COMPLICATED.

CHAPTER 6

NO EMOTIONS

​"What the hell happened?! I want an explanation, right now!"
My father’s shouts shattered the silence of the house.
"I don’t know exactly... he called me, stammering that he and Sasha..."
Nick’s voice was cracked with worry. I could hear his heavy breathing, the weight of having carried me this far.
"Sweetheart, please... go to your room. Nothing happened..."
My mother was using her softest voice, the one reserved for emergencies, but it was a melody that no longer reached me.
"Mom, why isn't Emma moving? Emmy, look at me!"
My brother stared at me, tears streaming down his cheeks.
​Are they talking about me? Or are they talking to a ghost? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t understand where I was; I only saw blurred silhouettes pacing around me.
"My daughter is sitting there, curled up in a corner like a wounded animal, with a vacant stare and her face destroyed because of that prick!" my father yelled, his voice rising an octave. "He wasn't even smart enough to hide his filth! Where is that coward now?"
​Your daughter? There was nothing left of that girl but ash.
"Please, Henry, not in front of Paul!" my mother pleaded.
My brother clutched his toys to his chest, his wide eyes filled with a terror he didn't deserve.
"Paul, go to your room. I won’t tell you again," my father barked.
Yes, Paul, go away. Don’t look at me. Don’t let yourself be stained by this version of me.
​"I swear, Henry, I get it," Nick cut in, and I heard the sound of his restless pacing. "You have no idea how much I wanted to hit him. When I went to get her, I had to use every ounce of self-control not to rip his head off. He kept spewing apologies at her, but she just curled deeper into herself; she didn't want anyone to touch her. It was hell just getting her into the car. I couldn't wait to get her out of there. And then he... he got on his knees, crying. Pathetic. Absolutely ridiculous."
​Did that really happen? Was I that girl, trembling?
Every word from Nick fueled the fire inside my father. His rage finally boiled over, and one of my mother’s expensive vases shattered on the floor. My mother didn’t react; she didn’t scold him or cry about the mess. She just stared at me, looking for the "young lady" she had raised. But that girl died between those dirty sheets, Mom.
​In the end, my father apologized to everyone, announced they had to go to work, and promised to call every hour to check on me. He was talking to Nick, of course. I was transparent. In my mind, the only thing playing was a loop of that kiss—of her pulling his hair in pleasure, of the sheer disgust I felt seeing him standing there in nothing but his underwear. Three years. Three years of my life wasted on a hollow man.
​"Piccola, it’s me." Nick was kneeling in front of me, his green eyes searching mine with a desperate intensity.
I looked at him, but I felt nothing. The cold had numbed me.
"Please, Emma, I can’t see you like this. Let's at least move to the sofa."
"Emma? Who is Emma?"
My voice sounded metallic, foreign even to myself. Hearing my name from him triggered a spark of rebellion.
"Can't you see? It isn't me. I’m not his Emma anymore, and I’m not anyone else’s, either."
​Nick seemed to recoil, blindsided by the sudden cynicism. I, on the other hand, was starting to find it comforting. If you don’t feel anything, no one can hurt you. It was perfect.
After an eternity, he sighed.
"You are my Emma. And I know who you are better than anyone else in the world."
His words were a whisper, a secret he perhaps hadn't meant to reveal. Why did he say it so softly? Why did it sound like a prayer? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
​The phone on the table flashed obsessively. It was him. Again.
"Turn off that phone. Turn everything off," I told Nick.
I wanted the dark. I wanted the silence. I wanted the world to stop turning.
"Alright, but let's get up now." Nick reached his arm out to me.
My reaction was immediate and sharp. "Don’t touch me!"
I scrambled back until my spine hit the cold wall. I watched the pain cross Nick’s face like an open wound. I’m sorry, but physical contact felt like poison.
​"Please, Emma, don't do this to me. Let's just go to the sofa, at least do that much."
His eyes were wet. Was he crying? My heart gave a tiny throb; I couldn't stand to see him that way. For him, and only for him, I found the strength to react. I gave him my hand, and we went to sit on the sofa. Nick relaxed slightly, and we sat there, staring at each other.
He kept searching my face—my eyes, my nose, my mouth.
His gaze lingered on my lips. He began to lean in, slowly.
​Oh god, what is he doing? Does he want to...?
In that moment, the doorbell rang repeatedly. A violent, persistent sound. I already knew who it was; I could see his silhouette pacing back and forth on the porch.
Nick looked at me, knowing I understood. "If you want, I’ll send him away. It’ll only take a second."
"No."
He stared at me.
"I’ll send him away myself. But don't leave. Stay close to me."
"Always" he whispered.
More whispers. More promises that made me shiver.
​I opened the door, and he froze.
"Oh god, Emma..."
He fell silent, looking at my broken face.
"I just wanted to..."
"Out."
Was that me talking?
It must have been, because they were both staring at me.
I finally looked Leo straight in the eyes, emptied of love and filled with nothing but cold contempt.
"Out of my life. Now!"