Way Down I'll Go

That Sense was Breaking Through

They drove a full 10 minutes before Jo finally broke the atmospheric ice.

"Rachel... I'm sorry."

The car swerved severely to the right and came to a screeching halt on the grassy shoulder. They sat for a moment, Rachel staring intently out the windshield, chest rising and falling in a steady cadence.

"What the hell are you sorry for?" she asked, incredulous.

He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off, her words laced with anger.

"No. Don't answer that. Because I'm sure you'll find some way to spin this as if it's your fault."

She took a deep breath and released it, and when she spoke again, the anger was gone, replaced by thick sorrow.

"It's not your fault. It's mine."

She looked at him then, for the first time since they'd left the estate.

"Jo, you're bleeding!"

The ring her father had been wearing had cut his cheek, but the blood had long since crusted over. In comparison to other beatings he'd taken, this wound didn't even make it on the list of minor injuries.

"Rachel," he whispered as she rummaged through her clutch for a tissue.

Finding one, she reached up to dab his cheek. He grasped her wrist gently before she could touch him, removing the tissue from her hand and using it to wipe the tear on her cheek instead. She closed her eyes against his touch, shuddering.

"You did nothing wrong."

"I did everything wrong, Jo." She sniffled, grasping his hand. "I should never have subjected you to that in the first place."

"He had the right to ask those questions, Rach," Jo said quietly.

"He had no right to treat you that way."

She shoved her hair roughly out of her face.

"I'm such an idiot. Naïve enough to think my family would magically look past their prejudice and see you for who you really are."

He held her hand, weighing his words.

"I think you have it backwards."

Seeing her confusion, he continued.

"They did see who I really am. For some reason, you're able to look past it, but I'm everything they said I am."

"No," she said, her tearful eyes flashing furiously. "You're not a criminal. You're not filth."

If she only knew, the voice in his head goaded gleefully.

"Honestly, Jo, if I'd thought for a moment that my father would treat you like that, I'd never have suggested this whole thing."

Her face fell, expression bewildered.

"My father has never so much as swatted a fly. He didn't even raise his voice to us as kids. He's only ever yelled at me once. I never thought him capable of...violence."

"It's not his fault, Rachel. Or yours. I have that effect on people."

"That's not funny, Jo."

"I wasn't joking," he said gently.

She looked at him as if he'd grown an extra head. He hesitated to continue, but decided it was best for her that he did.

"I was in foster care for a few years, before the boys. 8 homes total. Well, 9 actually, but that doesn't matter. They ranged from affluent neighborhoods to compete shitholes. But every single one was violent. Initially, I think my social worker felt bad, because she finally put me with one of her best families. They were fine, at first, but after three months, the couple was arrested after a neighbor found me tied naked to the porch railing with the same dog chain they'd used to beat me unconscious. Prior to that, they'd fostered more than 30 kids, had a spotless record, held positions in the city council, had hordes of friends who testified in court to their impeccable character. When the social worker picked me up from the hospital, she told me she wasn't wasting another good family on me. Said that I was the problem. That I corrupted people. Made them do things they normally wouldn't."