"Drew," he said in the same quiet tone. "Talk to me, please. Why are you doing that to yourself?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but whatever words she wanted to speak died on her tongue. She pressed a hand to her forehead as she struggled to ebb the large tears slipping down her face. Heath didn't press her and folded his arms over his chest, waiting patiently.
"It's all right," he added gently after a moment, surprising even himself with the words. "Talk to me."
Drew drew in a shuddery breath and swiped a hand over her cheeks. He had a rough idea of what she was going to tell him, piecing together things she'd told him over the weeks combined with her mannerisms. Although he was pretty sure what the punch line of her story was going to be, he sincerely hoped she wouldn't say it; that it wouldn't confirmed for real.
She seemed to be struggling for words again, so he cleared his throat and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. Maybe it would be easier for her if he wasn't staring at her.
"You told me something bad happened to you in New York," he said to the carpet. "Something bad enough to make you leave. What happened?" He lifted his eyes momentarily to her and she was still staring down at her lap.
There was an extended pause, the apartment so silent and still he could hear Rocky scratching against something in her bedroom. Heath had all but given up on getting an answer when she finally spoke.
"It happened to me last year," she said softly. "I was teaching a dance class in Queens at a community center, like I did twice a week. I lived in Harlem at the time, much to the annoyance of my parents." She shrugged. "I had to leave Brooklyn and try to do my own thing for a while. I had friends in Harlem. I liked it there. So one night I was coming home on the bus from Queens. And there was a man on the bus. He got off at my stop in Harlem. I started getting nervous because I thought he was following me. In fact, he did follow me to my apartment building." Heath's stomach tightened with stress and he continued to glare at the floor. "But he got on the phone with his friend and told him he was on his way over. And when I got inside, he went down a different hallway. So I stopped to check my mail, and I continued up to my apartment. When I got to the door, I felt something press into my back and I felt hot breath on my ear and a man's voice telling me to stay quiet and let him in or he'd shoot me. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do. I asked him what he wanted and he said he wanted to rob me and take my cash and that I better hand it over or that he'd kill me. So I let him in and as soon as he was inside with the door shut, he pistol-whipped me. I fell on the floor in my living room and I just remember him flipping my coffee table over with one hand like it didn't weigh anything, just to get it out of his way. He stood over me while I was on the floor and we just stared at each other for a long time and I realized in that moment he never wanted to rob me."
Heath pulled in a deep, silent breath as he listened, shutting his eyes for an instant before returning them to the carpet. He folded his lips inward as she continued, her voice beginning to tremble.
"He leaned down over me and I guess I was too afraid to move, to try to fight, anything. I think that's why, looking back, I got into working out and boxing and stuff. So that I could try to make it second nature to fight back. He pressed the gun to my head and told me to take my clothes off and that I better be quiet or he'd kill me. So, I did. I took them off." He heard a light smacking sound and glance up quickly, seeing her hand pressed to her forehead again. He didn't have time to look away before her eyes opened and she looked straight into his. He saw shame and utter humiliation in them, and the look was almost enough to make him want to tell her to stop, that she didn't need to continue. But she seemed to want to, to need to. At her next words, he clenched his jaw so tight he thought he might have cracked his teeth. But she said the words without looking away from him, her voice dull and almost flat.
"He spent the next ten hours raping me. Over and over and over. All over my apartment. He raped me in every way possible. He raped me with himself. His gun. He broke a chair leg and raped me with that."
Heath looked away then, bringing his hands to his face. He rubbed them over his skin, his throat tightening. "Jesus Christ," he said hoarsely.
Again, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to stop, the urge stronger than before. But he knew he couldn't. It had taken her so long to open up to him; and finally, she trusted him enough to tell him this devastating, traumatizing story. For all he knew, she might have never opened up this way to anyone else. He couldn't tell her stop now, just because he couldn't handle it. It wouldn't be fair.