Page 61 of Broken By Silence
It’s Medusa.
Snakes coiling viciously, sharp and alive, weaving down from the temple of a face that looks more haunted than monstrous. The lines snake from behind the ear along the side of a skull, trailing down the jawline, like her fury is etched straight into the bone.
“For the side of my head,” Roman says, tapping the paper. “Down my jaw. Big enough it can’t be missed.”
The artist whistles low. “That’s heavy work. Painful, too. You sure?”
“I want it to hurt.”
The words hit me harder than they should. My stomach knots, my chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why that?”
Roman lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no arrogance there, no swagger, none of the boy who once made my life hell. Just something stripped raw. “Becauseshe’s power.Because men tried to destroy her, twist her into something ugly, and she survived anyway. They made her a monster, but she owned it.” His voice lowers. “Every time you look at me, I don’t want you to see him anymore. I want you to see her. I want you tosee you.”
It’s too much. My throat closes, words clawing up and dissolving before they reach my lips.
The artist doesn’t notice the war tearing me apart. He just nods, picks up the paper, and waves Roman toward the chair.
Roman sits down, tilting his head to the side to expose the line of his scalp and jaw. His fingers curl against the leather armrest, his body tense like he’s bracing for a bullet instead of ink.
The buzzing starts.
He flinches almost instantly. His fists clench so tight his knuckles turn white, his jaw locking hard enough I can hear the grind of teeth.
And against every screaming instinct inside me, I move closer.
“You don’t have to—” I don’t even know what I’m saying. The words stumble out, clumsy and fragile. “Do you want me to…hold your hand?”
His eyes flicker open, pinning me in place. Even through the strain of pain, there’s a softness in them I’ve never seen before. Vulnerability, bare and unguarded.
“Not my hand,” he says quietly, breath catching as the needle scrapes his skin. He pats his thigh. “Here. Sit. It’ll…help.”
My chest lurches. “Roman?—”
“I won’t touch you. Swear it.” His voice cracks, and the rawness of it scrapes down my spine. “Just…please. The weight helps. Keeps me grounded.”
Every memory of his father is screaming at me to say no.
Little Bird…
Every ounce of distrust I still carry for him digs its nails in deep. But then I see his fists trembling, the tendons in his forearms straining like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.
I see him choosing this pain, carving my shadow into his own skin, desperate to rewrite the face I see when I look at him.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe it’s pity… Maybe it’s something else. Something I can’t admit yet. But I ease down onto his lap, stiff and rigid, ready to spring away at the slightest move.
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
The buzzing continues. The artist works steady, dragging the needle down his temple toward his jaw, and Roman doesn’t move. His fists loosen. His shoulders drop. He doesn’t test the boundary, doesn’t risk the trust I’ve given him. He just lets me sit there, a silent anchor, while the snakes begin to take shape.
I sit there too, trembling, the sound of the gun vibrating in mybones. I want to hate him for this. I want to scream at him for making me part of this moment, for tethering me to a memory he’s choosing to create.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time in years, I see Roman not as the boy who tried to break me, not as the echo of his father, but as someone shaking beneath chosen pain, desperate to show me he can be different.
The hours drag.
