10-11-2026, 08:40 PM
Toma didn’t say anything when they got out of the car. Nor did Jay. In the predawn light deep shadows clung to his face. Whatever relief he’d chased seemed to have come full circle in its torments. Natalie didn't look away, but neither did she speak. She only shifted the bag back over her shoulder, pressed her hands in the pockets of her coat against the cold, and led the way inside. Without meaning to her fingers found the edges of the pendant Toma had handed her in the aftermath, forgotten until now. She hadn’t even properly looked at it before she deposited it, and she didn’t pull it out now either, but her thumb found a sharp edge. Toma implied the visit had been a warning. One she knew she ought to heed, even as she already knew with free-falling certainty that she wouldn’t. Answers wouldn't solve anything, but it felt like purpose anyway. Her grip squeezed until it bit.
“The builders will probably be here soon. But all the work's on the other side of the manor now. There’s electricity and water. No heating.”
She didn’t flick on any of the lights. Partly that was mercy for them both. Windows softened the gloom, and there were barely any furnishings yet; nothing to trip over or stub a toe at any rate. It couldn’t exactly be called homely – their steps echoed in the silence, and it was cold, unfinished. A shell yet to fully mold. But it was hers.
Her hands felt raw from glass dust when she pressed the right door. Natalie desperately wanted to shower, scrub away the night and the lingering smell of bleach on her skin, and especially the hospital smell. But exhaustion won the brief argument in her head. Once they were in the room she pulled out the music box Emily had gifted her, carefully placed it on the side, and then dumped the bag down at her feet. The coat followed unceremoniously despite the chill. The power already unfurled; she’d spent enough nights here alone that it was second nature to make it comfortable.
There had been more she’d planned to tell him, but she only tidied it away. The walls of her mind were as solid as the walls of this castle. None of it mattered.
She turned to help Jay with his buttons. That seemed second nature too, mindless in a way she wasn't thinking about. Her gaze didn’t shy from his, though only when it connected naturally. It was the sort most people flinched from, not because it was hard, but because it pierced without meaning to. Others seldom liked the way it made them feel. She didn’t pretend Jay didn’t look roused from a waiting grave. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t aware of the distance, even when he was close enough to touch. But she wasn’t here because he invited her in. It was stubborn choice, like a squatter outside locked gates. If he was going to let darkness swallow him whole, he’d have to do it looking at her face.
Talking wouldn't help. It might well slam a shutter down on what was left, pull him further away from truths he’d prefer not to face. It nearly always did, in a way she’d slowly grown afraid of. But it was also like pressing the pad of her thumb into the edge of that necklace: self-managed, intentional pain despite that fear. She’d continue now, even when it began to hurt. “The thing that haunts me most is knowing I wasn't enough. That I couldn't do anything to stop any of it.” Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact like it always was when she offered something that cost her. Her eyes burned tired in their sockets but there were no tears. For a moment her chest felt like someone had stamped on it. She didn't clarify, she didn't need to. She meant her father. The children from St James. Azu. Cayli. Jay had trusted her to keep his sister safe. She’d failed him too. Then, and now. It was a confession that went deeper than any single thing; a sideways glance at scar tissue calcified by time, and long before Africa. It made her who she was: hardened, untrusting, reckless with her own safety.
She didn’t check his expression then; she didn’t want to witness if he were blank, not trusting her own reaction. But it wasn’t honesty she shared for the sake of intimacy or in vulnerability, and it wasn’t to draw comfort; it was shared in recognition, a glimpse of hollow space she understood the shape of, at least in part. Natalie wasn’t talking about grief; Jay had long since slipped those simpler chains into some place darker. If she never said anything it had only ever been respect for how deeply he hurt – and her culpability in that pain – knowing she made it worse, fearing she would not only deepen the wedge but deliver something more fatal in the process. She’d thought he’d come back, if given time and support from the brotherhood symbolised by the pin on his coat. But more and more she realised it was only a slower demise with the same singular end, and not one she was prepared to watch while they both pretended otherwise. Even if he grew to hate her for the persistence.
”I worked in a women's shelter before St. James,” she continued softly, her attention just on the buttons now. “Their stories varied, as bad as you could imagine, and none of them mine to repeat. But they all had a common thread. Every single one of those girls blamed themselves for what had been done to them. Or what they thought had been done to others because of them. The line between villain and victim is slim sometimes. I’m not telling you they were all innocent, good people. But none of them were to blame for the actions of others. And none of them deserved it, no matter what they had done.”
The distance Jay had nearly always cultivated grew deeper over the months, his gaze moving through her more often, like she’d finally blurred with the world he no longer found himself a part of. This morning he kissed her cheek like an act of treading water, oblivious to her reaction. They both knew it wasn’t just a man’s face which had broken Jay’s hand. That the RLD hadn’t been about pain-relief, but numbness and chasing sparks to give shape, meaning, something. Jay blamed himself for everything. He was still doing it; carving up the pieces of his life for punishment, letting it bleed him out. Every drop of blood was not self-mutilation, it was just more proof of the world extracting justice; a self fulfilling prophecy. She didn’t know how to stem that tide, or how to give him enough to hold onto. Not beyond the steel core of her: all she had left. All she always had left. But it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
“It was called Jasiri because of the gates. The building itself was a grey compound, chainlink fence, barbed wire – like a prison, because of where it was. But they’d painted the gates in bright colours and flowers and a board that said kuwa jasiri. It means “be brave” in Swahili, and when I first got there I assumed it meant the bravery it took to make it that far. But I was wrong. The brave part was the living after. The hardest part, too.”
The buttons were done, and she lifted her hand like she was about to help him shoulder out of the coat. But on whim she ended up cupping his cheek instead. Her thumb traced the hard line of his jaw like so simple a touch could chase the tension away. Once he’d tried to soothe the tension from her clenched hands the same way. Her words penetrated or they didn’t. She didn’t expect a response, or an acknowledgement. She was prepared for him to crumble. She was prepared for him to say nothing, crawl into bed and sleep the drugs and pain off. Yet she held the moment a little longer, close enough to feel heat and heartbeat, like she always did when he’d been absent; because he meant something to her, and because this time he came back. Right now the small victories were all they had to count, and she did. That last moment wasn’t for him, it was for her.
She switched off her phone before she got into bed. Jay was the only one who knew about the apartment beside Toma, but Natalie presumed she’d report it. And that was a familial fallout she’d deal with on her own terms, and in her own time.
[[apparently i had already written this, so i am posting it. no need to reply]]
“The builders will probably be here soon. But all the work's on the other side of the manor now. There’s electricity and water. No heating.”
She didn’t flick on any of the lights. Partly that was mercy for them both. Windows softened the gloom, and there were barely any furnishings yet; nothing to trip over or stub a toe at any rate. It couldn’t exactly be called homely – their steps echoed in the silence, and it was cold, unfinished. A shell yet to fully mold. But it was hers.
Her hands felt raw from glass dust when she pressed the right door. Natalie desperately wanted to shower, scrub away the night and the lingering smell of bleach on her skin, and especially the hospital smell. But exhaustion won the brief argument in her head. Once they were in the room she pulled out the music box Emily had gifted her, carefully placed it on the side, and then dumped the bag down at her feet. The coat followed unceremoniously despite the chill. The power already unfurled; she’d spent enough nights here alone that it was second nature to make it comfortable.
There had been more she’d planned to tell him, but she only tidied it away. The walls of her mind were as solid as the walls of this castle. None of it mattered.
She turned to help Jay with his buttons. That seemed second nature too, mindless in a way she wasn't thinking about. Her gaze didn’t shy from his, though only when it connected naturally. It was the sort most people flinched from, not because it was hard, but because it pierced without meaning to. Others seldom liked the way it made them feel. She didn’t pretend Jay didn’t look roused from a waiting grave. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t aware of the distance, even when he was close enough to touch. But she wasn’t here because he invited her in. It was stubborn choice, like a squatter outside locked gates. If he was going to let darkness swallow him whole, he’d have to do it looking at her face.
Talking wouldn't help. It might well slam a shutter down on what was left, pull him further away from truths he’d prefer not to face. It nearly always did, in a way she’d slowly grown afraid of. But it was also like pressing the pad of her thumb into the edge of that necklace: self-managed, intentional pain despite that fear. She’d continue now, even when it began to hurt. “The thing that haunts me most is knowing I wasn't enough. That I couldn't do anything to stop any of it.” Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact like it always was when she offered something that cost her. Her eyes burned tired in their sockets but there were no tears. For a moment her chest felt like someone had stamped on it. She didn't clarify, she didn't need to. She meant her father. The children from St James. Azu. Cayli. Jay had trusted her to keep his sister safe. She’d failed him too. Then, and now. It was a confession that went deeper than any single thing; a sideways glance at scar tissue calcified by time, and long before Africa. It made her who she was: hardened, untrusting, reckless with her own safety.
She didn’t check his expression then; she didn’t want to witness if he were blank, not trusting her own reaction. But it wasn’t honesty she shared for the sake of intimacy or in vulnerability, and it wasn’t to draw comfort; it was shared in recognition, a glimpse of hollow space she understood the shape of, at least in part. Natalie wasn’t talking about grief; Jay had long since slipped those simpler chains into some place darker. If she never said anything it had only ever been respect for how deeply he hurt – and her culpability in that pain – knowing she made it worse, fearing she would not only deepen the wedge but deliver something more fatal in the process. She’d thought he’d come back, if given time and support from the brotherhood symbolised by the pin on his coat. But more and more she realised it was only a slower demise with the same singular end, and not one she was prepared to watch while they both pretended otherwise. Even if he grew to hate her for the persistence.
”I worked in a women's shelter before St. James,” she continued softly, her attention just on the buttons now. “Their stories varied, as bad as you could imagine, and none of them mine to repeat. But they all had a common thread. Every single one of those girls blamed themselves for what had been done to them. Or what they thought had been done to others because of them. The line between villain and victim is slim sometimes. I’m not telling you they were all innocent, good people. But none of them were to blame for the actions of others. And none of them deserved it, no matter what they had done.”
The distance Jay had nearly always cultivated grew deeper over the months, his gaze moving through her more often, like she’d finally blurred with the world he no longer found himself a part of. This morning he kissed her cheek like an act of treading water, oblivious to her reaction. They both knew it wasn’t just a man’s face which had broken Jay’s hand. That the RLD hadn’t been about pain-relief, but numbness and chasing sparks to give shape, meaning, something. Jay blamed himself for everything. He was still doing it; carving up the pieces of his life for punishment, letting it bleed him out. Every drop of blood was not self-mutilation, it was just more proof of the world extracting justice; a self fulfilling prophecy. She didn’t know how to stem that tide, or how to give him enough to hold onto. Not beyond the steel core of her: all she had left. All she always had left. But it didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
“It was called Jasiri because of the gates. The building itself was a grey compound, chainlink fence, barbed wire – like a prison, because of where it was. But they’d painted the gates in bright colours and flowers and a board that said kuwa jasiri. It means “be brave” in Swahili, and when I first got there I assumed it meant the bravery it took to make it that far. But I was wrong. The brave part was the living after. The hardest part, too.”
The buttons were done, and she lifted her hand like she was about to help him shoulder out of the coat. But on whim she ended up cupping his cheek instead. Her thumb traced the hard line of his jaw like so simple a touch could chase the tension away. Once he’d tried to soothe the tension from her clenched hands the same way. Her words penetrated or they didn’t. She didn’t expect a response, or an acknowledgement. She was prepared for him to crumble. She was prepared for him to say nothing, crawl into bed and sleep the drugs and pain off. Yet she held the moment a little longer, close enough to feel heat and heartbeat, like she always did when he’d been absent; because he meant something to her, and because this time he came back. Right now the small victories were all they had to count, and she did. That last moment wasn’t for him, it was for her.
She switched off her phone before she got into bed. Jay was the only one who knew about the apartment beside Toma, but Natalie presumed she’d report it. And that was a familial fallout she’d deal with on her own terms, and in her own time.
[[apparently i had already written this, so i am posting it. no need to reply]]
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