Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,17

go,” I say softly.

Mitchell looks down at me, but he doesn't say much more. He manages to close his mouth and give a little nod, but his wide eyes are turned on me like I've suddenly become a completely different person in just the few seconds since we heard the footsteps coming up the stairs.

Henri stands by the door and waits for me to enter. He is a giant of a man compared to Brandon. His height alone is enough to be intimidating, but he's also broad across the shoulders and thick in the waist though nothing hangs over his belt except a fold of the shirt he wears tucked into his pants.

A tiny prickle of dread creeps up my center as I walk to him and slip inside the apartment. Henri doesn't say anything as he follows me and shuts the door behind him.

I haven't really decided what to call him out loud or in my head yet. Brandon makes an effort to call him “Mr. Smith” but he slips and calls him “Henri.” I don't feel either name is exactly right, but neither is calling him “Dad.”

For a second we both stand quietly together. He has that same weary expression he had when I first saw him in the judgment room. I can almost sense the sigh before it comes. He motions to the couch, his back still against the door blocking my one exit. "Have a seat. We need to talk.”

He's larger than I remembered him being. Or maybe now that I know a little bit more about him, he seems more intimidating. His entire frame blocks the doorway. I had thought that I was becoming braver, starting to be the sort of person who would make my mother proud, but now that I stand in front of the man once again I can't help realizing just how far I still have to go.

I take a seat on the couch. He steps over to sit on the table in front of me as I hike my knees to my chest as some small form of protection from him. Already, he's spoken more than he spoke before. It throws me off and only makes the situation less real.

“About my mom?" My voice sounds so pitifully light compared to his deeper tone that rumbles up from his chest when he speaks.

I see the corner of his lips pull back ever so slightly. The first sign of anything I've seen on him other than weariness. "Mostly."

His face is drawn making him look like he hasn't slept for days. There's a good amount of stubble on his chin, but it appears as ever present as the lines on his face. He rubs at it subconsciously.

For a moment he looks down at the ground as if contemplating what to say, and I fear the worst. I blink back the tears, trying to be brave enough to hear the news but the silence stretches out too far. I know only seconds have passed, but the fear creeps up my spine and I can't help softly asking, "My mom?" It prompts him to glance up at me as if he just realized that I'm sitting before him waiting for him to give me the news that will completely devastate me.

"She's alive." He says it in a way that makes me think she really isn't but he's just saying what he thinks I want to hear so that I won't start to cry in front of him. Then he reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a small envelope which he holds out to me. It has my name on it in her curly script, slightly squished together as if she wrote it in a hurry. At the sight of the familiar handwriting, my stomach hops and makes me nauseous.

I reach for the letter trying to be quick about it, aware that my entire body is shaking. Though I blink quickly, my eyes still start to moisten, and I try my best to focus on something here and now but the letter weighs heavily in my hands. I can't help but be very aware of the heat trapped between my fingers and the thin paper. It hits me that this may be my very last communication from her. I can feel myself already drowning, the water piling up near my eye and ready to spill over. To be able to go on and breathe, I have to push the thought away and focus on