Not Your Fault

“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.

Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.

His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.

“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.

She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.

“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”

“Summers, she’s obviously high --”

“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”

“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.

Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.

“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.

She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.

After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?

“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”

Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”

The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.