Forest

Chapter Ten

The moment I step into the kitchen, my heart pounds in a chaotic rhythm, hammering against my ribs. The air feels heavier, charged, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Helping her before was different—she was always unconscious, unaware of my hands as I washed her, dressed her. I never looked longer at any part of her body than necessary.

But now, everything is different.

She is awake. Wide awake and trembling in pain, filthy but aware of every touch, every move.

She coudn't bring herself to the bathroom, let alone into the bathtub. She's too weak. Too broken. But it had to be done.

She didn't say anything as I carry her toward the bathroom, but the shame in her eyes spoke volumes. I set her down on the sink so she could remove the clothes she was wearing. The T-shirt came off easily, but she coudn't remove the boxers while sitting. I notice but didn't wanted to embarrass her any more than she already was. So, I lifted her to her feet, making sure she didn't had to stand on her own. She flinched—almost unnoticeably—but I froze.

Heat surged through me. My palms wear sweat, my chest tightens. Was I I holding her too firmly? Hurting her more than she already was? I keeped replaying it in my mind, second-guessing every motion. Her face gave nothing away, but I coudn't shake the feeling that my touch was causing her pain. The last thing I wanted is to scare her more than I already have. Yet as I was helping her remove the last of her clothing, the thought wouldn't leave me: I'm doing her harm.

But it did't stop me from noticing her body.

This time, I couldn't help but stare. Against my better judgment, my eyes betray me when hers wear turned away. I told myself I was checking the wounds, the bruises—assessing the state—but that's a lie. Her body told a brutal story I could't ignore. The bruises where fading now, at that ugly yellow stage that still felt too fresh, too vivid. The wounds on her legs and arms were scabbed, healing. But then I saw something new. Or rather, something old.

Scars.

White lines, pale dots, crisscrossing over her skin like a map of every time someone failed her. Some are faint, old, nearly invisible unless the light catches them. Others are angry and raised, jagged reminders of a blade or something worse. I couldn't begin to count them.

Each mark is a signature of someone's cruelty, a reminder that I'm not the first to hurt her. But the fresh bruises on her neck? Those are mine. My mark. My shame.

I regret it—every second of it.

I swallow hard, guilt settling like a stone in my gut. The memory of that moment resurfaces—how easily I lost control, how her body crumpled under my hands. Even now, I could see the faint discoloration on her throat. She didn't touch it, didn't flinch, but it was there. And it was enough to haunt me.

She was embarrassed. I could see it in the way her shoulders hunch, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if shielding what little dignity she has left. Her body refuses to cooperate; she couldn't even stand without leaning on me. The pain robs her of autonomy, and I know how much it was eating away at her pride.

She stays silent as I ease her into the bath, but the moment the warm water surrounds her, her body relaxed. Her lips parted slightly, a quiet exhale escaping her—a sound of relief so soft I almost miss it.

I exhale too, my heartbeat slowing for the first time since I stepped into the kitchen. The anger and frustration coiled in my chest like a snake begin to dissolve. For a few fleeting moments, there's peace.

After she was done in the bath, I help her dry off and get dressed before settling her against the headrest of the bed. I wrap the blanket tightly around her shoulders to ensure she's warm, choosing a sweater instead of a thin T-shirt for added comfort.

Then I remember—breakfast.

The thought hits me abruptly. She hasn't eaten in days. I'd promised her food, but I have no idea what she likes, what she'll tolerate. My mind races through possibilities, second-guessing every option. A sigh escapes me as I begin to prepare. Better to make a little of everything, just in case.

I throw myself into the task, hoping the action will silence my thoughts. I pour a variety of drinks into separate glasses—water, tea, coffee, orange juice, milk. It feels excessive, but I don't want to miss anything. On one plate, I arrange toast and crackers. On another, I pile options—ham, cheese, scrambled eggs, peanut butter, jam. A bowl of freshly cut fruit adds a splash of color to the tray.

I pause, staring at the assortment. Is this enough? Too much? Does it even matter?

I lift the tray and carry it to her room, my arms aching slightly under its weight. When I step inside, she's still sitting up in bed, her back against the headrest. Her posture is stiff, her body fragile. She looks at me for the briefest moment, her expression unreadable. But her silence speaks louder than words.

The tray clinks softly as I set it down in front of her. She glances at the food but doesn't move right away. I watch her, unsure if she's processing or if she's too weak to eat on her own.

Her silence feels endless.

"You need to eat," I say softly, breaking the quiet.

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the freshly cut fruit. The motion is slow, deliberate, as if even this small act costs her something. 

She doesn't thank me. She doesn't have to.

I pull back, giving her space as she begins to eat. Watching her, I can't help but feel the weight of everything unspoken between us—the guilt, the shame, the fragile truce that holds us here.

She hasn't eaten in days. She needs this.

And yet, I can't shake the feeling that no matter what I do, it will never be enough. I will never be able to gain her trust after what I have done to her.