Page 93 of Yours to Keep
I keep going.
Photo after photo is laid across the coffee table. All of them are me: broken, bruised, and bloodied. He had sent everything. I hadn’t even known about the photos. Every beating and bruise. Every injury. Adrian had documented all of it.
I keep going because if I stop now, I won’t be able to start again. I’ve already told them everything: not the edited version I gave therapists, or the police, or anyone who looked at me with pity.
I don’t give them the version where I tripped. Or fell. Or had a car accident.
The people sitting in this room know the truth, laid bare. They know that Adrian wants to remind me exactly who I used to be, and he is doing it with all the photos sitting piled up on the table between us. He wants to show them that I am weak, vulnerable, and afraid.
This is his gift. His reminder. His way of telling me he’ll always own my past. To make me remember how his kindness became control, how control became isolation, and how that became fear. Every insult he threw at me was designed to keep me small.
And it worked. I felt worthless, tiny, and unlovable. The worst part? I thought I was lucky. Lucky someone like Adrian noticed me. Lucky he stayed. Lucky he loved me.
I pull out another document. This one is a hospital report. I remember this one.
This was one of my many “accidents.”
It was after a supposed home invasion, though the truth was far different. It was one of the worst beatings Adrian had ever given me. I’d embarrassed him in front of his colleagues again, and this was my punishment.
Adrian played his part perfectly. Tears streaked his cheeks, and his voice cracked with just the right amount of concern as he yelled for help. He told everyone he’d come home and found me like this. He stayed by my side while they examined me, followed me to my CT scan and X-rays, never leaving my side.
He looked like the devoted, terrified partner.
I knew the real reason he stayed: he wanted to make sure I didn’t tell the truth.
I didn’t. I never told them he was the one who had done this to me.
He was the perfect actor.
It was one of many that were officially recorded, and each time, Adrian performed. The files were thin, and no one raisedany concerns. That’s how convincing Adrian was; he fooled everyone.
Another beating, another claim that there had been a break-in. A car accident. He lied. There were police reports and more hospital reports, but nothing came of them. They believed him, and they didn’t believe me.
The cycle repeated itself week after week, month after month, year after year, and the photos prove it.
By the time I finish laying everything out, the room is deathly silent.
Deck hasn’t moved once. His jaw is locked so tightly I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. The look in his eyes mirrors CJ’s. It’s not just anger. It’s vengeance. He wants to hurt Adrian.
Finn sits in Deck’s lap with his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have turned white. Tears stream down his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and drags a hand over them.
“Oh, Eli…” His voice breaks.
I can’t look at him. I can’t comfort him. Not right now; if I do, I’ll break too.
Beside me, CJ picks up each photo one at a time. He is studying them. He picks one up, then puts it down, picking up another, and another. I know he’s memorizing them.
Memorizing every bruise. Every cut. Every scar. Every drop of blood.
I watch him, and his face never changes, but his shoulders grow tighter with every photograph. When he reaches the last page, he quietly closes the folder.
I can’t breathe. I can’t look at CJ, or Deck, or Finn. I can’t bear to see pity in their eyes.
Then I feel a hand settle over mine. CJ has moved closer.
I look up, and his eyes lock onto mine. I see fury in them: enough to burn the world down. And for once, none of the fury is directed at me.
“Nobody,” he says, squeezing my hand, “is ever touching you again.”
