Page 23 of Letters From A Stalker

She was six years old, and two adults had taken their betrayal, humiliation, and selfishness and dumped it on a child because blaming her was easier than confronting each other. Fucking cowards.

“You told the truth,” I offer.

“I know.”

“You were a child.”

“I know.”

“But some part of you still believes that if you’d stayed quiet, the fight wouldn’t have happened.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The anger returns, though this time it sits over something far more vulnerable.

“I was six.”

“Exactly.”

“I didn’t understand what I was saying.”

“Exactly.”

Her brows pull together. “Then why does it sound like you’re arguing with me?”

“Because I’m not arguing with the adult sitting in front of me. I’m challenging the belief the child carried away from that space.”

The anger flickers before she looks down at her hands. “What belief?”

“That telling the truth creates damage.”

Her body stills.

The connection becomes visible before she speaks. The skating rink, her parents’ fight, the years of minimizing herself, and the bite mark hidden beneath her sleeve all exist along the same line.

“What happens when you need something?” I ask.

“I handle it.”

“What happens when you can’t?”

“I try harder.”

“And when trying harder doesn’t work?”

Her fingers curl around the injured hand. I look at the movement, and something possessive settles beneath my sternum. I want to pull her sleeve back, inspect every mark, hold her wrist between my fingers, and tell her she’ll never put her teeth through her own skin again.

The impulse is irrational, invasive, and entirely outside the boundaries of this room. I keep my hands exactly where they are.

“Is this where you tell me I’m deeply damaged?” she asks.

“No.”

“That’s disappointing. I was promised a diagnosis.”

“I don’t diagnose people after one appointment.”