Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Who was that?"

I turned to him with a playful smile, but froze when I saw his jaw clenched, his brows drawn together, and his eyes fixed on me.

"You scared me," I said, with my heart thumping — the words coming out light, almost playful, like I could talk this back into being nothing. Like if I treated it as a joke, it would turn into one.

But he came close and gripped my arms.

"Who was that?" His fingers dug into my skin as his grip tightened.

This wasn't about Paschal. It was about my family closing in.

I looked at him and swallowed hard, my body trembling beneath his grip.

"You are hurting me." I flinched.

He ignored my remark and kept digging into my arms painfully, his eyes piercing straight through me.

"Who is he?"

"Who is who?" I asked, my voice straining as his fingers ground deeper into my arms, already bruising beneath his grip.

He released his grasp, but before I could catch my breath, his fist struck me hard in the abdomen.

Pain exploded through me. My breath caught, and my legs gave way beneath me. I crumpled to the floor, clutching my stomach as I fought to breathe.

This wasn't Jason. For a moment there was only white noise — no pain, no thought, just a ringing blankness where my mind should have been. Then it all rushed back at once.

The thought sent a chill through me.

Something was terribly wrong.

I dragged in a small, shaky breath before forcing myself to speak. "It is Paschal, my brother."

He stood above me and punched me in the face.

"First, it was your father. Now, your brother all snooping won't stay off"

I flinched as the blow landed across my face. A sharp ringing filled my ears, and my vision blurred. Warm blood slipped from my nose, and I swayed, struggling to make sense of what was happening.

"You think I would leave Mara for you?"

His foot slammed into my ribs. A sharp crack echoed through my body, followed by a burst of pain that stole what little breath I had left.

Mara?

Blood streamed from my lips and dripped from my nostrils as I dragged myself across the floor. My body felt numb, almost lifeless.

I felt dead.

But somehow, I was still breathing.

"I would never leave Mara for anyone." His fist slammed into my face.

"Never."

A cry tore from my throat, raw and broken, as another blow struck my chest, sending a sharp burst of pain through me.

"For anyone."

His fist drove into my abdomen, knocking the breath from my lungs. A guttural groan escaped me, the only sound I could manage.

"Look at you. You’re not even as good as the girls I screw. Did you really think I loved you?"

His words cut deeper than the blows.

He spat on me, then turned away as though I were nothing more than something beneath his feet. Without another glance, he disappeared into the bedroom to gather his belongings.

I lay there listening to him move around, calm and unhurried, as though nothing had happened at all. That was somehow worse than the beating itself — the realization that none of this had been rage. It had simply been done.

While he was inside, I crawled weakly across the floor and reached for my phone. With trembling fingers, I dialed the last number on my call log. I didn't care who answered. I just needed someone.

The call connected.

"Hello? Hello?"

But the voice sounded distant.

"Hello, Mabel. Can you hear me?"

I recognized it.

Paschal.

"Please... help me," I croaked. The phone slipped from my fingers, and I blacked out.

I don't remember how I got to the hospital, but when I opened my eyes, my mother, Paschal, and Trinidad were standing beside my bed. I tried to speak, but realised I was wearing an oxygen mask. My mother's eyes were red and puffy, as though she had been crying for hours.

Trinidad couldn't bear to look at me. He turned away and walked out.

Paschal stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his hands trembling at his sides. He didn't say a word. After a moment, he turned and walked out too, and I heard the door to the hallway close a little too hard behind him.

A few moments later, the doctor arrived and examined me before stepping aside with my mother.

"She has a fractured rib," he said.

My mother's eyes widened. She pressed both hands over her mouth, her shoulders trembling as she stared at me.

Three months later, I sat in a wheelchair in my old bedroom. I turned my head toward the window, and a sharp pull along my side stole the breath from my lungs before I could stop it — the incision along my ribs, still healing, still unforgiving of even small movements.

When the ache eased enough to breathe again, I noticed the room had gone strange on one side — a hazy blur where the dresser should have been sharp. I blinked, but it didn't clear.

Beneath me, the drainage bag shifted against the wheel as my mother adjusted my chair, the tube tugging faintly where it ran between my legs. I still hadn't gotten used to needing it — to not trusting my own body to do what it used to do without thinking.

I was told I might never walk again. The damage to my spinal cord meant no one could say for certain if I'd stand on my own two feet again.

Yet every memorable thought I had of Jason remained painfully clear. But he was nowhere to be found. My mother stood behind me, drawing the brush slowly through my hair, and I caught our reflection in the mirror across the room — her face soft with worry, mine unreadable to me. I looked away before I had to decide if I recognized her.

The day he went to the bank to pay Mara's hospital bill, he emptied my bank account and took my jewellery—some pieces adorned with diamonds, gold, and other gorgeous stones.

I begged my brother to check on Mara at the psychiatric facility, but when he got there, she was nowhere to be found. She had never been insane in the first place.

Every ounce of guilt I'd carried, every flicker of jealousy I'd let myself feel — all of it had been for a lie. He hadn't just taken my money and my body. He'd taken the truth itself and handed me something else to believe in instead.

That night, as I lay in bed replaying everything he'd taken from me, something stirred low in my chest — not sorrow, not rage exactly, but something older, something that didn't feel like it belonged to me at all. My hands ached, deep in the bones, in a way no doctor h ad mentioned. I told myself it was nothing.

I was wrong.