I sat with her, wrapping my arms around her. She cried in my chest like a five-year-old, shaking uncontrollably.
Slowly, I lifted her to her feet, put her coat back on her shoulders, picked up her bag. I held her close and took her home.
She fell asleep in my arms on the way. By the time we arrived, she was barely conscious. I laid her on the bed so she could rest.
My hand was bleeding but not badly. Some antiseptic and a bandage would handle it. While I was cleaning the wound, I noticed movement. Sara was standing in the doorway, silent, staring at me.
Michael: You're not okay. Do you want to take a shower? A hot shower might help.
Sara: Yeah… will you come with me?
Michael: If you want me to.
Sara: I do.
I took her to the bathroom. She stood silently as I helped her out of her clothes, piece by piece, as though she no longer had the strength - or will - to do it herself. When my eyes fell upon her body, I felt something inside me crack. Scars. Burns. Signs of violence and survival written across her skin like a tragic scripture. Every mark told a story she had never spoken. Every breath she took was proof she had lived through something that should have destroyed her.
She stepped beneath the shower. The water flowed over her like a quiet confession.
Sara: Aren't you coming?
Her voice was soft. Childlike. Vulnerable.
Michael: I'm coming.
I undressed and joined her under the warm cascade. She stared at me as if trying to recognize herself through my eyes. I stepped closer and kissed her gently.
After a while, we sank into the bathtub. I sat behind her and began to wash her back with the sponge. When she pulled her hair back so I could clean her neck, I saw them - faint lines etched across her wrist. Dozens of them. So close together it was impossible to count. She had tried… many times. Tried to escape her pain. Tried to silence the storm.
And failed. Or perhaps… life refused to let her go. Or maybe - just maybe - it had been waiting for this moment. For me. For us. Or maybe it was my good fortune… I used to think that sin and wrongdoing meant doing certain things from a blacklist - but I was wrong. The greatest sin, the one that is unforgivable, is not doing certain things.
I wrapped my arms around her from behind, I kissed her shoulder, holding her as though she might dissolve if I let go.
Michael (whispering): I'm never leaving you alone again. From now on, you stay with me. Always.
Sara (quietly): Why… why would you do that?
Michael: Because I love you.