Chapter Eight #2
“Don’t move.” Ben scurries across the room before I can retort to his bullish command.
Though I find I don’t really have much to say.
He slips through a door at the far side of the gym and returns carrying a couple of cans of cola.
It takes me a couple of extra beats before I figure out that the room must be a kitchen or at least houses a chiller.
He slips in behind me again, as if he never even left, and reaches around me to open one of the cans. The other he places next to his left thigh. A click, clunk, and fizz tell me the can is open, and then he lifts it to my mouth.
“Sips, Jules. Slow.”
I take it from him and am relieved to find my hands have also stopped shaking.
I’m still off and unsteady, but the longer I sit here, the better I feel.
The syrupy hit of cola is frigid against my tongue.
I swallow it down and fight the urge to drain the can in one go.
He warned me to sip, and something tells me my stomach will riot if I do anything more.
Two more sips and the sugar works.
“Did we fight?” I ask lamely.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember you telling me to hit the gloves.” I try to visualise it in my head and as the scene forms, I recall him getting pissed when I wouldn’t punch the pads. Then I hear his voice in my head saying nasty, shitty things.
“Why did you say those things?” I ask so quietly I fear I didn’t even say it aloud.
“I’m so sorry, Jules. I thought I was helping. I watched you from the control room. What you said to Trainor, it rang true. It felt like you were venting the things you were most afraid of.”
“Then why throw them in my face? I thought we were okay with each other?”
“We are. I care about you, pretty girl. I thought letting you punch it out would help. You looked ready to fight when you left the interview room, and rather than leaving you to do something stupid with that energy or getting hurt, I thought it safer to offer to be your punchbag. I said those things to get you angry, to encourage you to hit it out.”
“It worked?”
“I said something I shouldn’t have. You lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“One minute you’re looking at me as if I’m stupid, and the next you were trying to rip the eyes out of my head.”
“Did I hurt you? Fuck, Ben!”
“No! No, Jules. I’m fine. I got exactly what I asked for…and I’m sorry. It was the wrong thing to do. I didn’t know. I mean, I knew, but I had no idea…”
“What?”
“Your file says—I mean, I just didn’t expect the trauma.”
Ben read my file, thought he understood, and then threw it at me to provoke me.
“The physical abuse. Eric,” I confirm, nodding my head.
If I blacked out, then I must have assumed I was under attack.
It’s only happened twice before. Once when I was six or seven, the first time Eric beat me black and blue, and again when I was attacked by a pair of boys at school.
Though I’ve never been able to recall what happened during the blackouts, I certainly knew the consequences of them.
I fought hard. I caused damage. With Eric, it just made him angrier.
With the boys, I fought my way free. They called me a freak, but they never messed with me again.
Still, blackouts are dangerous. I’d rather know what’s happening to me.
I’d rather be in control, even if it sometimes means taking a beating submissively.
“I thought you were my father, Eric, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck…tell me I didn’t hurt you.”
“No. No, sweetheart. You didn’t hurt me. It’s all right. You’ve been holding too much inside. It all just came out at once. You’re okay.”
Funny that he’s making this about me when I’m asking if he’s okay.
I might not be able to see his face, but I figure he’s lying.
I look down at his hands, steadying the cola on my thighs, and see what I’ve done.
They’re criss-crossed with gouges, some bleeding, some not.
Half-moon fingernail imprints are as prolific as freckles, smattered up and down his hands and wrist. I’m pretty sure I catch the indents of teeth in the meaty part of his palm by his pinkie finger.
And those are just the parts that I can see.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I lost control.” I swallow hard over the thick lump that forms once more in my throat. It feels bigger than before. Like all my sins have banded together to choke me. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re in shock. This wasn’t you; it was trauma. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“You were trying to help. You weren’t to know I’d go all murder-bitch on you. “
“Neither of us could have anticipated that.” He laughs gently, suggesting he’s joking. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Jules. None of this is on you.”
But it is on me, and it was a possibility.
Sure, it hasn’t happened in years, but that doesn’t mean it went away or that I have it under control.
In fact, with all the new bullshit in my life, it is likely to happen again.
And I can’t risk that. I can’t lose control again.
It might mean the difference between life and death in the hands of Franz or Hanson.
“…I fucked up,” Ben says, like it’s a conclusion he’s come to at the end of a discussion.
I wonder how much I’ve missed while in my head.
He sighs hard and pulls away from me, coming to stand in my eyeline.
More scratches line the left side of his face.
His lip appears to have bled at some point, but it’s stopped now.
He has a pair of black eyes, but I recall Dax saying he’d hit him, so I don’t think that was me.
He grabs his phone from the shelf across the room.
“Let me call Aiden or Dax to come get you.”
My first response to his words is relief, but it only lasts a second before the reality of that option sinks in. They’ll put me on lockdown. They’ll treat me like a bomb primed to explode. They’ll not trust me to handle myself.
“No…no. Please, Ben. They will think I’m really fucked up in the head.”
“They won’t. They care about you.”
“They’re already overprotective,” I argue.
He snorts. “I can’t say I blame them.”
“Ben…” I begin, but what do I say? How do I convince him I need to handle this for myself?
Having all my decisions taken from me is almost as bad as being back at home and stifled under Eric’s rule.
I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to look after myself and be secure in who I am.
Only then can I truly accept what I’ve been through.
It’s my job. My choice. I want to invite Aiden and Dax into my life, not have them micromanage it because they think I’m too damaged to do it myself.
How long before I start believing that too and it becomes my new reality?
My new prison? I don’t want to resent the people I care about anymore. I’ve already lost Mum and Carlo.
Or maybe they’re all right, and I am too fucked up.
Perhaps none of this is worth the fight?
Maybe I’m not worth the fight. Sometimes you just have to stop and accept what you are.
And I’m damaged beyond repair. Fighting is hard, and it’s constant.
I’ll be fighting this forever. I want to rest for a while.
It’d be nice just to rest. No more trauma.
No more fighting, no more fear, no more trouble. Just peace.
Ben waits patiently for me to finish my thoughts. “Do you think…” I begin, “Do you think it’s worth it?”
His brows sink low as he watches me. “Is what worth what?”
“All of this trouble. Is it worth it…? Am I?”
“Fuck. Yes, Jules! YES. You’re worth it. You’re not trouble, but even if you came with a nuclear bomb strapped to your back and a faulty timer strapped to your front, you’d still be fucking worth it.”
A small chuckle escapes me. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” I nod. “I think I need a drink.”
“Is the cola finished? Do you need the other one?”
“I mean a real drink.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“No, probably not.” Knowing my luck, I’d end up just like Eric, regardless of DNA.
Ben spins his phone in his hand as he thinks. “How about I get you out of here for a little while?”
“And incur the wrath of Dax? Are you mad?” I chuckle. The sound is exhausted. I need to rest. But fresh air sounds nice too. A walk in the grounds might be just what I need.
“Leave Dax to me.”