Book IV of the UNC Series
Carter Blake has a bone-deep hatred for the world-and especially for the people in it. All he wants is to keep his head down, focus on school and basketball, and avoid the mess of human connection. After enduring years of...
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I don't care. I truly don't care what happens to him.
Yet that little voice in the back of my head suggests otherwise. And it's not necessarily because it's Carter. I know what abuse looks like, having experienced it firsthand.
I know what it's like to want to isolate myself from the entire world because I'm busy accusing them for how my life turned out. I mean, what else would a child do, especially when there's nothing in my actions that could have warranted such a reaction from Ricky. I didn't ask to be beaten black and blue when I didn't make him his lunch right at the age of six. I didn't ask to have my ribs cracked because I didn't respond to his question promptly.
At that age, there's nothing I could have done—differently or otherwise—that could have changed that outcome.
He would have still found a way to hit me, brutalizing me at every turn. It was so bad that I found reasons to leave the house. Running away when he wasn't home or upstairs in his room.
It's how I met her.
She made me forget my previous life. She provided a distraction. Without her, I wouldn't have survived as long as I did, I wouldn't be striving for a legit career, and I wouldn't even have the resources for it. I would have given up a long time ago, not having even reached the age of 10.
But with her gone now, I have no distraction. And nothing I do on my own will ever make me forget what I endured.
I still remember the feeling of fear, the sprouts of pain every time I moved, the panic at his slow but firm footfalls descending the hallway. The flitting of my eyes, the sweat bleeding down my temple, the shiver that shuddered down my spine. It's something I can never forget.
It's why I'm concerned for Carter. The quietness, the bruised jaw and stiff limbs.
I feel a mix of worry and indifference. As Carter pointed out, I've developed a deep disdain for everyone—and it appears he does remember who I am. For those who stood by in silence, who believed Ricky was fit to care for a six-year-old, and for all those who ignored the bruises and black eyes I brought to school, they didn't earn my compassion or kindness. They let me down when I needed support the most, and I have every right to feel this way.
But watching Carter walk in, barely conscious, my mind returned to the evenings when I couldn't walk up the stairs to my room alone. When I would miss weeks of school because I couldn't sit up without a pang spreading across my side, threatening to cut off my airflow and blood circulation. Seeing him in pain was triggering. And I knew what a concussion looked like; I knew what pain looked like. He should have gone to the hospital. And if he refused, there must be only one plausible explanation for it.
And it's the same one I had for why I avoided hospitals for as long as I did.
But I don't care; why should I? Carter made it abundantly clear that he didn't need me or need my help. He can take care of himself.
