ALL THE WORDS WE COULDN'T SAY

T W E N T Y T W O

The truth was that I had more than enough time to finish those essays. But I just wanted to see how much Killian would do for me. Twisted, yes. Deep down, in the part of my heart that I actively avoid processing, I knew that Killian would do far more than a few essays. He can write that shit in his sleep. That stupid, photographic memory of his. But why? Why would he do anything for me? I've been nothing but heartless to him ever since we collided in that bathroom. I guess he feels guilty, which I'm glad he does. But if anything, it just makes me hurt even more. It keeps the memory of Chris alive and fresh. Sometimes, I wish he didn't even recognise me. Or he'd forgotten about the whole thing. That might've helped make Chris feel like a forgotten memory too.

As I scrolled through the university's ballet society page, the temptation to join grew even more as I saw that they provided pointe shoes for free. But I probably wasn't good enough to join anyway. How long had it been since I'd gotten on pointe? How long had it been since I leapt and turned and bowed to the music? Too long. Muscle memory might still be there but no way would there still be the technique, the pure strength, that I once had.

A knock at my door pulled me away from the memories of Madam Alarie and ballet class. As I opened the door, I saw Killian standing there and I could immediately tell something was wrong. His face held some sort of worry greater than whatever was going on between us. What's worse was that I felt every inch of my heart yearn to ask him what might've happened, to comfort him in the same way he did to me five years ago when I showed up at his door.

"Hey," I mustered.

"Hi. I finished off the essays." He handed me a stack of paper I hadn't noticed until now.

"That quick? It's only been a day or something."

"I couldn't sleep anyway." This was when I noticed the duffle bag hung over his shoulder.

"Going somewhere?" I asked, trying not to sound like I cared too much.

"Uh... yeah." Killian awkwardly paused before adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "I'm going back home for a bit."

I swallowed heavily. Back home? Back to Marlow. Well, of course, he'd be going back. He's got family there. In fact, why did he bother attending a university so far away from Marlow, when he was more than capable of getting into a place like Oxford or Cambridge?

"Oh, okay..."

"Sorry, I-"

"You've nothing to apologise for." I stopped him before he could say anything to make my heart ache further. "Thanks." I shut the door.

•

"Persy, I'm getting really worried about you."

I ignored my mum as I sat on the sofa.

"Don't ignore me."

"I just don't want to do it anymore. You should be glad. You won't have to spend any more money on my ballet gear."

"You think I care about the money? What's going on with you? Ballet used to be your favourite thing ever?"

"Well, now it's not. Can you just fucking leave it?" I snapped at her.

This was when Chris intervened. "Hey! Don't talk to your mother like that."

It had been a month since the party where Killian tore my heart to shreds. Ever since, I'd been spiralling into a whirlpool of madness. My mother became wary once she'd recognised how crude I'd become. Then she was on the verge of calling a psychiatrist once she learned I'd quit ballet. It didn't matter to me. Nothing really mattered to me anymore.

I met Chris's gaze with narrowed eyes. Something I never did before. "I don't see why this concerns you." I spat at him. I was practically asking for a death sentence but fuck it. Death seemed much sweeter.

I was met with a harsh slap from my mother. "How dare you speak to your father like-"

"He's not my fucking dad!" I stood up, fury coursing through my limbs like bright lava. "And he never will be."

"Persephone Leos, you take that back right now or-"

"Or what, Mum? What? What could you do that will possibly be worse than what I've been through?"

My mother's brows drew together. "What are you talking about?"

"You're so blind." I hung my head in exhaustion.

"Persy, please just tell me what is happening." She grabbed a hold of my shoulders and shook them so violently I felt my brain jerk inside my skull.

My eyes flashed towards Chris. He was waiting for the bomb to drop. There was nothing in his eyes that begged me to stop, they were taunting me as if daring me to say the truth. If I hadn't looked at him, I might've kept my mouth shut. But I was far beyond my wit's end. Fuck it.

"Your husband's a rapist."

Silence blared within the space between us. My mother stood frozen, mouth gaped open.

When I couldn't take the silence anymore, I spoke again. "Chris has been raping me for the past two years."

My mother still didn't move.

"Mum, say some-" I was met with a brutal slap delivered by the woman in front of me. That was followed by a punch, and another and another. At one point, she'd gotten a flower pot and smashed it against my head. But I didn't feel a thing. The one person I thought I had left by my side had abandoned me when I needed her the most. The pain from her attacks was triumphed by the shattered hope that she might've believed me. She made my fears become reality. How long did I keep this a secret? How long had I buried the agony of Chris, fearing that my mother wouldn't believe me?

"Never show your face here again," was the last thing I heard my mother say before I left that two-bedroom flat, and never returned.

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