader turns to me, asking if I want to share.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
“It’s okay,” she says gently. “You don’t have to—”
“No.” My voice is sharp, louder than I intended. I swallow hard and try again. “I… I want to.”
And then the words pour out.
I don’t hold back. I speak the truths I’ve only ever uttered to Doctor Morgan. Not even Nate knows the extent of what I endured. The room is silent, but their eyes tell me they understand. They know.
By the time I finish, my chest feels lighter. The memories still exist, but they don’t own me anymore.
I can finally breathe again.
As the session ends, a timid woman approaches me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For sharing. I was too scared to speak today, but… I think I’ll try next time.”
Her words strike a chord deep within me. Nate was right. Icanhelp. And in helping others, maybe I can find myself again.
I give her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the hallway, where Nate waits, leaning against the wall.
“How was it?” he asks, his dark eyes searching mine.
I step into his arms, letting their warmth and strength ground me.
“I want to do it,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “Do what?”
I look up at him, steady this time.
“Help people.”
45
A Tiny Flicker Of The Girl I Used To Be
Hypothetical Question: What if every time you killed someone, their ghost came back to haunt you with a twisted form of vengeance? Would you keep killing, or stop just to avoid the hell they’d put you through?
Carina
