“I took the strikes, Mom,” she sobbed, her knees finally buckling beneath the weight of her exhausted body.“I let him hit me…
I thought…
I thought I was being strong…”
I caught her before she could hit the floor.
I pulled her into my chest, wrapping both arms around her shoulders, holding her tight against the damp canvas of my coat, ignoring the ache in my own bruised ribs, ignoring the blood on the floor, ignoring the sirens that were beginning to wail three levels above our heads as the security team responded to the discharge alert.
“You are strong, baby,” I whispered into her hair, smelling the familiar, sweet scent of lavender soap that she had used since she was six years old.“You survived the Harringtons.
You survived Julian.
And now, you’re going to survive this.”
“Where do we go?” she wept into my collar, her fingers digging into the fabric of my coat, holding on with everything she had left.“There’s nothing left.