Page 56 of Broken By Silence
Her hair’s messy, her sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. She looks small, fragile, but her eyes—they’re sharp, wary, watchful.
My throat goes dry. “Hey.”
She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me, arms crossed over her chest like armor.
I should let her walk away. Shouldn’t ask for more than she’s willing to give. But the words spill out before I can stop them.
“Sit with me?”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because…” I swallow, forcing the lump down. “Because I need to talk to you.”
For a moment,I think she’ll bolt. Her weight shifts, her fingers twitch against her sleeves. But then—slowly—she crosses the room and lowers herself onto the far end of the sofa. Not close. Not even halfway. Just… there.
It’s more than I’ve had in months.
I take a breath that scrapes my throat raw. “Do you ever wonder why I—” I break off, jaw clenching. “Why I was such an asshole to you at school?”
Her eyes snap to mine, dark and sharp. “All the time.”
The words slice me open.
I nod, jaw tight. “It wasn’t just me. It wasn’t just because I hated you. It was because…” My chest constricts, but I force it out. “Becausehemade me.”
Her brow furrows. “I know all of this, Roman.”
“I know… but my dad,” I clarify. My voice is rough, low. “He told me to. He said if I didn’t break you, if I didn’t make your life hell, I’d pay for it. And I did. Every time I slipped, every time I hesitated—he beat the shit out of me. Some days were so bad I couldn’t even walk. Couldn’t sit in a chair at school without wincing from the lashes on my back from the belt, or if I was really lucky, a broken bone. Sometimes I couldn’t show up at all. That’s why. That’s why I—” My throat closes, but I force the words out. “I turned it on you. I made you the target because it meant I wasn’t the one bleeding.”
Her lips part, but no words come.
“I hated it,” I whisper. “I hated knowing I was hurting you, hated knowing I was becoming exactly what he wanted me to be. But the worst part? Sometimes… sometimes I liked it.”
Her eyes widen, pain flickering across her face, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
“I liked seeing you flinch. I liked knowing I could break something beautiful because he couldn’t break me that day. It was sick. Twisted. And every time it happened, I hated myself more. Because it didn’t make me strong, it didn’t make me powerful. It just made me like him.”
The words hang heavy between us, choking the air out of the room.
She whispers, voice trembling, “He liked me broken, too.”
It’s not a scream, just a fact, and it wrecks me. I nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”
Her arms tighten around herself, and I want to reach out, want to touch her, want to beg—but I don’t. I don’t dare.
“I can’t undo it,” I say. “I can’t erase it. I can only tell you the truth now. Even if it makes you hate me more.”
She stares at me, silent, her breath uneven.
It’s safer to tell her the truth than to let her keep guessing. That’s what I tell myself, even though my voice comes out low, almost ashamed.
“I tried to refuse,” I say.
And I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. Not after everything I’ve done. Not after everything she’s survived because of me. So I do the only thing I can. I move.
My fingers hook into the hem of my shirt. I strip it off with the same practiced ease I’ve used a thousand times in the mirror, but this time there’s no mirror…only her.
