The Bad and The Broken

Chapter 59

Ryder's pov

I feel her body tense, then relax. I close my eyes, taking a few seconds to appreciate her trust in me, her willingness to let me in a little.

Her very tiny size doesn't go unnoticed as my arms wrap around her. She is incredibly small, and I also saw bruising under the foundation she desperately tried to cover, as well as her keeping he hair in front part of her forehead and face, but I don't say anything. I won't ruin this.

"I should apologize, too," I admit, "I have been an asshole."

She doesn't say anything. Just nods to show she heard. We stay that way for another few seconds, then I let go.

"Do you need a ride home?" I ask. She shakes her head, but then I say, "you aren't walking alone again, I'm giving you a ride home."

She shouldn't be out alone this late. She shouldn't have even come here at this time, though I do appreciate that she did just to tell me she was sorry. It is a sweet gesture.

I walk her to the car, and take her home.

The ride there was silent. A comfortable silence, though.

I wait for her to get inside before I leave, like always.

On the way home, I let my mind wonder about what she was going to say about her father.

There's no doubt in my mind that he's not a nice guy. I know he isn't good. I just don't know what kind of family guy he is. Is he a loving father at home, hateful asshole outside? Or is he just an asshole? I breath a frustrated breath as I walk into my house.

I may never know, but damn do I wish I could find out.

I walk inside, and go to my mom's office. She was up late doing some research on something.

I knock, then go in. She was looking very hard at her computer screen, then wrote down some notes.

"Hey kiddo, who was at the door at this time?" She asks as she was writing.

"Dawn," I say as I sit down.

"Hm," she hums, "funny," she says dryly.

"How's that?"

"I'm doing research on her," she says as she puts her pen down and looks at me. My eyebrows furrow.

"That's not creepy," I say sarcastically. She rolls her eyes at me.

"Son, I'm worried about her."

"You aren't the only one."

"I'm very concerned about her home life."

"Yeah, mom, so am I."

"She was at the hospital the other day," I abruptly stand to my feet.

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, she was my patient," my mother says. She takes her glasses off, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Why?" I exclaimed again.

"She was severely hurt. She needed stitches in her head-" I interrupted, "I didn't see any stitches!"

"Let me finish," she says impatiently.

I sit down and wait for her to go on and finish.

"She needed stitches in her head, and she had severe bruises on her face, neck, and arms. I wanted to look at the rest of her body, but her brother wouldn't let anyone. He nearly took out three nurses that were trying to hold him back." She says. "But that wasn't the first time, or even the fifth time that she's been hospitalized with such wounds. In fact, these wounds were probably the least severe in her medical history."

I take in this information. Not having a clue of what to think.

"And each visit had some insignificant, lame excuse. She fell down stairs, she ran into doors, walls, poles, she was rough housing with her brother," I listen to the familiar excuses. The excuses she's given me. The over used lines. "But that's not even all of it. Her weight, it's been unhealthy, extremely low for a person her age and height. She shouldn't even have been walking when she was 16, she only 42 pounds, son, do you know how severely horrible that is?" She exclaims. "I was going to weigh her, but she left before I could. No one knew where she went– she just disappeared. Like she was trying to hide it. And her brother? He's only been in the hospital once. Only one time. It doesn't add up."

A realization hits me.

"Mom, she tries to cover it up, but I can always see bruising under makeup she puts on. But, Jesse, he never has any," I confess, "and she always gives me the same excuses as you have on her records."

We give each other puzzled expressions.

"Do you know anything about her father? I know her mother died, it's very tragic, I am so sorry for her," my mom says as her eyes water up.

"He seems.." I think about it, "he doesn't seem that nice. He's kind of weird. I don't get a good feeling from him."

"Do you think he ab-"

"Mom, don't go making crazy accusations," I tell her.

"I'm not, I'm just making a very possible suggestion," she defends.

"That's not something you suggest, mom."

With that, I get up and leave. Ignoring the thought that it could actually be a possibility.

No, Ryder. That's not just something you go throwing around about someone. I lay in bed, thinking hard about all of the things I over looked about her. The things I shrugged off. The things I didn't pay much attention to, knowing that I should've.