silent

17

• AMALIA •

I flinch when the doctor says the words. I knew they were coming, but someone saying the words is shocking. Terrifying.

I wrap my arms tighter around my fathers waist and bury my head in the crook of his neck, savouring these last few moments of a cuddle because he'll probably be mad at me after this.

"What?" There's a crack in my fathers voice.

"You weren't aware?"

"No, what—what are you talking about?"

He peers over my shoulder and looks. I feel him stiffen, and my eyes water even harder until a few tears drop down my face. He holds onto me tightly, like he's afraid I'll run away.

I really want to. I want to hide like I've done all my life, when my stepfather and mother used to beat me senseless, I'd hide. When they'd call me names, I'd hide. When they'd get the bottles of vodka out, I'd hide.

I'll always hide. It's what keeps me safe, for the most part.

"Why don't I let you two talk for a few minutes?" The doctor suggests kindly.

"Okay, thank you."

I don't look up. I hear the sound of retreating footsteps before the door opens and shuts. My dad rubs circles on my back and pulls away, but I cling onto him.

"Amalia." He says, so softly I can barely hear him. He inhales a shaky breath. Is he crying? Did I make him sad? "Sweetheart, please look at me."

I shake my head. I can't.

"Okay." He says quietly. "Baby, who did this to you?"

I look over his shoulder, at the plain white wall, and don't do anything to answer his question.

     "Was it your stepfather? Did he hurt you?" He asks.

     I'm assuming my lack of answer tells him my response, because he sighs, heartbreak laced into the sound.

"Why didn't you tell me, Amalia? I asked you."

I start to cry. He immediately holds me tighter and rocks me back and forth, planting kisses on my forehead, in my hair, on my cheeks.

"It's okay, you're not in trouble." He assures me. I relax a little bit. "I could've helped you, baby." Then, quieter. Angrier. "Is that why you don't talk? Did he tell you that you weren't allowed to talk?"

I nod.

I hear him sniffle. Is he crying? I didn't mean to make him cry. I didn't want to make him upset.

"Aw, my baby." He whispers, pulling me so close to him that we might as well be conjoined twins. Hey, I've got the height for it.

"You can talk as much as you want? Or if you don't want to right now, that's okay too. You take your time. But you didn't deserve that, Lia." He seems to read my mind, because he says: "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

I sob.

That's all I've wanted somebody to say to me since the moment my stepfather first got his belt out.

I cry freely into his arms, and he continues to hold me, humming quietly in an attempt to calm me down. I drench his shirt with my tears, but I don't think he minds.

When I finally have no tears left to shed, he leans on the white wall and pulls back a little bit, peeling my head out of his neck. He wipes my tears and tries to hide his own from mine, but I can see the streaks there. I wipe them away like he did for me, and he smiles.