The stuffed animal is forgotten on the bed, and I make no effort to retrieve it.
Security cameras will explain exactly what happened here tonight.
“Is that your daddy?”
My eyes snap to the other little girl in the other bed as we walk toward the door.
What I wasn’t yet worried about has now become a complication.
The little girl standing by my side squeezes my hand, as if telling me not to hurt anyone because she’ll take care of it. Her bravery stuns me for a second. I never would’ve chanced pain or punishment at her age for anyone.
“Yes,” the little girl at my side answers before looking back up at me.
I smile down at her, the action foreign on my face before I urge her out of the room, looking toward the nurses’ station to make sure the coast is clear.
She’s slow, her injuries making her little face scrunch in pain, but she never complains. Not a single hiss of discomfort leaves her lips, not even when I sweep her up in my arms in the elevator because she’s moving too slowly, not when I shove her into the back seat of my truck.
She’s brave. I’ll give her that.
Bravery is stupid, however.
Bravery can get you killed when facing your teacher.
Do your worst.
Those were my mother’s last words. She challenged my father.
It was the only time he obeyed her.
“Seatbelt,” I snap when those blue eyes just stare up at me.
Taking a little girl from a hospital isn’t even close to the worst thing I’ve ever done. Hell, I don’t think it makes it into the top ten, but my own hands are trembling as I pull out of the hospital parking lot.
The shake doesn’t ease until I’m heading south.
“Do you need something to eat?” I growl.
Blue eyes blink at me in the rearview mirror before her little head shakes.
“Do you need something to drink?”
Another shake of her head.
“Bathroom?”
Those blue eyes widen slightly before she shakes her head this time.
Varon may be one of the best teachers I’ve seen, but the fear in her eyes, the bruises marring her skin, makes me rageful.
Children are meant to be taught, not hurt.
Those words came from my father.
His father didn’t have the same mindset.
The itch to kill grows with each passing mile, and I only start to feel relief when the little girl closes her eyes, exhaustion winning against her desperate need to anticipate what’s coming next.
I refuse to analyze why I do it, but I slow down, cautious of the dips and bumps in the road.