Chapter 7 - Bruiser #2
I take a breath. Let it out slow. The streetlights flash across Joanna's face as she drives, illuminating her profile in intervals. She's focused on the road, but I can tell she's listening.
"My sister," I start. "Erin. She was nineteen when it happened.
I was twenty-six. She'd been dating this guy for about a year.
Mark." Even saying his name leaves a bitter taste.
"Seemed normal enough. Had a job, wasn't a complete asshole when I met him.
I didn't love the guy, but Erin seemed happy. "
Joanna makes a soft sound. Encouraging but not interrupting.
"Then she started making excuses not to see me.
Always busy. Always tired. When I did see her, she'd wear long sleeves even in summer.
Wouldn't look me in the eye." My hands curl into fists on my thighs.
"I knew something was wrong but she kept saying everything was fine. That I was being overprotective."
The car slows for a red light. Joanna's hands are tight on the wheel.
"One night she called me. Three in the morning.
Crying so hard I could barely understand her.
Said she'd locked herself in the bathroom and Mark was trying to break down the door.
" The memory makes my chest tight. "I drove to her apartment.
Broke every traffic law getting there. When I arrived, she was sitting on the front steps.
Face swollen. Blood on her shirt. Ribs so bruised she could barely breathe. "
"Oh my God," Joanna whispers.
"He'd been hitting her for months. Started small.
Pushing, grabbing too hard. Then escalated.
That night he'd beaten her worse than ever before because she'd mentioned wanting to visit me for my birthday.
" My voice comes out flat. Dead. The only way I can tell this without losing it.
"She was terrified. Begging me not to call the cops because she didn't want to deal with pressing charges, with court, with all of it. She just wanted to be safe."
The light turns green. Joanna drives but slower now.
"I took her to the hospital. Got her checked out. Three cracked ribs. Concussion. Bruises everywhere." I stare at my hands. These hands that have done so much damage. "Then I went back to her apartment. Mark was still there. Drunk. Cocky. Thought he'd gotten away with it."
"What did you do?"
"I beat him within an inch of his life." The words come out simple. Factual. "Broke his jaw. His nose. Three ribs, same as Erin's. His orbital bone. Ruptured his spleen. By the time the neighbors called the cops and they pulled me off him, he was unconscious and I was covered in his blood."
Joanna's quiet. I can't read her expression in the darkness.
"He survived. Barely. Spent two months in the hospital.
Another six in physical therapy learning to walk again.
" I flex my fingers, feeling phantom pain in my knuckles.
"I got charged with aggravated assault with intent to kill.
My lawyer tried to argue defense of another, diminished capacity, whatever bullshit might work.
Didn't matter. I'd hospitalized a man. Nearly killed him. Judge threw the book at me."
She pulls onto a residential street. Small houses. Chain-link fences. This must be close to her place.
"And your sister?" she asks.
"Visited me every single week for ten years.
Never missed one visit. Not one. Brought pictures of her kids when she had them.
Told me about her life. Met a good man a few years after it happened.
A real good man who treats her right. They have two kids now.
Seven and five." A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.
"She tells them Uncle Danny works far away. They don't know about prison. Not yet."
"She sounds amazing."
"She is. She saved my life in that cell. Gave me something to hold onto when everything else was falling apart." I turn to look at Joanna. "She told me once that what I did to Mark saved her life. That if I hadn't stopped him that night, eventually he would have killed her."
"She's right," Joanna says firmly. "He would have."
"Maybe. Probably. But it doesn't change what I did.
Doesn't change that I nearly killed a man with my bare hands and didn't feel bad about it.
" This is the part most people can't handle.
The part that makes them realize exactly what I am.
"I don't regret it, Joanna. Not one second.
If I could go back and do it again, the only thing I'd change is making sure no one called the cops until I was finished. "
She's silent for a long moment. We pass under a streetlight and I catch her expression: thoughtful, serious, but not horrified. Not disgusted.
"Good," she says finally.
"What?"
"Good. I'm glad you don't regret it." She pulls over to the curb and puts the car in park but doesn't kill the engine. "That man was beating your sister. Terrorizing her. You protected her. You probably saved her life. Why the hell would you regret that?"
"Because I went to prison for ten years. Because I lost a decade of my life. Because—"
"Because our justice system is fucked up and punishes people for protecting the ones they love while letting abusers walk free all the time.
" Her voice is fierce now. Angry. "You did what you had to do.
What anyone who loved their sister would do.
The fact that you went to prison for it is bullshit. "
I stare at her. This woman who should be running from me is instead defending me. Justifying what I did.
"Most people don't see it that way," I say.
"Most people are idiots." She turns in her seat to face me fully. "Danny, you're not a monster for protecting your sister. You're not worthless or irredeemable or whatever else you've been telling yourself. You did something violent, yes. But you did it for the right reasons. That matters."
"Does it?"
"Yes. It does." She reaches over, hesitates, then puts her hand on my arm. "Context matters. Intention matters. You're not some psychopath who hurt someone for fun. You were protecting family."
Her hand is still on my arm. Small and warm and completely trusting. This woman knows what I did, knows I'm capable of that level of violence, and she's touching me anyway.
"I don't know what to say," I admit.
"You don't have to say anything." She pulls her hand back and I immediately miss the warmth. "Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with that."
"Thank you for not running."
"Where would I run to? This is my car." She smiles, trying to lighten the moment. "Besides, we're parked outside my building. Kind of defeats the purpose."
I look around. She's right. We're parked on a quiet street in front of a small apartment complex. Older building, probably built in the seventies. Not fancy but maintained.
"This is you?"
"Yeah. Third floor. Unit 3C." She unbuckles her seatbelt. "That's where Daisy's sleeping right now. Where I should be sleeping. Besides, the nanny has to leave. She’s already doing too much. She even accepted staying at my place today instead of hers."
The mention of her daughter brings reality crashing back. She has a kid upstairs. A three-year-old who needs her mother. And here I am keeping her out in her car at two in the morning talking about prison and violence.
"I should let you go then," I say.
"Yeah. You should." But she doesn't move. Neither do I.
We sit there in the running car, neither of us ready to end this. Whatever this is.