I was the one taught not to listen.
Never again.
That evening, Caleb, Dana, Rachel, and I had dinner at my duplex. We made chili, burned cornbread, and argued about whether Cincinnati chili counted as real chili. Caleb said yes because we were Ohioans. Rachel said absolutely not because she had standards. Dana declared all chili valid if someone else cooked it.
I laughed until my side hurt.
Not the old pain.
A living pain.
A laughing pain.
After they left, I stood in the doorway and watched their taillights disappear down the street. My house settled behind me with small wooden creaks. The night smelled like rain and leaves and someone’s fireplace.
For a moment, I imagined the woman I had been walking into St. Mercy Regional with Trent’s hand on her back. Pale. Tired. Doubting herself. Afraid to make a scene.
I wanted to hold her.
I wanted to tell her the scene would save her life.
Then I closed the door, locked it, and turned on every lamp in the living room, not because I was afraid of the dark, but because I liked seeing what was mine.
My couch.
My books.
My ridiculous red folder, still on the shelf, labeled BURN HIS LIFE DOWN LEGALLY.
My body.
My name.
My life.
All mine.
THE END
