arguing in Japanese. When I woke up in the hospital, though, my grandparents were there and told me I’d live with them.
You’ll be a ‘real’ Weaver now. Those were Grandma’s actual words. In order to do that, she said I’d have to forget everything my parents had taught me.
They didn’t attempt to lessen the blow of a child learning that his parents were dead. That I no longer had a mother or a father.
That the world as I knew it had collapsed with no chance of ever rebuilding again.
I lay there with my casted arm on my chest. My lungs exploded with every breath and my face felt swollen.
But I still didn’t feel any pain.
Or maybe I felt so much pain all at once that I blacked out.
I’ve always used that time in my life as a reference for any discomfort I’ve felt. Strained muscles? That’s nothing. Sprained an ankle? Child’s play.
But none of those compare to the pulsing pain in my upper shoulder. It’s as if invisible hands are rummaging through my wound, digging and twisting until my breath is stolen.
It might be bearable if I were alone. If Naomi wasn’t pressing her shirt against it with a desperation that mutes the color of her dark eyes as moisture clings to her long lashes and forms lines down her flushed cheeks.
Watching her cry is equivalent to digging a shard of glass into my chest.
I don’t like seeing her hurt, especially if it’s because of me.
Now we’re both searching our surroundings to find the voice that filled the room a few seconds ago.
Let the games begin, he said.
Naomi mentioned that she recognized him in the forest and that he could be one of her father’s men.
She once said that she was searching for her dad and that her mom didn’t want her to connect with him, which is one of the main reasons that her relationship with her mom was strained.
But why do I feel like my grandparents could have a hand in this?
Dad said it fifteen years ago, ‘You were there when they said they’d only attend my funeral. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a hand in quickening the process.’
Grandma was obviously against any relationship I had with Naomi, just like she was opposed to my parents’ marriage.
Nate always warned me to be careful so that I wouldn’t share my father’s fate.
Not only that, but he made it his mission to act as some sort of invisible shield between me and the world—my grandparents included. As if he knew exactly what they were capable of.
But they wouldn’t have had me shot, right? After all, I’m the future leader of the Weaver clan, as they like to remind me.
Though anything is possible if the goal is to teach me a lesson.
I attempt to sit up again, but Naomi places a soft yet firm hand on my chest to forbid me.
“I’m fine,” I strain.
I’m not. The mere act of moving is like lifting weights with my fucking teeth. My head is dizzy and the wound pulses like a motherfucker.
But I can’t tell Naomi that or she’ll be more scared and hurt than she already is.
The cold concrete floor scrapes against my thigh and palm as I slowly sit up and lean against the wall. Despite her protests.
“You’re hurt…” she whines, but gives up trying to stop me and helps me into a comfortable position.
Fresh tears stream down her cheeks as she carefully maneuvers herself so that she’s on my injured side. She’s still clutching her T-shirt with determination, as if letting go will cause the life to evaporate out of me.
Or allow me to bleed out.
I don’t like seeing her cry. Well, I do, but only when I chase and conquer her, because I know she enjoys it, too.
I love her fuck-me tears.
Her ‘no, please’ that are actually ‘yes, please’ tears.
But not these.
The pain and desperation in them fucking gut me.
I dislike it when she’s sad or hurt. It’s even more painful than if they were my own feelings. I can brush those off, treat them efficiently and push them to the background.
I wish I could do the same with Naomi’s. I wish I could take away her feelings and treat them as my own so that she’s no longer hurting.
Is that…what empathy feels like?
“Hey…” I palm her cheek, thumbing away the moisture gathered there. “I’m really fine.”
“You don’t seem fine,” she murmurs.
“It looks worse than it actually is. Do you want to make it better?”
“Of course.”
“Then stop crying,