Tightrope

24

THEN

BECCA

It was NHL Draft Day. 

At thirteen years old, Will and I had watched the Draft together at my house ever since we were six years old. It was always the same routine: Will and I would get snacks, and we would get a sheet of paper to write our predictions on. 

Usually, we agreed with each other about the top prospects, but sometimes he had a player a spot higher than I did, and the other way around. 

It was always fun finding out which one of us had been right, and I wondered if Will and I would write down our predictions when it was his own Draft. 

Nevertheless, our eight-in-a-row Draft Day watch party had started a bit differently than the others. 

I sat next to Will on the couch and tried to focus on the Draft instead of what had happened. 

I forced myself to stop staring at him and start watching the TV.

It was the red carpet that was playing, which merely meant I could go back to overthinking. 

This morning, I had gone over to Will's place to tell him my parents would be out for the evening, but that they didn't mind us staying in to watch the Draft. 

I had stood outside of his apartment and I had knocked three times before I twisted the door handle and noticed it was open. 

Will never let the door to his apartment open. And he always answered the door quickly after I knocked. 

I worried his father would be inside and that I would have to explain myself if I just walked inside. 

But I also worried Will was in trouble, and this worry was bigger than having to face his dad. 

I tried avoiding Mr. Mitchell as much as I could on a daily basis since I couldn't look and him and not see Will's bruises and injuries throughout the years. I couldn't not see the pain in Will's eyes when he told me about what his father did to him, and I couldn't stop seeing Will's shocked reaction at my own reaction to his confession, as if he thought it wasn't worth my tears. 

Mr. Mitchell was the one thing Will didn't like speaking about. Even with me. We had some sort of unspoken agreement, that I knew everything that happened, could hear it through the walls, and could see it in Will's body afterward, but we never spoke about it. Whenever his attacks started, we both knew what had caused them, or better, who. But we didn't really acknowledge it. Each time I tried to talk to him about it, he dismissed my concerns and changed the subject. 

I had pushed the door to his apartment open, which was something I never did, and I had gone inside. 

"Will?" I called out, hoping he had just been too distracted to hear the door. 

"Becca? What are you doing here?" A very shocked Will practically stumbled out of his room and looked at me with wide eyes. 

"Oh my god, Will!" I said and rushed over to where he was standing.

I took his face in my hands and tilted it so the light would show me what I wanted to see. 

 He had a split lip that was starting to swell and a bruise that was starting to form on his cheekbone. 

The worry in my chest transformed into pure anger and hatred as I saw a sight that I had seen way too many times before. I was tired of seeing Will get hurt by his father and act like nothing was wrong. 

And if I was tired, I couldn't imagine how exhausted he was. 

I clenched my jaw and looked behind Will.