Page 229 of Disarm
“I know,” I cut in, because if he keeps trying to explain, I’m going to say something I can’t unsay. “I get it. You’re relieved. He’s gone. I am too. I think.”
The truth is, I don’t know what I feel yet.
Relief is there, like a thin thread of air in a smoke-choked room. But there’s also this weird, ugly sadness coiled low in my stomach.
For a man who hurt me.
For a version of him that might’ve existed if someone had yanked him out of his own hell earlier.
For a kid somewhere whose abuser is still alive.
“Caleb,” Dad says carefully, “we can talk about this more. In person. With Dr. Kaur looped in if you want. I just… didn’t want you finding out alone, without context.”
“Too late,” my brain whispers.
I’m always alone with context.
“Thanks for telling me,” I say. The words feel stiff in my mouth, like they’re made of cardboard. “I, uh… have to get back to my group. We’re trying to not fail a presentation.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll… let you go. Text me later, if you want. Or don’t, if you need space.”
“Yeah,” I say. “One day at a time, right?”
He exhales. “One day at a time.”
I hang up.
The stairwell is suddenly too big and too small at the same time. The buzzing in my skull cranks up a notch.
He died.
He died.
He’s gone.
He can’t hurt you anymore.
My body doesn’t get that memo. Every nerve ending feels like it’s bracing for a blow that’s twenty years late. For a second, I picture eight-year-old me in that kitchen. Tiny, hungry, spine straight as a board. Picture that man’s fist hitting the wall next to my head. The sound. The smell of beer and anger.
You’re too much.
You’re not worth the food you eat.
You should be grateful anyone keeps you.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
The exhale shudders out of me like it’s caught on barbed wire. I pull out my phone again. My thumb hovers over Miguel’s name.
Caleb
Miggy, so… You know the piece of shit who helped my mom abuse me? He’s dead.
