Chapter 7 #2
The beads cut into my wrist where he tightened them, a burn I don’t untangle. A lock I don’t unfasten. He always left the rosary. Always left me marked. Always left me holding the proof that I was his.
I press my face into the cracks in the floor, the taste of iron still flooding my mouth, the sharp ache still pulsing between my thighs.
The quiet place hums. I stay here. Because this is where she told me to wait.
Raven said she wouldn’t leave me. Raven said she’d save me.
Raven said if I was quiet, I’d be safe. So I stay. I wait. I breathe as softly as I can.
I count the candles. I count the wax drops.
I count the splinters in the wood where we used to sit.
I braid my own hair with trembling hands, too tight, too sloppy, but I don’t stop.
Because she always braided my hair. Because that’s how she kept me still.
I pull the rosary tighter around my wrist. The burn feels like her hands. The burn feels like now.
The chapel door creaks hours later. Or maybe days.
Or maybe I’ve never left. I lift my head.
Raven stands there. Older. Taller. She looks at me like she doesn’t know me.
Like she’s just seeing me for the first time.
She says my name. But it sounds wrong. Like it’s not supposed to belong to me anymore.
“You left me here,” I say, but my voice is a scrape, a threadbare echo.
Her hands tremble at her sides. She steps forward.
The chain around my wrist rattles. The rosary digs into the skin.
The cold floor sticks to the bruises. “You forgot me,” I say, flattening myself into the place she told me would keep me safe.
Tears flood her eyes. She says no. She says she didn’t. She says she promised. But I was here. I’ve always been here. “You told me to stay quiet.” The words bleed out like I’m still there. “You told me to be good.”
Her breath cracks. Her hands shake. “You said you’d save me.
” She says she tried. She says she didn’t know.
She says she was scared. But she left me.
She left me in the quiet place. She left me with him.
She left me in the memory. I stayed where she told me to.
I stayed quiet. I stayed good. I stayed his.
She tries to touch me. I pull the rosary tighter, twisting the beads until they bite, until the pressure burns, until the scar under my ribs aches like it did when I was small.
“You didn’t come back.” The chapel door never shuts.
The cane taps in the distance. Or maybe it’s inside me now.
I close my eyes. The braid slips loose. The rosary stays. The quiet place keeps me.
Her hand trembles when she reaches for me. “Damien,” she says, but it scrapes against me like it’s not mine. Her breath hitches. Her knees hit the floor in front of me.
“You didn’t come back,” I whisper. The rosary bites into my wrist. The bruises burn. Her tears spill, her hands hovering just above me, like she’s afraid to touch me now.
“I’m sorry,” she says, but the words slide right over me, too soft, too late.
“You told me to stay here.” I pull the rosary tighter, winding the beads until they tear the skin, until the pressure feels like something I can keep. “You told me he’d pick someone else.”
Her throat locks. Her breath collapses.
“You told me if I was quiet, if I was good, if I stayed, I’d be safe.” I look at her now. She’s shaking like she’s the one who broke. But she didn’t. I did. “You told me to stay.”
The chapel hums. The cold stays inside my ribs.
She tries to speak, but the words choke.
Her fingers brush the edge of the rosary around my wrist. I flinch.
Hard. Sharp. The burn snaps me back into the shape I’m supposed to be.
Her breath shudders. Her tears fall. But I can’t hold them. I press my palm to the stone.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
She shakes her head. She says she didn’t mean to.
But she did. Her hand cups my cheek. It’s too soft.
Too warm. Too late. I freeze. I can’t breathe under the weight of her touch.
Because she’s not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be alone in the quiet place. I’m supposed to be the one who stayed.
“You forgot me,” I say, my voice splintering. “You let him keep me.”
Her breath catches. She tries to pull me into her. But I lock myself against the floor, gripping the cracks, gripping the rosary so tight I can’t feel where I end.
“I waited for you.”
Her sob punches through her ribs. I hear her saying she came back. I hear her saying she didn’t forget. But I know. I know I stayed. I know I was good. I know I let him keep me.
Because she told me to. Her arms wrap around me.
Her breath breaks against my hair. Her voice whispers that she’s sorry, that she’s here now, that she won’t leave me again.
But I don’t believe her. Because the rosary is still around my wrist. Because his breath is still in my throat.
Because the door never shut. I think I never left. And I think I don’t want to.
Her arms wrap tighter around me.
She’s smaller now. Her breath shudders against my hair in short, panicked gulps, her chest heaving like she ran all the way back here. Like she didn’t think I’d still be here. But I didn’t leave. I stayed where she told me to stay.
“You’re safe now,” she whispers, her voice high and cracking. But I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel anything except the weight of his hands and the rosary biting into my wrist. I don’t move.
“You told me to stay,” I say, my voice small, hoarse. Her hands shake against my back. “You told me he’d pick someone else.”
Her sob hiccups against my temple. “I didn’t mean—” she chokes. “I thought— I thought he would—”
“You said I’d be safe.” The cold floor clings to my skin, the bruises burn, the rosary wraps around my wrist like another lock. “You told me if I was good, he wouldn’t hurt me.” Her tears fall into my hair. “You said you’d come back.”
Her breath breaks in pieces. “I came back,” she sobs. “I’m here— I didn’t know— I thought he would—”
“You said he’d pick someone else.” Her arms wrap tighter like she’s trying to pull me off the floor, but I stay in the cracks.
Her hands cup my face, trying to tilt me to her. “I didn’t know it would be you— I didn’t know he’d— I thought—” Her voice collapses. “I thought he’d pick me.”
The words don’t make sense. Or maybe they do. Her thumb brushes under my eye. “I told him to pick me,” she cries. My chest stutters. Her hands tremble on my cheeks. “I thought if I ran— if I told him to follow me— he’d pick me— he’d let you go.”
But he didn’t.
Her hands drag through my hair, cradling me, rocking me. “I thought I was saving you,” she sobs. I lock my grip around the rosary tighter, the beads biting deep. “You told me to stay,” I whisper.
Her breath breaks. “I didn’t know— I thought— I thought I could trick him— I didn’t think he’d stay with you.” I press my face harder into the floor. Her arms cage me tighter. “I thought I was saving you.”
But I don’t feel saved. I feel kept. I feel quiet. I feel like I stayed where she told me to stay. “I waited for you.”
Her breath shudders. “I came back— I came back— I didn’t know he’d—”
Her voice breaks into silence. I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t let her untangle the rosary from my wrist. Because I don’t know if she really came back. Or if I’ve just been waiting here ever since.
The chapel fades. The floor softens. The cold doesn’t leave my ribs. The weight of the rosary still burns around my wrist even though it isn’t there. Even though I crushed it years ago. But I still feel it. I still feel him. I still feel her. I still hear her voice telling me to stay.
She’s here now. Her breath shakes against my throat, her hands buried in my hair, her body pressed to mine like she’s still trying to put me back together. “Damien—” Her voice cracks. “You’re safe.”
I stiffen. The words taste wrong.
“You’re safe now,” she says again, but she’s lying. I can feel it in her pulse. I can feel it in the way I’m still on the floor. In the way the chain still cuts into her skin. In the way I’ve never left the quiet place.
I peel my face from the floor, slow, stiff. I don’t think I ever left. I grab the chain and drag her into my lap. Her breath hitches, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll slip away. But I want to stay right here. Where I’m good. Where I’m quiet. Where I can keep her this time.
Her eyes flick to mine, wide, wet, searching. “You told me to stay,” I say, my voice flat, soft, steady like the cane tapping against the floor. Her throat locks. “You told me if I was good, I’d be safe.” Her breath fractures. “You told me you’d save me.”
Her hands clutch me tighter. I press my thumb to her lip, the same way he did, the same way I’ve always done, the same rhythm I never noticed was his. “You forgot me.”
Her breath breaks. “You told me you wouldn’t leave me there.” I drag the chain tighter around my fist until it bites into her ankle. “You told me you’d come back.”
Her pulse stutters. “But you didn’t.” The quiet place hums inside me. “You left me.” Her hands tremble. “You always leave me.”
Her voice cracks. “I won’t— I’m here—”
“You always leave me.” I press my mouth to her throat, the scar under her ribs burning where my hand clutches her. “You forget me.” Her sob fractures. “But I don’t.”
I don’t. I never did. I never left. And I won’t let her leave me again. Not this time. Not ever.
Her sobs crack against my ribs, her fists tightening in my shirt. I drag my thumb across her lip, slow, tracing the same rhythm he did. The one she never pulled away from. “You told me to stay quiet,” I whisper. “You told me to stay still.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “I—” Her throat locks. “I don’t remember—”
I press my thumb harder. “You do.” Her pulse kicks. “You just don’t want to.”
She shakes her head, desperate, but I don’t loosen my grip. “I didn’t leave you.”
“You did.” The words slice through me like the rosary still wrapped around my wrist. “You told me to stay in the quiet place.”
Her breath crumbles. “I didn’t know—”
“You told me if I was good, he’d pick someone else.” I tighten the chain around my fist.
Her voice shatters. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know—”
“You told me you’d come back.”
Her throat spasms. “I did— I just— I don’t remember that part—”
“You forgot me.” Her pulse thunders. “You promised you wouldn’t forget me.”
Her breath collapses. “I’m sorry— Damien— I’m sorry—”
I crush my mouth to hers, savage, desperate, tasting the apology I don’t want. I don’t want her sorry. I want her memory. I want her to remember she left me. I want her to remember she told me to stay.
I tear away, my breath crashing. “You’ll stay this time.”
Her voice stutters. “I’ll stay— I won’t leave—”
“You’ll stay in the quiet place with me.”
Her breath hitches. “Okay— I’ll stay— I’m here now—”
“You won’t forget me this time.” Her hands claw into me. “I won’t— I promise—”
“You won’t leave me in there again.”
Her breath cracks. “I won’t— I’m not going anywhere—”
Her pulse rattles against my grip. But I don’t know if I believe her. Because she already forgot me once. And I won’t let her forget me again. Not this time. Not ever.