warnings: self-harm, references to past rape, mentions of blood, references to a past abusive relationship, mentions of death, mentions of drugs

Chapter 11: Riley & Capheus

In which Riley recovers a little

Riley had met Jacks in early December, that time of year when stores turn Christmas-themed overnight and people who can afford gloves start to feel festive.

Riley, gloveless, had been playing her guitar in the snow with fingers so numb she couldn't feel them anymore when Jacks had sauntered up to her and introduced himself.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he'd asked.

"Riley," she'd whispered.

"You look cold, Riley," he'd said. "Why don't you come home with me?"

She'd had nothing to lose. So she'd gone home with him.

He'd been living in a semi-decent apartment at the time, and it had seemed like heaven. He'd given her food and drugs and she'd felt warm and safe and alive, alive for the first time since the shelter.

And if she'd woken up in bed with him the next morning, naked, unable to quite remember how she'd gotten there, well. That part wasn't important, really, was it?

"You're lucky I'm the one that found you," he'd tell her sometimes, holding her close. "I reckon you'd've gone with anyone that offered you a place to stay. And there's some bad folks out on the streets, you know."

And Riley would nod dutifully, and Jacks would run his fingers over the scars on her arms and the swell of her stomach. "Say it," he'd whisper. "Say you're lucky to have me."

And she'd say, "I'm lucky to have you." For a long time, she'd been stupid enough to think it was true.

o - o - o

Jacks had always wanted something in return— money, or sex, or obedience.

But Lito and his friends don't seem to want anything. They buy her new clothes and sit with her to make sure she eats and apparently don't mind that she keeps bleeding through the pads that they give her.

Maybe, she thinks, she actually did get lucky this time.

o - o - o

She hears them talking when they think she's sleeping: About how none of them know what she's been through or how she got pregnant or where she was living before Lito brought her here. About how maybe she should go to a clinic, because it's been five days and she's still bleeding and they're not sure whether that's normal. About how no, she's still traumatized and in denial; they need to give her time.

It scares her a little, to realize how much they care. So she doesn't let herself think about it. She doesn't let herself think about anything really, just sleeps and exists and sleeps some more, distant and empty and numb.

And mostly it's comfortable, the numbness— a cocoon, soft and familiar, that makes everything bearable. But sometimes… sometimes it's too much, sometimes it hangs around her so heavily that she feels like she's choking on it, suffocating in it.

So sometimes, when she's absolutely sure that everyone's asleep, she pulls out the small knife she keeps sheathed by her ankle and slices across the skin of her forearm, short, horizontal strokes, and imagines she's slicing the numbness. Sometimes she cuts deeper than she intends, and gasps in pain, and it's a relief.

When she's done, she wipes the blade on her blanket and puts the knife back in its sheath and pulls her sleeve down over the cuts and breathes, in and out, in and out, until she falls asleep.

o - o - o

"Riley," says a voice.

She jerks awake, grasping wildly at her blanket, glancing around in the darkness.

There's someone crouched beside her. Capheus, she thinks, as she begins to get her bearings.

"What's happening?" she gasps.

"Nothing," he says gently. "I think that you were having a nightmare. You were talking in your sleep."

Riley frowns.

"It's alright," he goes on. "I'm here, okay? Right here."

"What— what was I saying?" Riley asks.

Capheus shrugs. "I don't know," he says. Then he shrugs again, as though reconsidering. "You said… you knew it was your fault."

And all at once Riley's dream comes back to her in terrible, vivid detail— the harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic.

"I was seeing a doctor," she says quietly. "In the dream. And he was asking me so many questions, about the— the baby, and then— then he told me to leave. He said that it was all my fault, and I killed her." She sniffs. "And I knew he was right."

Capheus stares at her, eyes wide in the moonlight. "No. No, Riley," he says, "he wasn't right."

"Yes, he was," Riley sighs, her voice pained and desperate, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I— I read about it. In the library. It said that— that drug use increases the risk of s-stillbirth." She sniffs again, wiping her nose on the hem of her sweatshirt. "And when I was with Jacks, we used to— we did all kinds of shit, we'd be f-fucked up all the time, and I tried to stop, I tried, but— but I couldn't," she whispers. "Not till I left. I— I wasn't strong enough."

"Riley," says Capheus. "It's okay. It's okay to not be strong all the time."

Riley draws a ragged breath. "But—"

"Listen," Capheus says. "When people are sick, and then they get better, everyone says how strong they are. But what about the people who don't get better?" He's speaking slowly and carefully, as though trying very hard not to let emotion seep into his voice, and Riley guesses that this is something he has personal experience with. "Were they just weak?" he goes on. "Did they deserve to die? No. Of course not, of course they didn't."

"That's different," mumbles Riley.

"A bit different, yes," Capheus concedes. "But the point is that strength is not always possible. Sometimes, when a terrible thing happens to someone, they aren't strong enough to handle it, and that's alright. That's not their fault."

Riley opens her mouth to say something, but the words die in her throat.

"You haven't seen her grave, have you?" asks Capheus quietly.

She shakes her head.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes," she says, somewhat to her own surprise. She does.

o - o - o

The night is cold and clear and the grass is wet with dew. Riley sits on her heels, and Capheus crouches beside her.

There's no headstone for Luna, no marker at all, just a little patch of freshly-disturbed earth. She carefully runs her hand over the dirt.

"Sometimes it helps," says Capheus. "To visit. To say goodbye."

Riley smiles sadly. "Death doesn't let you say goodbye," she tells him, and silence falls, broken only by the sound of the wind in the trees.

"I think there's something wrong with me," she says, after a while.

"How so?"

"I wasn't there when you buried her."

"You were there for most of it."

"No I wasn't." Riley shakes her head. "I went away. In— in my mind." She glances up at Capheus's kind, moonlit face. "Do you ever... do that?" she asks hesitantly. "Just, go away for a while? So whatever's happening doesn't seem real?" Don't talk about that shit; it makes you sound fucking psycho, Jacks used to tell her.

"I don't... think so?" Capheus says slowly.

Riley nods. Inhales. Exhales. "I was raped," she says then, staring down at the dew on the grass. "I was at a homeless shelter and this guy came into the bathroom and—"

"Riley," Capheus breathes, but Riley presses on.

"I barely remember it," she says. "It's like I wasn't even there. Like I actually left my body." She shrugs, then swallows thickly. "Do you think it sounds like I'm crazy?" she asks.

"I think it sounds like you're hurting."

"Oh."

Gently, Capheus rests his fingers on her shoulder blade. "Is this okay?" he asks. She nods.

His hand is warm as he rubs small, soothing circles on her back. They sit there quietly for a while. At last Riley speaks.

"Maybe— Maybe I will say goodbye," she says. She looks away from Capheus, upward, at the sky, at the moon. "Luna means moon, you know," she murmurs. "I— I'd like to think she's up there. In the moon. Watching over me or something." It sounds stupid to say out loud, but Capheus just smiles.

"That's a lovely thought," he says.

Riley nods gratefully, blinking her eyes against rapidly-forming tears. Gently, oh so gently, she presses her hand against the soil that covers her daughter.

"Luna, sweetheart, I— I love you," she says shakily. "And I miss you. And I'm so, so fucking sorry."

She takes a deep breath, kisses her fingers, and presses them to the dirt.

Goodbye.