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I was taught that if you don't control your anger, your anger will control you. My entire childhood, I worked on keeping my temper contained. If I hadn't, I would have killed the man who forced me into a sex trafficking house, who forced me to watch and learn how to mistreat women.
But I was scared. I was a fucking coward, and I needed a roof over my head so I fucking dealt with it. Up until I finally got my hands on that motherfucker after my move-out, I controlled my anger.
But this—fuck, this is so fucking different. She is getting abused, she isn't safe, she is hurting.
This time, my anger is controlling me.
And I don't do anything to stop it.
With a clenched jaw, and an attempted blank face, I carry my Alia to my bed after drying her off and putting her into a shirt of mine that's far too big for her.
Red is all I can see, all I could see when I saw her back, saw the scar that I had no idea she had.
I wipe my thumb over her tear-dried cheek a couple times before I realize I'm shaking. Before I realize that rage is not the only thing consuming me.
I've dealt with a lot of abuse both in my own life and in helping others. I know that it is not my fault, the blame doesn't fall on me. But how the fuck didn't I notice?
The poorly-covered bruise on her face I got a glimpse of the second time I ever saw her?
The cut on her cheek that she called her badass scar and wouldn't give a reason for it?
The time refused to go to the beach with the others because she felt uncomfortable in a swimsuit?
The flinching during loud noises or when someones hand got too close?
I'm a fucking agent for an organization that is supposed to notice signs of abuse and safety concerns. Why the fuck couldn't I notice hers?
Call me selfish, but the worst fucking part of it all?
She didn't trust me enough to tell me.
"Levi," she whispers, her voice cracked and dry. Her hand reaches out to grab my arm before I could turn away to message the guys and locate her mother even if it took me all fucking night.
"Yeah, baby?" I say in what I hope was a steady tone.
"Stay," she requests.
She's not okay, and the completely and utterly shatters my heart. All I want to do is hold her tight and stop her tears and make her feel safe. But I shake my head. "I have to go do something."
"I know," she says. "You want to find my mom."
I stiffen. But I don't deny it.
She brushes a strand of her pretty hair out of her face. "It's going to storm tonight."
