“What happened to you, Rose?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Don’t tell me it’s fucking nothing.” I grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. My hard-on long forgotten by what I feared were scars. I ran my fingertips over the raised flesh and my suspicion was confirmed.
Her thighs were covered in tiny, raised scars invisible among the trailing vines, thorns, and roses tattooed over them.
“Who did this, Rose?”
“Cash, please. Just let me go.”
I pulled her further down the bed until my face hovered over hers. “Who fucking hurt you?”
She turned her head. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled over the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were closed, and she refused to look at me.
That was when I knew.
She had hurt herself.
The scratching at her legs. The fake smile. Her telling me everything was quiet when she was with me. It all made fucking sense, and I had missed it. Just like I missed that shit with Rachel.
The headaches, the nausea, not wanting to go outside in the sun. She kept brushing it off and I fucking let her.
Not this fucking time.
“How long?” I gently turned her face to mine. “How long, baby?”
She shook her head, refusing to look at me. Tears ran down her cheeks and pooled on the blanket below her. I gathered her in my arms and kissed the wet trail left by her sadness.
As I pulled her off the bed, her eyes opened, but she refused to turn them my way. “Get dressed, baby.”
I left the room, closing the door gently behind me. I pressed my back against the door and slid to the floor. My hands held my head as I tried to make sense of what I’d learned. What she wouldn’t confess.
Why did she do it?
Was she still doing it?
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed my brother’s number. When the call connected, my voice was like gravel as I said, “Brother, I need your old lady in my room. Right fucking now.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I couldn’t leave her alone. Not without knowing if she was still hurting herself. Opening the door, I looked around the empty room. My eyes focused on the closed bathroom door.
I grabbed the knob and twisted. When it didn’t give, I called out to her. “Rosie, open the door, baby.”
I waited, but there was no answer.
“Open the door or I will bust it fucking down.”
Mellie rushed into my room. She must have been downstairs, because Mimic was right behind her.
“What’s going on? What happened?” she asked.
“Baby, open this fucking door.” I shoved my shoulder into it. Mimic pulled at my arm.
“What the fuck did you do?” he yelled. “Rosebud? Are you ok?”
“No, she’s not fucking ok.” I shoved him aside and stepped back, slamming my boot against the doorknob.
The door slammed open, breaking off the bottom hinges, but it barely registered. Because my woman, my Rose, was sitting on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall. A knife in her hand, as blood trickled down the outside of her leg.
