Page 83 of Scarred in Silence

“If you ever want a way out,” he says quietly, sliding the gun toward me, “take it.”

I stare at the weapon. Moonlight glances off the slide. My reflection looks back at me—pale, hollow-eyed, not the girl I remember. I lift trembling fingers, hesitating.

“I tried to leave once,” I whisper.

Memories of the drug houses, of cold forest air, of Miles’s blackeyes flash through my skull.

“It nearly killed me.”

“This is different.” His voice is calm now—too calm.

“If you choose to point that at me, I won’t stop you. And if you choose to turn it on yourself, I beg you—let me go first.”

“Why would I—” My throat locks around the words. “Lucien, I don’t want to die.”

“Good.” A fragile smile. “Then use it on me.”

He pushes the gun closer— “One in the chamber, safety here. Simple.”

My vision blurs. “Don’t do this.”

“I need you free,” he says—like it’s a fact, not a plea. “Free to hate me, free to leave, free to end me if I become what they are.”

Tears prick at my eyes. The gun feels heavier than metal as I pick it up. I turn it in my hands, palms slippery with sweat.

“You already are what they are,” I say, voice breaking, “but you’re also the only one who ever handed me a weapon.”

He flinches. That soft ache behind the brutality.

“Because I trust you more than I trust myself.”

I thumb the safety, not disengaging it—just feeling the mechanism. Cold steel. Real. Final.

Our eyes lock—mine wet, his wild. The guilt is a storm cloud behind his pupils. I wonder if he’s begging for forgiveness or begging for an executioner.

I lay the gun on my lap, barrel pointing away, hands folded over it.

“I’m not ready to choose,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to.” His shoulders drop, like the weight of all his sins finally punishes his spine. “Keep it. Sleep with it under your pillow if it helps.”

“Will it help you?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, closes it. Finally nods once. “Yes.”

A bitter laugh slips from me. “Then I’ll keep it.”

I slide the magazine into the gun with a soft click, but don’t chamber the first round. Safety on. I set it on the nightstand, inches from my pillow.

Lucien watches. A single tear escapes down his cheek—he wipes it away like it never existed.

Then he climbs into bed, clothes still on, and collapses onto his side facing the wall. His back is to me. It’s not rejection; it’s self-imposed exile.

I lie beside him, eyes on the ceiling, hand inches from the gun.

Silence swells between us—violent, necessary, unspoken.

In my peripheral vision, his shoulders shake once. A silent sob swallowed by pride. I reach out, fingertips hovering above his arm, unsure if touch is comfort or cruelty tonight.