I had seen my father gutted for no reason other than he wanted to protect his family.
I’d been there, sitting in the living room. The fireplace lit up from the dancing flames in the corner, providing enough heat to keep the room warm. My mother was sewing a patch on my father’s work pants and she softly hummed while she worked the needle in and out of the fabric. She’d done this many times and I’d always sat beside her while she did.
The lock on the door didn’t stop the men from entering the house. And my mother’s screams didn’t stop them from carrying out what they’d come there to do.
One of them held me down. Another did the same to my mother. My father fought against the third one, but he wasn’t a fighting man. My dad didn’t stand a chance.
I couldn’t turn my head away as the man stabbed my father four times in the chest. He did it without a care that I was there. Without a care that my mother was there. With one final swipe of his blade, my father’s stomach split open. The man left him there like he was nothing, blood pouring out of his body and covering the floor.
Then he came for me.
Only, death wasn’t my gift from them that night.
I tried to remember if I felt scared or angry. Or if I screamed and fought. I tried to bring back the fear that I must have felt when they held me down and tore my clothes away from my body.
But there was nothing to bring forth except the images of what happened that night.
Even picturing their hands all over me didn’t shock some kind of emotion to run through my veins.
I thought hard, trying to remember if I had cried then.
Or after when we laid my father to rest.
I had been fourteen.
Old enough to know what was going on but too young to do anything about it.
I couldn’t remember how I felt.
Or if I ever had.
I only remember watching my mother cry and cry and cry until she had nothing left to give. I felt like I had to be strong for her. So that must have been why I didn’t cry. Someone had to pick up the pieces and my mother had been too heartbroken to do it.
My mother loved my father dearly, that much I knew. But I couldn’t recall how I knew that.
I suspected that I might feel a touch of what she had if something were to happen to Iron.
It was clear Iron cared for me deeply. Not only did he say it— and mean it— he showed me in so many ways. What had I ever done for him? How could I show him that he meant something to me? I somehow didn’t think that saying it was enough but I couldn’t wrap my head around why.
I closed my eyes and I almost felt his warm hand stroking over my hair. Even when he brushed the tangles out he was gentle, always working from the bottom up like he knew the best way to do it without hurting me. And his free hand would run down behind the brush smoothing the stray strands.
“Hey,” Iron said softly and I heard the door close with a soft click.
I opened my eyes and watched as he crawled onto the bed. He mirrored my pose, facing me.
“What’s wrong, Pet?” he asked and I could hear the worry in his tone. My eyes closed briefly as he sweetly ran his hand over my hair. “What’s this look? I’ve never seen it before.”
To some, it would have seemed like a strange thing to say. I guess in a way, it was. But I understood it completely.
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “How is she?”
His eyes went sad and he scooted closer to me.
“Not good,” he replied with a soft sigh.
“How are you?”
“Not good.”
