Chapter 2 #3
Anything longer—
My throat tightened, cutting the thought off before it could fully form, my body already bracing for something I didn’t want to remember.
But the arms didn’t hurt me.
They clung desperately.
A small body pressed against mine, trembling so badly I could feel it through every layer between us.
She was terrified—the kind of terror that came from pure instinct—the need to hold onto something, anything, that felt safer than whatever waited behind you.
I froze for half a second longer.
Then I forced myself to breathe.
“This isn’t him,” I told myself silently—the man who had ruined me, who had made me hate touch, who had rewritten my body’s understanding of safety. “This isn’t danger. This touch won’t lead to pain. It won’t lead to agony.”
I held onto that thought like an anchor, even as my pulse refused to slow.
Carefully—very carefully—I let my hand lift.
Then, slowly, I placed my palm against the child’s back.
She was so small.
The frame beneath my palm was fragile, the bones delicate under thin fabric.
But she didn’t stop trembling. If anything, it intensified for a moment, before slowly easing into something quieter, but no less desperate.
“It’s okay,” I repeated softly, my voice lower now, “You’re safe.”
The words felt strange coming out of my mouth.
Safe.
I wasn’t even sure I believed it for myself.
The child tightened her grip in response, fingers clutching at my clothes like she was afraid I might disappear if she loosened even slightly.
A faint sound escaped her.
Not quite a sob.
More like something swallowed halfway through.
I swallowed hard, pushing past the discomfort crawling up my spine.
“You’re alright,” I murmured again, slower this time. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”
A pause.
Then—very faintly—
“...p-please...”
Her voice was small, broken at the edges, like it hadn’t been used in a long time except to beg. The child hesitated, breath catching again as if even speaking cost her something.
“...don’t... don’t send me back...”
The words landed softly.
But they struck harder than anything else in the room.
My hand stilled against her back instantly, every muscle locking as the meaning settled in.
I knew that tone.
That fear.
That quiet, desperate plea not to be returned to wherever she had come from.
I had heard and lived it before.
My fingers curled slightly at her back before I forced them to relax again.
“I promise you’re not going back anywhere you fear.” I said, more firmly this time.
The promise came out before I could stop it.
I lowered myself slowly, bending at the knees with deliberate care.
The child’s breathing met mine at chest level, quick and uneven, brushing faintly against my skin with every sharp inhale.
She couldn’t have been more than five years old—maybe even younger.
Far too small to be out here alone.
Her body shook violently, the tremors running through her shoulders and into me where she clung.
Her fingers were knotted tightly in my shirt, gripping so hard the fabric strained under the pressure.
I could feel the dampness spreading against my stomach—warm, uneven patches where her tears had soaked through.
“Hey...” I tried again, softer this time.
Carefully, I slid my hand toward one of hers, testing the tension before gently attempting to loosen her grip.
Not pulling. Just easing.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, keeping my voice low enough that it wouldn’t overwhelm her. “Would you like to come inside with me?”
The words felt fragile as I spoke them.
She drew in a sharp breath.
Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “Y—yes.”
Each word broke apart as it came out, caught between sobs she couldn’t control.
My mind raced, struggling to make sense of the child’s sudden appearance at my doorway.
A child did not simply appear at a broken doorway at this hour.
Not alone. Not like this.
I straightened slightly, just enough to free one hand, and reached into my pocket.
My fingers found my phone instantly, instinct taking over before I could even fully think it through.
Call for help.
That was the right thing to do.
The logical thing.
The second my thumb hovered over the sequence—
She reacted.
Her hand shot out, small fingers wrapping tightly around mine before I could press anything.
The movement was so sudden, so desperate, that the phone slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor.
She pulled my hand down, pressing it against her, her wet face pushing harder into my stomach.
A silent plea.
Don’t.
My breath caught.
And then—
“Mama.”
My chest dropped.
Mama.
The word hit something deep inside me with brutal precision, unraveling parts of myself I had spent years keeping tightly buried.
It tore the air from my lungs so completely that for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
My hand trembled where it rested against the little girl’s back.
I had once been heavily pregnant, carrying a child—my child.
The memory rose with brutal suddenness, stealing the warmth from my skin.
The pregnancy scan had shown she was a girl.
I remembered how anxious I had been afterward, counting down the days until I could finally hold her, clinging to that certainty like it was the only beautiful thing life had ever given me without cruelty attached to it.
In the darkness my world had become, I had built an entire future around her.
I imagined everything constantly—what she would look like when I finally gave birth to her, whether she would have my mouth or my mother’s nose, whether her hair would curl softly at the ends the way mine once had.
But more than anything, I imagined her hands.
Tiny fingers wrapping around mine for the very first time, gripping with that strange newborn strength babies had, as though they arrived already knowing how desperately they needed to hold on to someone.
I used to sit alone in silence for hours, tracing the shape of that future entirely in my mind, memorizing moments that had not even happened yet.
My blindness would never have stopped me from loving my daughter properly, from raising her with every ounce of care and devotion a mother was supposed to give.
I used to imagine her growing older beside me, blessed with the sight I no longer had, describing the world to me in that soft, excited little voice children used when they wanted you to see exactly what they saw.
The colors of the sky at sunset.
The shape of clouds drifting across summer afternoons.
The way people looked when they smiled sincerely—or when they lied through their teeth while pretending kindness.
She would have become my eyes in all the gentlest ways.
Her voice would have painted the world back into existence for me, piece by piece, until neither of us remembered what it felt like to live surrounded only by darkness.
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening painfully.
I had needed to believe—
That her presence would chase away the shadows I carried, soften the edges of everything that had been done to me.
That something good—
Something pure—
Could come out of something so wrong.
But on the ninth month—
Everything shattered.
A sharp, tearing agony had ripped through my body on the very day I was meant to bring my child into the world.
The pain came so suddenly, so violently, it stole the air from my lungs before I could even comprehend what was happening.
I remembered doubling over on the hospital bed, one hand clutching my stomach as confusion struck a heartbeat before terror did.
Then everything descended into chaos.
Voices shouting over one another.
Footsteps rushing across the floor.
The frantic rustle of scrubs and medical equipment as doctors and nurses crowded around me.
I could feel my body convulsing beneath the pain, muscles tightening in merciless spasms while they hurriedly wheeled me out of the labor room toward the emergency theatre.
And through all of it, I still did not understand what was happening.
I remembered asking what was wrong.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But no one answered me quickly enough.
Then came the warmth.
A horrifying rush between my legs— thick, hot liquid spreading beneath me faster than my mind could process.
Blood.
Too much blood.
I could feel it leaving my body in heavy waves while another savage cramp tore through my abdomen hard enough to force a scream from my throat.
That was the moment terror truly set in.
Because somewhere deep down, beneath the panic and denial, a part of me already knew.
Something was terribly wrong with my baby.
But I still refused to say it aloud.
Refused to let my mind touch the possibility.
As though denial alone could keep the truth from becoming real.
Until the doctors finally spoke the words that shattered what was left of me.
Placental abruption.
The placenta had detached too early from the womb, depriving my baby of oxygen before she could be delivered.
My daughter was already gone.
Gone while her heart had still been inside me.
Gone before I had ever gotten the chance to hold her.
Gone while I was still foolish enough to believe I was moments away from hearing her cry for the first time.
She had died inside me.
Since that day—
Everything had changed.
Or maybe everything had ended.
Life became something I moved through.
Not something I lived.
I built walls and buried everything I couldn’t survive beneath them.
Then I learned to live among the ruins.
Until now.
The small body clinging to me trembled again, dragging me back to the present with a sharp, grounding pull.
She was still here.
Still holding onto me like I was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
“Mama...”
The word came again, softer this time.
My chest tightened so hard it hurt.
This wasn’t my child.
I knew that.
But the feeling—
The pull—
The instinct rising up from somewhere deep and unyielding—
Didn’t care about logic.
It felt like the universe had taken what I lost and thrown something else into my arms.
I swallowed hard, my hand tightening slightly against her back before I forced it to ease again.
I should call the police.
The thought came clearly this time.
This terrified child wasn’t my situation to handle.
I should hand her over.
Stay out of whatever darkness she had escaped from.
My fingers twitched faintly at my side, remembering the phone now lying somewhere on the floor between us.
All I had to do was reach down.
Pick it up. Press the buttons.
End this.
But I didn’t move.
Because something deeper and older refused.
Call it selfish. Call it broken. Call it whatever you want.
But in that moment—
With her clinging to me.
Calling me mama like it was the only word she trusted—
I couldn’t let go.
I didn’t think about it again. Didn’t weigh the consequences. Didn’t reach for the phone.
I simply moved.
Carefully, I slipped one arm beneath her legs and the other around her back, gathering her up against me in a single, steady motion.
She was so light it startled me—far lighter than a child her age should be.
Her weight barely registered, like holding something fragile enough to disappear if I wasn’t careful.
For a split second, I braced myself for that familiar wave of discomfort that always came with prolonged contact.
But it didn’t come.
Not this time.
Instead—
She anchored me.
Her small body pressed against mine, breathing uneven, clinging without hesitation.
My arms adjusted instinctively, tightening just enough to support her without hurting her.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.
But she heard it.
Her grip tightened immediately, arms wrapping around my neck, her fingers curling into my hair at the nape.
Her legs locked around my waist, holding on with surprising strength, like she had no intention of letting go—and no belief that she could afford to.
I turned back into the apartment.
My body moved automatically, guided by memory and repetition.
I didn’t need sight here. I had mapped this space long ago—every corner, every shift in texture, every subtle difference in sound.
The back of my knees brushed the edge of the armchair.
I turned carefully and lowered myself into it, adjusting my hold as I sat.
She didn’t let go—not even for a second—so I shifted her gently, guiding her onto my lap instead.
One arm stayed firm around her waist, keeping her secure.
The other lifted.
I hesitated only briefly before letting my fingers move.
This was how I saw.
My fingertips brushed lightly over her face first, moving slowly as if I were trying to memorize her through touch alone—mapping, learning, trying to understand what my eyes could not confirm.
I felt my way along her cheek and paused when I noticed it was swollen, the skin tight and raised in an unnatural way beneath my touch, and before I could fully process it she flinched with a sharp, involuntary reaction, a small whimper slipping out before she could stop it.
My hand stilled instantly.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered quickly, softening my touch even further.
Carefully, I tried again—lighter this time, barely grazing her skin as I moved my fingertips over her cheekbone and then along her jaw, going slowly as though I were trying to understand her through touch alone, and then down her arm, which felt too thin beneath my hand, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten; and that was when I found it—another injury, a patch of bruising I hadn’t noticed before.
“What have they done to you...” the words left me before I could stop them, my breath catching painfully in my throat.
Who could do something like this to a child so small? What if they traced her here, came through that half-open door, and tore her away from me—and hurt anyone who tried to stop them?
Whoever they were, they were clearly not capable of mercy.