I step over Luthor’s immobile body and sit down on the couch next to her. “What did he do to you?” The words come out as a whisper.
She stares at Luthor. He blinks at the ceiling. The Phydus patches are stronger than when the drug was in the water. He’d do anything I told him to, I think. He would walk off the roof of the Hospital if I led him to the edge. Nice thought.
Before, Victria was crying. Now, her eyes are dry, even though I can see the still-damp tracks of tears snaking down her cheeks. Now she keeps
the tears inside her, controlling them in a way she can’t control the past.
She curls tighter, her knees under her chin.
“It was him,” she says, eyes shut.
I’m afraid of what she means, but I’ve already guessed the truth. I touch her shoulder. Her whole body shifts into me, but she doesn’t let go of her knees, of the way she’s made herself into a tight bundle around her stomach. Because she lets me, I wrap my arms around her.
“It was him,” she says again. Her voice sounds like a faraway echo. “During the Season. ”
“Luthor?” I whisper. My voice catches in fear of what she’s saying.
“I didn’t want to,” she says. “He was so violent. ” She glances up at me, her eyes wet and red. “He mentioned you. Because he didn’t get you . . . ”
Because he didn’t get me, he went to her.
“I tried to . . . ” Her voice cracks. It doesn’t matter what she tried to do, or didn’t. I understand.
I remember that moment when I gave up. When I waited for it to be over.
For me, though, it stopped.
But not for her.
No wonder she hates me: because I was spared, and she was not.
And now, with her body curled up in protection around her baby, I realize that it’s not stopped, at all, during the past three months.
What lasted for minutes for me is still with her, growing inside of her, a thing she must hate and love all at the same time.
I wrap my arms tighter around Victria and pull her closer to me. “It’s over,” I whisper, even though I know it’s not. It never will be.
I tug at Victria’s left hand until she releases the death grip she has on her knees. She looks at me curiously as I flatten her fingers. Her hand is cold and clammy, but it’s no longer shaking. I wrap my pinkie finger around hers.
“This is a promise,” I tell her, squeezing her pinkie with mine. “A promise that you don’t have to be alone with this secret and pain anymore. ”
Her finger lies still in mine—she doesn’t believe me. She stares at Luthor’s immobilized form.
I think we both get the same idea at the same time. Our eyes meet. Luthor can’t move—he’s helpless.
For the first time, we have the ability to take back a little bit of what he took from us, months ago.
So we’re going to.
Victria uncurls from the couch. She’s hesitant at first, but then she gets up slowly, deliberately. She stands over Luthor’s body.
And she kicks him as hard as she can, right in the stomach.
He gives out a sort of breathless Oof! but doesn’t move.
She kicks him again, and again. Water leaks from his eyes, but he doesn’t protest or move to defend himself, even when Victria kicks him in the groin, hard.
She drops to her knees, beating his chest with her fists. “How could you,” she gasps. “I knew you!”