Page 82 of Silas

“Silas, stop fighting it.” She whispers this against my lips. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. Can’t be weak.” I’m suddenly not a thirty-something man anymore, I’m a boy of eight.

I’m cowering on the floor, tasting blood from my split lip. Sax is screamingSTOP STOP STOP DADDY STOP, and Sol is just standing above me with clenched fists, ready to defend me no matter the cost. And then there’s Dad, eyes red and breath foul with booze, cursing me out.

FUCKING SISSY, FUCKING LITTLE BITCH. YOU’RE A CRYBABY, SILAS. QUIT CRYING, YOU FUCKING BABY. MEN DON’T CRY. MAN UP, YOU LITTLE BITCH.

I hear his big booming voice spewing hate at me, telling me real men don’t cry. It’s in my soul, his voice and those words.

“Talk to me, Silas.” Her lips whisper against my stubble, seeking my mouth which I refuse to give her: she’ll taste the weakness leaking out of me.

“Can’t.” It’s a hoarse, hissed syllable.

“I trust you, Silas. Will you trust me?” She forces my hands down, away from the headboard—again, I allow her to manipulate me, being unwilling to risk hurting her even by resisting—and down to her body. She places my hands on her backside.

“I’m here, Silas. I’m real. Touch me. Hold me.”

WEAK. YOU’RE WEAK, BOY. QUIT YOUR FUCKING CRYING, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE FUCKING SISSY.

His voice. His fucking voice. It’s been silent for years; I thought I’d killed it. Apparently, I only silenced it by numbing and suppressing my emotions. Something about Naomi is bringing them all up, and I can’t stop them, and now his voice is louder than it’s ever been.

“Weak,” I whisper, my voice so quiet even I can barely hear myself. “I’m weak. Fucking weak. Fucking pathetic.”

Naomi doesn’t say anything. She just rests her forehead against my cheekbone, and I feel her tears drip onto my cheek.

“Real men don’t cry,” I whisper, repeating the phrase he seared into my head, beat into my very soul. “Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.”

She presses her palm against my cheek and now I do resist, but somehow she’s stronger than me and I keep my eyes shut tight even as I feel our noses touch and her lips taste my cheeks, kissing the tears I can’t fucking stop no matter how hard I try to suck them back in.

I grip her ass with clawed fingers, holding on for dear life as weakness boils through me, surging out of me unbidden. I wrap my arms around her and crush her to me.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” I’m gasping the words, fighting tooth and nail against the onslaught of weakness surging up from deep in the dark black caverns of my battered soul.

She circles her arms beneath my neck, pillowing my head on her arms, and she kisses my cheeks, kisses away my tears with such unending tenderness that it only makes it all that much fucking worse.

“Stop, godammit,” I snarl. “Don’t fucking deserve it. Don’t deserve you. I’m not strong. Look at me—fucking look at me. Fucking weak.”

Naomi rolls to the side, pulling me with her until my face is pillowed on her chest, resting on the soft velvet of her breasts. Her arms wrap around me, and she accepts my weight entirely, clinging to me, hauling me closer and tighter, framing me in the V of her thighs and clutching me with her legs as well as her arms in a full-body hug.

“Let go, Silas,” she whispers in my ear. “Let it go.”

I shake my head. “Can’t. Can’t.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Her fingers soothe through my hair, scratch my scalp, massage. Trace across my shoulders. “Who told you you were weak, Silas?”

“No one.”

“Your father, wasn’t it?”

I can’t answer. His voice is roaring in my brain, bellowing in my soul.