𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔

PART THIRTY SEVEN

He nodded, examining his feet.

"You should've left me to fuckin' bleed out." I gestured to my nose.

"You've proved that's not an option." - I had suffered from three bullet wounds before, and still didn't die.

I rolled my eyes again.

"Is that what you want?"

I scoffed, "She told me to leave, Eugene, and yet I'm still wondering where she is, how she is, if she's in pain, if she's smiling, if she's fuckin' falling to pieces. At least death would give me a fuckin' break."

He bobbed his head, leaning on the windowcill. "My ma went through this a couple times."

I stared at him.

"She never told my dad. But he'd know. She'd go cold for a couple weeks, wouldn't sleep in the same bed for a month or two. Never once spoke about it. Just accepted it." He crossed his arms. "I only knew because she'd need someone to drive her home from the clinic, and dad was too busy working."

"And how did that work out?"

"Well, they're too catholic for a divorce, so one lives in North Lou' and the other down South." He said simply. "And I know you well enough to know that you won't be able to live like that."

"She seems to think so."

"And you?"

"You said it yourself, Gene." I bit my inner cheek. "If I weren't too scared of her saying no, I would've married her months ago."

"So talk to her." He suggested sincerely. "Fight. For the last three years I've had to patch you up, I know you're capable. Do you love her?"

"Of course."

"Then if you don't fight for your love, what kind of love do you have?"

As if on cue, a fist tapped at the door, shooting both of our eyes towards it.

"Yeah?" Eugene answered.

It clicked open, and there she was. Her face pale, eyes bereft of passion. Each step she took was a curse, to her more than anyone. How much time had passed?

The medic met her by the door, touching her bicep affectionately before departing the room, nothing else said. She shut it afterwards, still facing it for a couple of minutes before turning around.

If you don't fight for your love, what kind of love do you have?

"How are you doing?" She raised.

"How are you?" I countered.

Softly, her head inclined, "I'm okay."

It was a lie - I'd seen her give too many of them to know otherwise. Every part of my body ached, not just from the bruises of kicks and punches. She was on the edge of crying, her throat moving up and down constantly to swallow away the urge. God, I would do anything to take it away.

"Come here." I said, knowing she would only do as I said, as she always had.

Hands fiddling together, she paced forward.

"Here." I patted the space next to me.

She thought about it for a moment. Out of all the times I had opened my arms to her, this was the first time that I doubted her acceptance of it. Doubted everything.

But I knew her.

I knew her.

No matter the pain, the conflict, the rawness of all of this, it was what she needed.

Biting her bottom lip, she placed herself delicately on the bed, curling next to me as I wrapped my arm around her. Then came the tears, streaming silently onto me as her head rested on my shoulder.

"Shh," I said to her ear. "It's okay. I'm here."

One of her hands met the fabric on my chest - her favourite spot - and grasped at it, her mouth opening slightly as she released quiet sobs into the air.

"I love you." I said.

She was so, so quiet. Once again, I doubted her response.

"I love you." She murmured, still clutching at my chest.

"Come on, let it out." I rubbed her back.

She didn't keep back. Her weeps plagued my heart, poisoned the walls. I had never felt so glad to hold her before.

"I love you." She kept saying.

When they finally seized, and she still clasped onto me, my mind flashed through everything that I could say. I settled my free hand over the one on my chest.

"This." I said. "This belongs to you, Frances. No matter what. Kids, no kids. It doesn't make a difference."

She moved away briefly so our eyes could meet, "I-"

"This isn't the end." 

TO BE CONTINUED...