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“You hungry?”
She responds with silence.
Frustrated, I snap out, “Jesus, Brooke—you need to get something in you.”
I get up and busy myself, unable to handle the shroud of despair that’s overwhelmed the room.
I always thought that if I found her, she’d be happy. That she’d instantly come out of her shell and we’d be some kind of family. That is obviously not the case.
Maybe she hates me because I took her from her world. From the club, her friends, the attention. She hated her life before the apocalypse. Maybe this was her living on her own terms.
And I just ruined it for her.
Every word of what I just thought makes me want to vomit, and deep down, I know it can’t be wholly true. I saw how she looked when Frank tried to auction her off. She was frightened and ashamed. Not an eager participant.
But that doesn’t mean she didn’t enjoy her life there. She was downright gleeful on that stage.
I should just go because I can’t reconcile my anger and it’s threatening to boil over, but I can’t leave Brooke like this. And now, that anger isn’t just towards myself. I’m enraged by her delightful little strip tease on the stage.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take you from your people…I just couldn’t bear to see you up there like that.”
For the first time, she looks at me. Reallllly looks at me, cocking her head to the side as though she were trying to solve some complex math problem.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to bridge the gap between our worlds. Where once she was the gilded child, she’s now fragmented. Utterly broken looking.
“Talk to me, Brooke.”
“You think those were my people?” she says in a voice barely above a whisper.
“You tell me what they were.”
“They were monsters.”
“Well, forgive me for my confusion. The way you were dancing for them suggested otherwise.”
She looks away; her face stricken.
Shit…
“Look, Brooke, I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”
Her wounded expression fills me with self loathing. I’m not meant to be a hero, and now I’ve gone and fucked everything up.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Brooke says, “I just want to go to sleep. In the morning, I’ll figure out where to go from here.”
“You’re coming with me. I have a place—”
“No, I’m not,” she says firmly.
There’s no point in arguing with her.
“The couch turns into a bed,” I say as I get up from my seat.
“Where will you sleep?”
“I won’t, but I’ll keep to the next room to give you privacy. There are clothes in the drawers, all different sizes. You can take a hot shower if you’d like.”
She nods, her eyes glassy. I promise myself I’ll do better tomorrow. That I’ll be the brother she needs me to be.
