<h4>Chapter 179: I am Not Weak</h4>


    Marcus


    I push off the doorframe and find myself under that flickering bulb, the light pulsing like a bad heartbeat. Reba falls in beside me, her hand sliding into mine without asking. I give it a squeeze.


    "Did you hear what he asked?" I keep my voice low, more to Reba than anyone down this empty hall. "He wanted me to... take care of Mom."


    She hesitates, then threads her fingers through mine. "Yeah. I heard."


    I swallow the lump in my throat. "He actually thinks.." My voice trails off.


    She tilts her head, her eyes soft but fierce. "What did he do to you, Marcus?"


    look away from her, toward the peeling wallpaper and the dust floating in the yellow light. Anything but her eyes.


    "He used to lock me in the cer when I cried," I say finally, the words scraping their way out. "Said boys who cry turn into weak men. Said I’d thank him one day."


    Reba doesn’t speak. She just stays close, thumb gently stroking the back of my hand.


    "He broke my ribs once. Told the doctor I fell off adder. I was eight."


    Her fingers tighten around mine. No gasp. No pity. Just solid presence. That’s why I let myself keep going.


    "I pissed the bed until I was twelve. Not because I was scared of the dark—but because I knew he’de in drunk if I made a sound. I learned to stay quiet. I learned to stop crying. I learned to disappear."


    My jaw clenches. The bulb above us flickers harder, like it’s trying to go out for good.


    "So no," I say, voice t now. "I’m not going in there to hold his hand and pretend he didn’t carve out pieces of me and leave them to rot. I don’t care if he’s dying. He already killed something in me a long time ago."


    Reba steps in front of me, both her hands cupping my face now. There’s no fear in her, just that same fierce softness.


    "You don’t owe him anything, Marcus," she whispers.


    But I can’t breathe.


    Not from panic. From pressure. Like there’s something lodged in my chest that I’ve carried for too long, something that’s shaped my ribs around it like scar tissue.


    "I know," I whisper back. "But part of me still wants him to look at me and say that he saw me. That I wasn’t weak."


    My voice cracks on thest word.


    Reba brushes her thumb over my cheek, and I realize I’m crying. I didn’t feel it start. The tears are just... there. Quiet. Like I used to be.


    "Marcus," she says.


    She waits, and when I don’t say anything, she asks the question I’ve been trying to dodge.


    "Did he hurt Natalie, too?"


    I swallow hard. The truth tastes bitter but it’s time.


    "He did," I admit, voice low. "Not exactly the same way as me. But yeah, she got it, too."


    Reba’s hand tightens around mine, steady and grounding.


    "He wasn’t just cruel to me. He broke her spirit in silence. Locked her away with his cold words and his disappearances. Made her feel like she was nothing. Like she didn’t deserve to be seen or heard."


    The weight presses down on my chest, but I need her to understand. "She learned to hide behind a smile, to pretend everything was okay. But I saw through it. Saw how small she got inside."


    Reba doesn’t let go of my hand. She just watches me, steady as stone, and says, "Then show me."


    I blink. "What?"


    "Don’t tell me more. Show me where it happened. Where he raised you. Where you learned to disappear."


    I stare at her, but she doesn’t flinch.


    So I nod. Slowly. And without saying a word, I turn and start down the hall, taking her with me.


    The floorboards creak in all the same ces. I don’t think they’ve ever been fixed. I stop outside the third door on the left, my hand hovering over the knob like it still might burn me.


    Then I push it open.


    The room is small. Not just in size, but in feeling. The air feels thinner in here, like the walls are trying to press inward. There’s a bed in the corner with no headboard, just a stained mattress and a gray sheet stretched too tight. A single dresser, one drawer missing. No photos. No posters. No books. No signs of childhood at all.


    Just emptiness.


    Reba doesn’t say anything right away. She steps inside slowly, her eyes moving over the barren walls, the cracked windowsill, the thinyer of dust that’s settled like it’s been waiting for someone to remember.


    "This was it?" she asks.


    I nod. "I spent most of my childhood in here. Or the cer."


    She turns to me. "Marcus, this room isn’t even livable."


    I let out a short breath that’s not quite augh. "Wasn’t really meant to be."


    She looks back at the mattress and something shifts in her expression — not just sadness. Rage.


    "You deserved so much more than this," she says.


    I shrug. "I didn’t know better. I thought it was normal. It wasn’t until I stayed over at a friend’s house in high school that I realized how much was missing."


    Reba walks over to the corner where the wallpaper’s peeling back to reveal bare drywall. She touches it gently, then turns to face me.


    "I get why you never came back," she says.


    I nod. "Didn’t really feel like I had a reason to."


    Reba nces around the room again. "It feels like a prison."


    "It was," I say. "Only difference is the door didn’t lock from the outside. He didn’t need to. I stayed because I was too scared to leave."


    She moves closer to the wall where the paint’s chipped and runs her hand along it. "This doesn’t look like a kid’s room."


    "It wasn’t," I say. "It was a ce to sleep. That’s all. No toys. Nofort. Nothing I cared about enough for him to take away."


    She doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at the mattress like she can see everything that happened here without me saying more.


    "You deserved better," she finally says.


    I shrug. "Didn’t know any different back then. I thought this was how it was for everyone."


    She looks at me now, her voice soft. "It wasn’t."


    I nod, swallowing hard.


    "I’m going to talk to Natalie," I say. "I don’t know what I’m gonna say, but... I can’t avoid her anymore."


    "Do you need me to leave you two alone?" Reba asks. "I can wait in the living room."


    I shake my head fast, panic creeping in like it did so many years ago. "No. Don’t leave."


    Reba’s eyes widen a little, but she nods and steps closer.


    "I want you to stay with me," I admit, voice barely more than a whisper. "At all times."


    "Okay," she says softly. "I’ll be right here."