A Million Shattered Pieces

Chapter Seventeen

"You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it."

Friday, two days after I told my mother about the secrets I'd been hiding, I went over to Brock's.

It had been a week since he showed me his scars. Which meant today was the day. Time to see them again, to pretend the sight didn't make me want to collapse in a mess of tears. He still had no idea about the conversation between my mother and I. Our little dispute, and how I had basically refused to go to the doctor.

Like usual, his parents were out. Brock opened the door when I rang it, looking livelier than when I'd last seen him. He grinned when he saw me. A cry of surprise left my lips when he enclosed his arms around me, stepping back into the house, spinning me around.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" I said, the laughs genuine for once.

Brock set me down, and though his face was buried in the crook of my neck, I heard the grin in his voice. "Two weeks clean. I've been clean, self-harm free, for two weeks."

In the heat of the moment, I hadn't realized he wore a t-shirt. The absence of sleeves always stunned me. But it was a pleasant surprise. To look down and not see any angry red marks. To be able to look at the mess of scars, the pain he inflicted upon himself, and see that they had begun to heal.

"That's—that's amazing," I said, looking up at his face, tears of relief flooding over me. "I'm so proud of you."

And the mask I always wore crumbled just like that.

But, for the first time in a long time, I did not cry out of sadness.

I cried for the joy deep inside, the small sliver of triumph on Brock's face. He seemed proud. Accomplished.

I took both his hands in mine, and let a rush of tears spring forward, eyes refusing to leave the countless scars etched in his ivory skin. Some were so faint I had to struggle to see them. All of them told a story, a story that I would never be able to understand. A story that had the power to annihilate me, yet I could not deny the pride that swelled in my heart.

Soon, Brock began to cry with me. We laughed when we looked at each other. The sound echoed in the large foyer, and Brock cupped my face in his hands. His grin extended to his eyes, their crinkling in the corner enough to make me come to a halt.

I had never seen him so happy. Not the night we shared our first kiss, not when he saw me in the red dress, not even when we became an official couple.

Right now, in this moment, I saw true happiness. The look of a boy, almost a man, who had spent the entirety of his teenaged years at constant war with himself. Those scars would not be around to haunt us. No, they would be the wounds of a battle won. Brock had won.

Maybe this would be temporary. Perhaps we were fools to think that this could last. It did not matter. All that mattered was Brock, the pure bliss gleaming in his tear-filled eyes. I wanted to tell him I loved him now more than ever. It would be the perfect moment to admit it, to show him how deep my devotion went, but something made me pause.

Brock didn't seem to notice. His shirt flew across the room before I even knew what was happening. I glanced back at the still open door, horrified at what the neighbors would think if they saw us.

"Brock, what are you—"

His lips cut off my words. I pulled back, utterly shocked by this person standing in front of me. The grin remained plastered on his face.