I can leave with my son or without.
That’s the choice.
The answer seems simple when I think of it that way.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper immediately, and the words don’t hurt so much because the reason why I concede and say them at all is in my arms right now.
“I can’t hear you,” he seethes in my face.
He’s still holding my hair tight and I cringe against the pain. It feels like, if he pulls a little harder, he’ll tear off my scalp right along with my hair.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. Tears of pain blossom in the corners of my eyes.
But he’s not done.
“Do you like my face?” he muses, taking advantage of my new meekness.
I can barely hear him over Phoenix’s screaming.
“Shush, little bird,” I say to my son, rocking back and forth in the chair. “Cálmate. It’s okay, it’s okay…”
“Shut him the fuck up!” the blonde guard screams at me.
A tear falls down my cheek and lands right on Phoenix’s. He hiccups suddenly and looks at me with wide eyes as though shocked about the sensation of water on his cheek.
“I’m sorry, little bird,” I say to him. “I’m so sorry…”
I rock him back and forth even as the blonde soldier releases my hair for a moment.
I cringe down, but I don’t look at him.
I know what’s coming.
He grabs my hair again, but this time, he just wants clear access to my face. When he has it, he backhands me hard across the cheek.
Knuckle cracks against jaw.
My vision dissolves into flecks of white light like falling snow.
He rears back to swing again—when the door opens.
And the violence in the air suddenly shifts. The guard freezes, releases me. My vision starts to piece itself back together bit by bit.
I hear a voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
I thought I was saved.
I was so, so wrong.
When my sight finally resolves, I find myself looking at Eagle Tattoo’s broad, mashed-up face.
He’s not looking back at me, though. His fury is directed at the blonde man standing between us.