Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
-Xander-
I can’t tear my gaze away from the faint red mark etched on Thalia’s throat.
It has faded over the evening, but it’s burned into my memory, a lingering ghost of her pain that refuses to let me go.
Every time I close my eyes, I see it: an indelible reminder of what she’s endured.
She sits on the couch across from me, curled up in a blanket, Bella nestled protectively at her feet.
She looks so small, too damn small for all the heaviness weighing on her.
My chest aches with the unbearable weight of that reality.
“You’re safe now,” I assure her for what feels like the hundredth time, my voice rough around the edges with emotion.
“He’s not here. He’s not going to touch you again.
I won’t let him.” Thalia’s eyes flick up to mine, brave, steady, and yet I can discern something deeper.
She’s hiding behind that facade of strength.
I lean forward, desperation pushing me to reach out.
“Talk to me, Thalia. Don’t keep it inside. Please.”
-Thalia-
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But safety feels like a foreign language that I never learned to speak.
My body reacts before my brain does. My shoulders curl in.
My breathing shortens. A phantom ache blooms where fingers once locked around my throat.
I know it’s not real, not anymore, but trauma doesn’t care about time or logic.
‘Safe’ is just a sound. My nervous system hears footsteps in memories.
My therapist once told me the body keeps score.
I didn’t understand it then.
Now I do.
Because sometimes fear isn’t a thought; it’s a reflex. A muscle memory. Something as small as the click of a door closing can jolt electricity down my spine. A shadow moving across the wall makes my ribs tighten. I try grounding like I was taught. Five, four, three, two, one.
But sometimes all I can feel is my pulse dragging me back into the past.
Xander watches this happen quietly. He tracks the way my chest rises too fast, the way my hands start shaking even when I pretend they’re not. And the worst part? I hate that he sees it. I hate that he recognizes every microscopic shift in me.
Because I want him to look at me like he used to.
Not like something damaged or fragile or breakable.
I want to be his equal, not someone he feels obligated to save.
Xander watches me with that mixture of fury and worry that could swallow him whole, and I can’t meet his eyes. If I do, I might unravel. If I unravel, he’ll catch the pieces and bleed for each one. I don’t want him bleeding for me. The truth is simple and brutal.
Sometimes the danger is gone… but the fear stays. And right now, the fear sits beside me, wearing Damian’s smile.
Xander means well, there’s no doubt about that.
He always has the best intentions, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m made of glass, fragile and ready to shatter.
Each moment I spend in his presence feels like a tightrope walk.
If I breathe wrong, I’m certain I’ll crumble, and he will be left there with bloodied hands, desperately trying to piece me back together.
I tighten the blanket around my shoulders, seeking any semblance of comfort.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, the words tasting bitter and false on my tongue.
It’s a mantra I have to repeat, hoping that if I say it enough times, he might actually believe it.
Maybe then he’ll stop worrying like I’m seconds away from falling apart.
I watch as his jaw tightens, his hand flexing against his knee, clearly unconvinced. “Fine isn’t good enough. You don’t have to pretend with me, not ever.” Stark tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely.
“I know. I just… I need to figure out how to feel normal again. And I don’t want you to bear the weight of all my pieces.”
He moves across the couch, sliding in beside me, and wraps me in his arms. His embrace is heavy, protective, like a shield enveloping my body. He cups my chin gently, like I might vanish beneath his fingertips.
“You’re not pieces,” he whispers.
I almost laugh.
If only he knew how wrong he was. If only he could see the crack lines running through me like a spiderweb on cheap glass, hairline fractures from months of being handled by a monster.
“Look at me.” I force myself to. His eyes—dark, intense, and unwavering—search mine like he’s memorizing every fear. “You’re not broken.”
Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m something else. Maybe I’m sharpening.
I feel his lips brush gently against my hair, a tender gesture that somehow instills both comfort and conflict.
“You’re not a burden, baby. You’ll never be a burden to me. You’re mine, and I’ll carry whatever it takes. Always.”
I bury my face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a rhythm that beats obsessively for me.
But as much as I long to lose myself in him, to let him believe that I’m safe in his arms, there’s something twisting inside me, a dark hunger I can’t yet voice.
Because it’s not just protection I seek; it’s revenge.
Journal Entry
-Thalia-
Xander continually asks if I’m okay, his gaze lingering on me as if I might disappear if he blinks.
I tell him I’m fine because that’s the reassurance he needs, the balm for his worry.
But deep down, the truth is very different.
I’m not fine. I’m not even close to okay.
The remnants of the knife’s edge still linger at my throat, the horrific weight of his body still pressing down on me in the dark corners of my mind.
I can hear my own voice, my desperate pleas echoing in my memory, begging for mercy.
I despise that memory more than anything, the sound of weakness reverberating in my ears like a haunting melody.
They all assume I’m fragile, that I’ll break apart if they breathe too hard.
But I’m not breaking; I’m sharpening. Damian thinks he still owns me, that he has woven himself into the fabric of my being and that I’ll never escape the shadows of what he did.
But one day, it won’t be Xander’s hands that bring him down.
It will be mine. And when that day arrives, I won’t feel an ounce of guilt.
I used to pray for numbness, anything to stop feeling.
Now numbness scares me more than pain ever did.
Numbness means I’m disappearing again. I refuse to disappear.
Even if my body shakes. Even if my voice trembles.
Even if fear still tastes like metal on my tongue.
I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean returning to who I was before.
Healing means becoming someone new, someone unrecognizable to the man who hurt me. Someone he should fear.
-Thalia-
The apartment feels unnervingly quiet as the morning sun peers through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Xander has just left for work, his footsteps echoing down the hall, after I assured him with a forced calmness that I’ll be perfectly fine.
I promised to keep the doors locked and to text him every hour to ease his mind, to prevent him from bombarding my phone with anxious check-ins.
Yet, as soon as his silhouette disappears, the silence envelops me like a heavy blanket. Each creak and groan of the building feels like a warning against the stillness that settles around me. My brain catalogs every noise.
Sometimes when the apartment is too quiet, I disassociate.
Not the dreamy kind people romanticize; the kind where the world tilts and narrows and everything feels unreal.
I stare at the plant sitting on the windowsill.
Focus on its leaves.
Count each vein.
Because if I don’t latch onto something, I’ll float away.
My therapist calls it grounding. I call it survival.
Bella pads over and rests her chin on my knee, her emotional support technique, which works better than anything licensed professionals have ever told me. I press my palm to her soft fur and breathe.
In through the nose.
Out slowly through the mouth.
I whisper into her ear, “We’re okay. We’re safe.”
I don’t know if she understands the words, but she understands the tone.
She stays.
Right beside me.
Always.
A car door slams outside; my pulse spikes.
Someone walks past the door; I stop breathing.
The building settles; I flinch. My body reacts like he’s still here, hiding just out of sight.
It’s humiliating, being haunted by things that no longer exist. Sometimes the trauma feels like an echo. Other times, like a prophecy.
The refrigerator hums louder than normal, its sound creeping into the space, while the pipes overhead burble and groan.
Every tiny noise makes me flinch as if they’re punctuating the isolation I now feel.
I find myself sitting on the couch, the laptop perched open in front of me, a facade of productivity.
Instead of writing, I scroll aimlessly through old playlists, reliving songs I haven’t listened to since before everything changed.
Music once served as my refuge, but now it feels like the universe is mocking me, each lyric resonating with my pain and despair.
The songs that used to feel like romance now hurt.
Love songs sound like lies whispered by men in the dark.
I turn the volume down. Then down again.
Silence feels safer. But then silence becomes loud.
My thoughts—that’s where the real danger is.
I stand and begin to pace, feeling the urge to channel my restlessness into motion. Bella lifts her head from her favorite spot on the floor, her big, concerned eyes tracking my movements. I force a smile, offering her a pitiful attempt at assurance.
“I’m okay, girl. Just a little restless.” Deep down, I know I should feel grateful for the relative safety this apartment provides, yet ‘safety’ feels more like a costume I cannot quite wear. It’s constricting and itchy, slipping away the moment I’m left alone with my thoughts.
Minutes stretch into hours. Hours stretch into something longer.
There is nothing dramatic happening. But trauma doesn’t need a threat to feel threatened.
Sometimes… the absence of danger is what feels dangerous.
The hours drag on, each ticking second stammering by, a clock eternally reminding me of my solitude.
When Xander’s familiar headlights shine through the window in the evening, a tidal wave of relief crashes over me, almost buckling my knees.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath all day, waiting for his return. When he finally steps inside, I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck. The embrace feels like a lifeline, grounding me after a day of feeling lost in the shadows of my own mind.
“You made it through,” he whispers softly against my hair, his voice full of warmth and belief. “See? You’re stronger than you think.”
Strength. If only he knew it doesn’t feel like strength. It feels like surviving by instinct. Strength implies choice. Survival does not.
I nod, clinging tighter, but the truth remains locked away. I don’t feel strong. I feel hollow. And sometimes, being hollow is far worse than the weight of despair.
As night falls, the atmosphere seems to thicken, the shadows creeping into every corner of the room.
The silence is no longer just quiet; it’s almost suffocating.
Instead of letting it crush me, I find myself pacing once again, my bare feet barely making a sound against the soft carpet.
Thoughts race through my mind, echoing Xander’s earlier words about strength, his unwavering faith in my ability to overcome.
He means every word, and there’s a sincerity in his belief that makes me ache.
Yet, I know he’s mistaken about one crucial aspect.
Strength isn’t merely about surviving. It’s about transforming that survival, channeling the fear and panic into something like fire.
When I close my eyes, Damian’s face invades my mind, his chilling smirk, dripping with the insidious lies he used to weave, and that insufferable voice whispering that this was what I wanted.
For weeks, drowning in that memory had felt like being trapped within the confines of a cage.
But tonight… Tonight is different. Although the pain remains sharp and relentless, it feels more like a weapon, a tool I could wield against him.
As I sink onto the couch, pulling the frayed blanket tighter around my shoulders, Bella nudges my leg, her warm presence a soothing balm against my spiraling thoughts.
I scratch behind her ears, feeling the comfort of something steady as I murmur, “We’re okay.
” The words escape my lips like a vow rather than a mere reassurance because I’m beginning to recognize a fierce truth within myself.
I don’t just want to survive him. I want to end him.
And that realization no longer frightens me.
Bella nudges my hand again, warm and insistent. How unfair that she understands emotional regulation better than most men. I envy her simplicity; she doesn’t worry about the past or future. She just exists. Sometimes I wish I could exist without memory.
Anger settles beneath my ribs like gasoline. Nobody sees it, not even Xander. They see a survivor. They don’t see the storm.