"He raped me in my own bed. He made me lay next to him while he slept. He—he made me hold him." A sob involuntarily erupted from her throat and she clapped a hand to her mouth. It was a long moment before she could talk again. "When he wasn't raping me or making me hold him, he was beating me. He cracked six of my ribs. He broke my hand. He gave me a concussion. I had black eyes, split lips. He even knocked three teeth out of my mouth which I later had to have replaced." She stared off into space, as if seeing herself in the aftermath of what had happened. "Finally, in the early hours of the morning the next day, he left. But not without one final rape." Heath glanced at her face again, now feeling truly sickened, and waited. He knew it would haunt him, but he waited for it. She slid her eyes back to his and stared through him. "He raped me with a knife. From my kitchen." She whispered the words.
Abruptly, Heath rose from the sofa and placed his hands on his head. He didn't know what he was doing; he just needed to move. Bile rose in his throat and remorse and sorrow for her slammed into him like a freight train. It all made sense now—her fear, her dislike of being touched or close to people, her anxiety and panic.
Her self-inflicted wounds.
He turned to face her. She wasn't looking at him; she was still staring off into space, but her face looked strangely calm.
"Drew," he said softly. She turned her head slowly to meet his eyes. "I'm not good with words," he went on, struggling for the right thing to say. He knew he'd never find it. "But—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry that happened to you. I wish—I want to help you. Somehow. I don't know how –"
"Heath, I can't have kids," she interrupted quietly, one final confession. "I'll never be able to have children. He took that from me." A single tear dropped down her cheek, but that strange calm on her face never wavered. He found he couldn't look away from her face. He literally had no words for her; even if he had, there was nothing adequate to tell her. Nothing to describe how terribly sorry he was.
He moved slowly to the couch and sat down next to her. She continued to watch him, her eyelids heavy with a sadness he would never know, watching him in a curiously detached manner. He slowly reached out and took her small, cold, trembling hand, clasping it between both of his and squeezing gently. He didn't know what else to do.
As if that one, simple gesture proved to be just too much, Drew's face crumpled and she burst into tears. She dropped her head into her other hand and Heath sat silently at her side, staring down at his lap, squeezing her hand in both of his as the sounds of her personal hell, her utter torment, tore through her, ripped into him, and shattered the walls of her small apartment.
At any other time he would have felt horribly uncomfortable, but he was witnessing pure, unadulterated human pain and it was humbling, to say the very least. He continued to hold her hand as her sobs died down and eventually quieted. The silence in the apartment was punctuated only by her soft sniffles.
"Let me grab you a tissue," he said softly, recalling the ones he'd seen in her bathroom earlier. He grabbed several and brought them to her. She wouldn't meet his eyes as she took them but he saw that her face was red, her eyes and lips puffy from the tears, and he walked to the window, giving her his back and also some privacy to clean herself up. He heard her blow her nose quietly and clear her throat.
"Sorry," she whispered hoarsely.
Fury flamed in him, but it wasn't for her. Nonetheless he whirled to face her, and he knew anger was written on his face. Her bloodshot, puffy-lidded brown eyes widened in fright and she cowered slightly back into the cushions.
"You're sorry?" he demanded. "Why the fuck should you be sorry? You didn't ask for any of that bullshit to happen to you. You didn't do anything wrong, Drew. Not a goddamn thing. So don't you dare ever be fucking sorry."
"I'm s –" she started, then bit her lip, catching herself. Heath shook his head and crossed the room back to the couch. He sat down hard and turned to face her.
"I didn't mean to sound like I was pissed at you," he said, more quietly. "I'm just disgusted by what that asshole did to you. Truly disgusted. And I don't want you apologizin' for anything. You understand?" Drew lowered her eyes but bobbed her head. He laid a hand on her ankle and she twitched like she wanted to jerk away from him, but he kept his hand where it was. "And this shit stops now. I mean it. Do you get me?" Drew didn't respond, verbally or nonverbally, so he tightened his grip on her ankle ever so slightly; not enough to cause pain, but enough to get her attention and let her know how serious he was. "I'm not fuckin' kidding, Drew. Promise me."