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I expected my name to float around online eventually.
But not like this.
Not associated with that stain. That day. That darkness.
I read another article and I think I’ll break.
The silence ticks loudly.
I wait for the end of the world.
It doesn’t come.
The sun still stabs its way through my white fluttering curtains. The birds twitter from the limbs of heavy trees. The floor is beneath me. Gravity holds me down. Holds me up.
My shoulders hang heavy, but there’s Kastle’s arm around me, grabbing me so I don’t fall.
My breath shakes and there’s Kastle with his face in front of me, telling me to breathe. In. Out.
“Breathe, Kae.”
And I do.
Words parade across the screen one after the other. Black characters in spaces of white. Calm little soldiers that spell out the horror of being snatched off the street, tossed into a van, abducted to pay for the bitterness and spite of a disgruntled employee.
Dry language that barely scratches the surface of my terror. The stench of urine as it spilled down my skirt. The way the van had lurched as they drove away. The taste of the gag as it scratched against my tongue. The writer failed to capture that, but she was good enough.
Words hurt, but these words can’t touch me. Here. In Kastle’s arms. My mother close. My father bursting through the door like he’ll vanquish every dragon that breathes in my direction.
My mind wants to panic. Wants to flip into that zone of unease and pain and helplessness. Wants to return to that little girl trapped in a van thinking she would die.
But there’s Kastle. His eyes narrowed with his concern. His lips next to my ear. Whispering soothing assurances. Promises. Revenge. Rough hands run the length of my arm. Down my back. Over my side.
I cling to him. Gather his strength into myself like a solar-powered battery bathed in sunlight.
Recharge.
I stand on my own.
His arms hover out to me like he expects me to stumble again. Like he wants to be ready when the world pushes against me and I lose my footing. But I stay strong. Firm. Upright.
Mom swipes away a tear. “I’m so sorry, Kaelyn. I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry you have to relive it every—” Her face crumples. “I’m sorry.”
I’m getting so many unwanted apologies lately. So many.
This woman with skin the color of porcelain and eyes she stole from the sky saw her child when she looked at me. She saw a little black baby with a bald head, fat cheeks and no mother and she said, ‘that’s her. That’s my daughter’.
This woman with silken hair that hangs limp and straight down her back protected me. Cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner for me. Told me my kinky hair—that she didn’t know how to comb—was beautiful. Frizzy and beautiful. Short and beautiful. I was beautiful.
She told me that. She showed me that.
How dare she apologize for something she had no control over?
“Stop, Mom.” I leave Kastle’s embrace with the strength I got from him. I offer it to her as I wrap her in a hug. “It’s not your fault.”
Dad wipes away a tear. He joins us in a family hug.
I squeeze my parents tight, my heart overflowing with gratefulness. It’s for them—why I hate myself for being weak, for not recovering from the trauma, for suffering when I should be over it.
