Girls Love Beyoncé

64

THIRD POINT OF VIEW

The house was too quiet.

Tina walked softly through the hallway, a mug of warm tea in her hand. Her robe was wrapped tightly around her, but her arms still trembled.

It had been days since Beyoncé came home, and still, she hadn't spoken more than a few words. Hadn't eaten. Hadn't showered. Had barely moved.

Tina paused at the bedroom door. Beyoncé's room. The door was closed but not locked never locked. She knocked softly.

No answer.

She turned the knob and peeked in.

Beyoncé was curled on her side, her back to the door, body buried beneath a pile of blankets even though it was warm in the house. OJ was at her feet, eyes open and dim, head resting on her ankle like he was guarding her from something only he could feel.

The air smelled stale.

Tina stepped inside, her voice quiet but firm. "Baby... I brought you something."

No answer. No movement.

She set the mug on the nightstand and leaned over slightly. Beyoncé's eyes were open. Red-rimmed, unfocused. She wasn't asleep. She just... wasn't here.

Tina swallowed. Her fingers ached to pull her daughter into her arms and rock her like she was still small, still able to be fixed with lullabies and forehead kisses. But she knew better now.

She glanced at the bruises around Beyoncé's wrist—yellowing now, but still ugly and raw-looking. She didn't ask what happened. She didn't need to.

"I called your father," Tina whispered. "Just to keep him updated. He wants to talk to you when you're ready. No pressure."

Beyoncé blinked slowly. Her lips moved like she might say something, but nothing came out.

Tina brushed her hand over her daughter's hair, soft and tangled and damp from sweat. "OJ hasn't eaten either. He's worried about you."

OJ didn't even lift his head.

Tina stood still for a moment longer, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to Beyoncé's temple. "I'm right here," she whispered. "Always."

She left the door cracked open as she stepped out.

—

Later that night, Beyoncé dragged herself out of bed like her bones were filled with cement.

The hallway lights were dim. Shadows stretched along the floor, playing tricks on her tired eyes.

OJ padded beside her, his ears low, tail unmoving. He didn't bark. He didn't even sniff around like he usually did. He was mirroring her in every way.

She went into the bathroom and turned on the tub.

The water was scalding hot. She didn't care. Maybe she wanted to feel something—anything—that wasn't this numb, empty ache.

She stripped off her hoodie. Her shirt. Her sweatpants that hadn't been changed in three days. She caught her reflection in the mirror and nearly recoiled.

Her face looked hollow. Eyes sunken, lips dry, skin pale and blotchy from crying. She looked... haunted.

She turned away.

The second she slid into the water, her body flinched. But she didn't move. She sank in deeper until it covered her chest. The heat stung against the bruises on her wrist, but she didn't care.