Heavy Is The Cost

Ethics

Sarah seemed to physically feel herself fill with anger, with pure and stiffening rage. How could someone hit their own kid? How could someone hit innocent Jeremy?

"Are you alright?" This time, it was Jeremy asking Sarah. She was tempted to yell at him, to throw an insult at his face, one that would hopefully hit harder than the hits she'd given him days before. She was tempted to demand to know more, to demand he tell her everything wrong in his life, to comfort him, to punch his dad square in the nose until he was begging for bloody mercy.

And yet, in her rage, she found a sort of calm, a sort of quiet before the storm, and answered with a gentle, "I'm fine," followed by a heavy and burdened silence.

Maybe it was an accident, she thought. That's why he's being so quiet about it, because doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. Sarah glanced serendipitously at him and his forearm, the dark mark that covered most of it, and she knew, somehow, a gut instinct or the familiarity of unspoken trauma and things that cannot be undone by those you've trusted. She knew it could not have been an accident. But maybe it was a one-time thing, she fretted silently. It doesn't make it okay, does it? Even if it was just... once?

She shuttered helplessly. That doesn't make it okay. Her mind drifted slightly. It was only one time that he touched me. It was only one time, one day, one mistake. It doesn't make it any less. She took a shaky breath, feeling ill, attempting to get control over her complexion, but as she turned to look at Jeremy's solemn face again, and at that mark on his arm, she boiled with rage all over again. After a few more painful minutes, Sarah raised her hand, and asked to go to the restroom while the teacher was passing out a worksheet.

"Be quick," the teacher'd say.

Sarah practically raced through the long hallway to get there, and once safely locked in a stall and alone, she felt immense relief, and yet, immense pressure. She sat on the floor, her back against the cold wall of the stall, not even hardly daring to breathe. The pressure bubbled and boiled over, until she had her face in her cupped hands, and couldn't stop the tears from spilling, and not even sure why, at this point.

If his father hurt him, she reasoned with herself desperately, then he would have called the police, right? She growled audibly. Okay, so how come nobody has caught on? Perhaps the reason that nobody had caught on to Jeremy's abusive dad was because his dad wasn't abusive, and Sarah's mind was just running wild as it usually did. That must be it, she thought determinedly, and yet, uncertainly.

A few moments passed, and somehow, Sarah'd managed to push all of the thoughts and memories and accusations to the back of her mind. Take control of yourself, she'd think. And eventually, she did, sniffling just once, and then leaving the bathroom dry-faced.

It didn't take long to reach the classroom. Jeremy had fallen asleep on his desk. Glaring at the worksheets on their desks, Sarah sat down beside him. She struggled with hers, struggled to focus and concentrate, struggled to understand the instructions and answer the questions on the paper. Somehow, she got it done, with a bit of time to spare. Noticing Jeremy's page was still blank, she decided to copy the answers down for him, too, but in noticeably poorer handwriting. The teacher gave Sarah a look as she turned in the assignments, but Sarah didn't notice. Jeremy only awoke once the bell had rang, and he awoke with a start. But, then he glanced up at her with bright eyes, and a grin. Maybe, after all that, he was just tired, Sarah thought hopefully. They walked together down the hall to their next hour class, and once there, were met by an unfamiliar face. A dark and lanky boy sat down beside them at their usual table, as if he knew them. Jeremy did not seem to mind; Sarah, on the other hand, was perpetually bothered by the boy's mere existence. The bell rang finally, and as with every other class, the common-faced teacher began to give out instructions, and then, the dreaded worksheet for the day.