Page 24 of Broken By Silence
Lottie
Morning sunlight spills through the window, warm and golden, but it does nothing to soothe the throb in my shoulders and the dull ache settling into every corner of my body.
I peel myself out of bed before Archer or Oscar wakes up. They’re still twisted in the sheets, Oscar’s hand resting loosely where my waist had been, Archer’s leg thrown possessively over the mattress in my direction. If either of them noticed I’d slipped in last night—sweaty, sore, and half-limping—they didn’t show it.
I move slowly, every muscle complains as I reach for the sweatshirt hanging over the back of the chair. It takes longer than it should to get it on. The fabric brushes over a bruise blooming just below my ribcage, and I wince.
I sneak into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip. The mirror confirms what I already knew. Shadowy smudges across my upper arms. A reddish mark on my collarbone. A faint but definite imprint around my wrist from one of Claire’s holds. I trace the edges of the bruise with my finger, not with fear, but pride. Once, I wouldhave cowered, tracing every bruise like it was a map of my wrongdoings, but now… I earned this.
Not by surviving. Not by running. But by fighting.
Still, I can already hear the way Archer’s voice would tighten if he saw it. Demanding to know what happened. The way Oscar’s eyes would flash with panic, the guilt that would follow when he thought he should’ve protected me from somethingagain… But this isn’t something I need protection from.
This is something I chose for myself. So I could feel safer. Stronger.
So, I do what I have to do.
I shower, then redress, tugging the neckline of the sweatshirt higher, tucking the sleeves past my wrists. Hair tied up to keep it from brushing the sore spot behind my ear, and a touch of concealer just in case. My movements are deliberate but practiced. You don’t survive drug-addict parents and people like Lorenzo without learning how to cover a bruise.
This time it feels different. Not shameful though it was never my shame to carry, and not a secret kept in fear of what would happen if people found out—it’s a secret I’m keeping for me… just for now.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the house is still quiet. I start the coffee, needing something to do with my hands, and when I’m done, Claire is already there. She doesn’t say a word, only glances up from her place at the counter, where she’s slicing an apple with unsettling precision. Her eyes scan me briefly. She sees the way I’m holding myself a little stiff, the slight drag of my left leg.
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she slides the apple slices into a bowl and pushes them toward me. “Eat,” she says.
I sit, curling my hands around the coffee mug, steam curling into the air. “I’m sore,” I admit
Claire nods once, a satisfied glint in her eyes. “Good. If you weren’t, I’d be harder on you the next time.”
Footsteps echo down the hall, and before I can brace myself, Oscar is rounding the corner in nothing but joggers, eyes half-liddedand still sleep-heavy. Archer’s not far behind, a bit more alert, wearing one of those faded old band tees he never lets anyone borrow.
Oscar spots me first, his smile sleepy and sweet.“Morning, baby.”He signs, then steals my coffee and takes a sip.
“Hey!”I rapidly sign and attempt to grab my mug back.
Oscar hands it back, then turns to make his own. Archer eyes me more closely. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie, sipping my coffee too fast. The heat burns my tongue, but I don’t flinch.
Oscar pads back over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, arms draping loosely around my shoulders. I don’t lean into him like I usually do. It’s too sore, but he notices. His brows pull together.“You okay?”
“Just a little stiff,”I move my hands carefully, mindful not to move them too much so my sleeve doesn’t pull down.“Maybe slept a bit weird.”
Archer’s eyes narrow slightly. Always the more perceptive one. The one who can read my silence like a language of its own. “You sure?”
I smile through it and nod. “I’m sure.”
Claire clears her throat from the counter, drawing their attention away from me. She’s all innocence now, slicing another apple like she hadn’t practically thrown me to the mat over and over last night like a drill sergeant with something to prove.
“Have you eaten anything other than those apple slices?”Oscar asks me. When I shake my head, he moves toward the fridge, pulling out eggs and mushrooms, distracted by the idea of feeding me. Archer lingers, eyeing me like I might crumble. I won’t.
I can feel the bruises hidden beneath my clothes, warm and aching, and even though I’m exhausted, every inch of me feels worn out… something in me feels stronger. I’ll tell them, eventually, but not right now.
Right now, this fight is mine. A way for meto feel stronger without feeling like they have to rescue me. And tonight, after they’re asleep, I’ll meet Claire again in that room that no one but her knows about, and I’ll hit harder. Strike cleaner. Hopefully fall less.
The soreness hasn’t faded by lunchtime. My shoulders still throb, there’s a twinge when I shift my weight, and the side of my left thigh carries a bruise the size of a grapefruit. But I feel solid. Grounded.
I’m supposed to be visiting Roman in the hospital later with Claire, which is precisely why I’m in the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, cooking a pot of chili big enough to serve a minor army, or at least a few emotionally constipated men.
