6. SIX
SIX
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Sirens wailed in the air, their shrill cries mingling with the sharp pulses of blue and red lights dancing across the ground that was heavy with snow. I sat frozen, my body stiff beneath the gray blanket somebody had laid over my shoulders. Outside, the world was moving like a silent movie, shades of people in white nylon suits, the black body bag being zipped up carefully, yellow tape cordoning off trees, and shouting warnings in thick black letters: DO NOT CROSS.
But I was not in a position to move, not even if I wanted to.
I looked down at my wrists, instinctively pulling my sleeves over the faint scars marked into my skin. They were reminders of the time when I had thought that I had long since died. That part of me now felt like it was resurfacing and breathing its way back into my chest.
A woman patted my shoulder, her voice muffled and far away. I couldn't make out the words. My eyes didn't leave the men carrying the body away, and I was horrified to find myself wondering if they'd found the rest. All I had seen was the head. My gaze strayed back to the plastic tape, the jarring unnatural yellow slicing through the cold white expanse of the woods.
I heard Josh and Vic talking to the police nearby. Their voices were fragments, pieces of a puzzle that refused to come together. Then, around this chaos, I caught a voice. My stomach clenched, and I scanned the faces around me, my eyes locking with the hope of recognition. But nothing matched. Only strangers.
Until, out of a sudden turn, a man stood before me. The calmness of his face was there, but something in his eyes seemed like an unending weight, never to be light or relieved. His hand had rested gently on my shoulder; his lips moved and spoke words I couldn't hear. He felt so unreal, like a ghost attached to my mind.
"Hey," he said, snapping his fingers in front of me. The sharp sound cut through the fog in my head. "Are you okay?"
My lips parted, but no sound came out. For the first time in my life, I couldn't bring myself to say the automatic lie, to say that everything was fine. My head was shaking weakly, and hot tears spilled over in rivulets against the cold air. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to be seen.
He knew. I could tell it from his face, in the softening of his eyes. He drew me into his arms gently and his warmth sliced through the chill that clung to me. I didn't protest. My fragile voice managed to break through with one cracked word, "No."
My head fell onto his shoulder, my body quivering, while I wept softly. It was the first time in so very long that I was wrapped in anyone's arms. The first time a man ever had taken me in such a way. There wasn't any judgment in his hug, no expectations, just safety.
"I'm not fine," I whispered, words caught in my throat, harder to admit than it should be, but a truth that felt like its own liberation.
"And that's okay," he said softly, his voice steady, grounding. "You don't have to be okay."
I nodded, clenching my fingers into my sleeves as I retreated a small step. I wiped a hand across my eyes until his gentle face blurred through my crying. His expression was staunch but patient in its kindness in giving me some time for myself.
He drew a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. "I really hate having to do this," he said with the slightest smile, trying to lighten the moment. "But I need to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."
I nodded again, my voice still caught somewhere in my chest. His eyes searched mine, not for answers, but for reassurance, like he wanted to be sure I wouldn't break under the weight of the moment.
"Did you see anyone else around?" he asked, poised pen in his hand.
My breath caught and the image of the snowman flashed in my mind. My throat constricted as I whispered, "No." The word felt brittle, breaking apart as it left my lips.
"You know those two?" he asked, tone low, steady. He moved a pen toward Josh and Vic; they stood a short ways off, shifting their weight while talking with another cop.
I hesitated, my throat tightening. "No," I whispered, hardly audible.
"They said you found the…" His voice trailed off as he cast a wary glance in my direction. His words were measured, carefully chosen to avoid further upsetting me. "The snowman?"
"Yes," I said. My voice broke. The memory was flooding back clearly now, as I'd squeezed my eyes shut. "I fell, and…" I tried to find the right words. My chest ached across, each breath jagged. "He," I gagged out, "he somehow… does it make me sound crazy if I think he… completes them? By adding…" Again my voice failed me where the word got stuck in my throat over a hard swallow. "A head?"
The detective's jaw flexed. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying me through a gaze more like concern and less like suspicion. He said nothing right away.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" I said, my voice quivering; I brushed stray strands of hair behind my ears. My hands fidgeted nervously in my lap.
His eyes dropped briefly to my wrists, where faint scars traced stories I wished I could erase. My heart sank as I realized. I tugged my sleeves down quickly, pulling my hands into my lap, and pressing them tightly between my thighs.
"No," he said, his voice firm and clear. "You're not crazy."
He stood abruptly, his gaze sweeping around the scene in a slow arc. The snow swathed in blood, the quiet empty woods, the hush of unutterability lingering. He was gathering pieces of a puzzle seen by nobody else into a total picture.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stammered, "Can I go home?
Softness stirred within his eyes then turned back to me. "Sure," he said much more quietly, "I can take you home."
I nodded, my body trembling as I rose to my feet. He waited patiently, then led the way to his car. I glanced back at the scene one last time—the yellow tape, the distant officers, and the woods that now felt like they would never let me forget. My steps were shaky as I followed him.
The black car stood out against the snowy backdrop, its polished surface gleaming in the light. Somehow, its solid presence calmed me. He opened the passenger door and waited for me to get in before closing it gently behind me. I sank into the seat, clutching the blanket tighter around me, the cold still gnawing at my bones.
Through the windscreen, I watched him wave at another officer—signal, most likely, letting them know he was taking me home. A moment later, he slid into the driver's seat, hands resting lightly on the wheel. He glanced at me briefly before turning the ignition.
"I'm Thor," he said, his voice even as the car burbled to life. "What's your name?"
"Bree," I answered, my voice barely audible, my eyes fixed through the windshield ahead on the snow-misted distance, a vague blur instead of that press in my chest.
"Word of advice," he said, the silence after his voice sounding loud, as he geared the car first. "Those two boys—Josh and Vic—they're trouble."
I nodded slowly, my eyes drifting back to where the two of them stood. Their posture was casual, but something about them felt wrong, like an itch I couldn't scratch.
"I know," I whispered, the words more to myself than to him.
"Good," he said quietly, the corners of his mouth pulling into a tight, approving smile.
Without another word, he tapped the gas, and we began to roll forward down the street. The crunch of the tires on the snowy ground occupied the space between us, without being uncomfortable. For possibly the first time in the last few hours, breathing was easy.
Those ten minutes were the shortest in my life as we pulled up to the house. With every rotation of the tires, it sounded like a drum echoing in my chest, my heart matching the rhythm. As it finally came to a stop, I reached for the door handle, but my eyes didn't leave the screen of the windshield. My body froze, refusing to move. The house sat there before me, a dark shape among the snow, but the real shadow seemed to wait inside.
"We can sit here for a while if you want," Thor said in a soft voice that held calm. "No rush."
I nodded, one tear welling its way down my cheek. It was hot against the cold numbness of my skin.
The silence between us drew out, until he spoke again, softly breaking it. "You fall a lot too?" His eyes flickered to my wrists, the question hovering in the air between us like a fragile thread.
I twisted toward him, now caught under the weight of his question. In my silence, he saw more than most people grasp in a lifetime, a thought of it sent jolts of fear through my spine. My lump was growing low in my throat and swelled now in pain as I shook my head.
I'd never fallen. Not like that. I'd hurt myself only in quiet, cowardly ways that felt somehow like control. Dying had been an escape I wished for when the weight became too much to handle. When I came back, when I saw what it did to Mel, I told myself I would never again be so selfish. Mel had tried, too. And I could never let her do the same to herself.
Thor reached into his coat and pulled out a small scrap of paper. He held it out to me, his hand steady.
"Here," he said. "My number. If you ever... Fall... You can call for help. Asking for help is okay, Bree."
I stared at the paper a moment before reaching out for it, my fingers brushing against his. "Okay," I whispered, folding it carefully and tucking it into my pocket.
I let my gaze dwell on him a moment longer, then reached to open the door. His eyes are chestnut, I said to myself. Brown. Not blue, brown.
And then I said them over and over in my mind, as though trying to burn them into my memory. But beneath that, I was still looking for someone else. For the man who had come into my room last night. The man who had made the snowman. The man who knew now that I had seen something I was never supposed to see.
And suddenly, fear wrapped its icy tendrils around me. A deeper fear than I'd ever known. Because now, I was more afraid than ever to talk, to breathe, to even exist.
It was Thor's voice that brought me back. "Are you sure you told me everything?" The firm tone was soft and his eyes searched mine.
I nodded, forcing a faint smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Yeah."
He nodded back, but his face told another story. I stepped out of the car and shut the door behind me. He remained inside, observing me as I walked to the house. I did not look back; could not. My legs were lead, heavy with a weight that seemed to tug me closer with each step to something I was not prepared to face.
Through the window, I could see Dad. His face was hard, his jaw clenched, and his eyes burned with anger that seemed to radiate even from a distance. My stomach twisted into knots. I wasn't ready for him either.
I stopped in front of the door, my hand shaking, clutched on the handle.
Thirty seconds passed, I counted each and every one with the heavy beating of my heart in my ears. Then I finally pushed the door open and stepped inside. The sound of the car pulling away behind me reached my ears just as I shut the door.
I wanted to call Thor. I wanted to scream out through the phone for him to save me right now. How could he? How was I allowed to be saved when all this time, I did not even believe I was worthy of saving? How could I get help from a person who wants to fight for me when I no longer have hope left in me? My hope was already dying, bit by bit.
Inside, the house was suffocating. Mom was in the kitchen, going through her motions as though she didn't even see me, Mel was in her room quiet and still like she hadn't moved today. And Dad?! Dad was just waiting. His gaze had snapped onto mine like a lock disengaging the instant I crossed over the threshold.
"What were you doing with that cop?" He spat the words like droplets of venom.
I shook my head fast, my back against the door. "I didn't…"
"Don't you fucking lie to me!" he roared, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. Another step closer, and he was towering over me. "You told him something, didn't you?"
"I didn't, I swear!" I stammered, my voice rising in desperation. My hands pressed against the door behind me, searching for a way to push myself further away. "I didn't tell him anything!"
His face twisted in anger as he leaned in. My body was shaking so much I could hardly stand.
"Don't lie to me," he hissed, his hand twitching at his side. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.
"You won't fucking leave this house again," he growled as his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair. Pain exploded across my scalp as he pulled me down, the sharp pull making my head move violently. I clenched my teeth, biting back a scream, but the tears welled in my eyes.
"You will learn," he thundered, dragging me across the room, never letting go, not even once.
My feet stumbled after his as he pulled me up the stairs. Each rise upwards felt like a shock of hurt across my body, but I did not fight back. It was only worse if I resisted.
No one's ever going to save me, I thought, my mind climbing some sort of spiral staircase. No one ever will.
He pushed me onto the floor at the top of the stairs. My body crumpled like a ragdoll, cold wooden planks biting against my skin.
Before I could catch my breath, the tip of his shoe slammed into my ribs. White, hot pain seared through me. A sickening crunch followed, and I knew— something was broken. My ribs throbbed with every shallow breath.
But I stayed silent. I always stayed silent. This wasn't the first blow I'd taken.
Frustrated, he leaned over me. "I swear—"
His fist whacked again, this time finding its mark on my shoulder and shaking through my body while his hand tangled again into my hair, wrenching me down the hallway like a broken toy, scraping my knees along the floor, too weakened in body to oppose him and too beaten in the brain to even think about fighting.
Then, slicing through the chaos like a thin, distant thread, I heard it.
"Daddy?"
The voice was tiny, small. One word, but it stopped him cold.
He went completely still, his breathing harsh, his grip easing. Slowly, he turned his head to face whatever had made the noise, leaving me splayed upon the floor. His boots echoed on the hardwood as he crossed to the glass railing at the far end of the hall. His fingers wrapped around the glass, smudging the clean panes as he leaned forward.
"Mel?" he yelled, his voice a weird combination of shock and disbelief. "You can talk?" He let out a nervous, almost hysterical chuckle. "And walk?"
I tried to push myself up, but my arms folded beneath me. My body felt heavy and unresponsive, not my own. All I could do was lie there, watching helplessly as he ran down the stairs, his mood changing. I could hear him laughing when he reached her.
He was now laughing with Mom, hugging her. It was as if nothing had happened downstairs, as though the man who had unleashed his fury upon me never existed. I was forgotten upstairs, left crumpled on the floor, my face silently streaming with tears.
Why do people have children if they cannot give them the life they deserve? The question burnt in my mind without an answer.
The pain burned through my chest, though it wasn't even nearly as deep as the ache inside. A dark, festering trauma carved into my bones, deeper with each blow, and I walked in fear as though it were my second skin, turning at every step, afraid to trust or love.
Every tiny flicker of hope I'd dared to hold onto had been taken from me, leaving only emptiness.
I heard soft footsteps approaching. Mom.
"Go to the attic," she whispered, her voice low, her eyes darting toward the staircase. "Hide until he feels better."
Until he feels better. What about me? I wasn't better . I wasn't whole . I was broken. Summoning every last bit of strength in my body, I struggled to my feet. My ribs shrieked with every shallow breath, and my knees wobbled beneath my weight while I made ungainly progress toward the attic door. Mom followed along silently behind me.
I came to the door, stopping in front of it. "Mom?" I whispered, looking towards her.
She said nothing. The moment I stepped inside, the door swung shut behind me with a hollow click. The metallic sound of the key turning in the lock followed. My heart fell.
"Mom?" I called out, shaking and pounding on the door. "Mom!"
Her footsteps retreated down the stairs, fading.
I leaned against the door, hands falling limply to my sides as the tears came. They spilled over like waterfalls against my bruised and battered skin. My chest heaved up and down, the pain from my sobs mingling with agony from my injuries.
More than the outside wounds that were bleeding, though, were the inside ones. And these bled memories, regrets, terrors of burdens too hefty to bear.
It was cold and dark in the attic, with only a little bit of light allowed to pass through a round frosted window. I crumpled to the floor, bringing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them tightly. I had nothing.