Page 62 of Broken By Silence
The buzzing is relentless, broken only by the artist wiping away blood and ink with practiced swipes. Roman doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I just feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me, grounding in its own strange way.
At some point, Claire slips inside. She doesn’t say a word, just leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Roman.
Roman doesn’t even glance her way. He keeps his focus forward, jaw tight, eyes half-shut like he’s lost in the rhythm of pain.
I steal glances at him when I can. His skin reddening under the ink, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the stubborn line of his mouth refusing to break. Every time the needle digs deeper near his jaw, he jerks slightly, and his hands twitch toward me, like instinct drives him to hold something. But he doesn’t. He keeps them pressed to the chair, knuckles white, forcing the restraint.
It does something to me. Breaks something I didn’t know was still standing.
By the time the artist finishes, my legs are numb from sitting so still. Roman’s head is tilted forward, the skin on the side of his face swollen and angry red, the ink dark and fierce against it. The Medusa snakes coil down his jaw, sharp and merciless, like they’re daring anyone to look too long.
The artist wipes him clean, wraps him up, and rattles off aftercare instructions that Roman only half-listens to.
I slide off his lap, my knees trembling when I stand. Roman looks up at me then, eyes heavy but steady. “Does it work?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Do you see him still? Or do you see something else?”
My throat tightens. I don’t have an answer. Not one I can say out loud without tearing us both open.
So I just stare.
And for the first time since I met him, I don’t see his father.
I see him.
The street outsidefeels too quiet after the buzz of the tattoo gun. My ears still ring, my skin buzzing like the sound burrowed under it. Roman follows me out, slow, stiff, the clear wrap clinging to the side of his head like bandages from a war. In a way, I guess they are.
Claire’s shadow moves behind us, her boots clicking against the pavement like punctuation.
I climb into the driver’s seat, Roman into the passenger seat, while Claire climbs into her own car, ready to follow. The silence hangs heavy. No one speaks for the first five minutes.I can’t.My throat is raw, my chest bruised with too many words fighting for space.
Every time I glance in the mirror, I see him. His head tipped against the glass, eyes shut, lips parted like he’s trying to breathe through the pain. But all I can think is that for years, I begged for this.
Begged for the truth.
Begged to know why they turned on me.
Why my friends chose to shred me apart… and now I have it.
Roman’s voice still echoes in my head:He made me. My father made me do it. If I didn’t, I paid for it in blood.
It should be enough. It should make everything make sense, let me bury the years of torment under that explanation. But it doesn’t.
Because now, instead of hate, I see the boy I lost. The one whoused to climb trees with me, who dared me into the lake when the water was freezing, who made me laugh until my stomach hurt. And it hurts in a whole new way, because I thought that boy was dead.
Turns out he was just hiding.
And worse—he was bleeding.
“Pull over,” Roman says suddenly.
I blink, hands tightening on the wheel. “What?”
“Just for a minute. I need air.” His voice is raw, almost breaking.
I find a space by the beach and roll into it, the car shuddering as I kill the engine. The smell of salt crashes through the window Roman rolls down, and the sound of waves fills the quiet.
We sit there, none of us moving. Claire pulls up behind us and keeps her eyes forward. Roman stares out at the ocean, jaw tight.
And me—I can’t stop thinking about all of them.
