Chapter 2

Kim Pov.

Once we arrived at the hospital, everything blurred into a confusing swirl of voices, lights, and hands touching me. Doctors and nurses buzzed around, their faces wearing the same expression—pity laced with professionalism. I didn’t want to meet their eyes. If I had the strength, I would’ve run. I wanted to disappear somewhere no one could ever look at me again.

But the pain pinned me in place.

My arm, now in a cast, throbbed with every movement, and my fractured ribs made it hard to breathe. The sterile smell of disinfectant was suffocating, but even worse was the overwhelming sense of vulnerability. It was heavier than all my wounds combined.

The examinations felt endless. I’d lost all sense of time.

I thought nothing could be worse—until the doctor, a petite woman with a kind voice, brought up the idea of a gynecological exam.

— "Miss Blake, would you consider seeing a gynecologist as well? It’s for your well-being," she said gently.

Her words hit like a dagger.

Panic surged through me. My chest tightened, my breathing quickened, and tears began to fall without warning.

— "I... don’t want to," I whispered, barely audible.

— "Why not?" she asked, her tone curious but kind. My eyes locked on the closed door of the exam room.

I scanned the space to make sure no men were present.

With trembling hands, I grasped the edge of the hospital gown and slowly lifted it, exposing the lower part of my body.

The doctor gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Tears welled in her eyes, though she tried to stay composed.

I knew what she saw—raw, angry cuts across my thighs, like open wounds laid bare for the world to see.

I felt exposed. Small. Ashamed.

— "Kim, this is why we need to do the exam," she said softly. "We have to make sure you haven’t been sexually abused."

I shook my head desperately, pulling the gown back down over my legs.

— "I wasn’t. I swear. I wasn’t," I said through sobs.

The doctor sighed, visibly moved.

— "Alright… then. Let’s get you back to your room. The detective is waiting for you," she said, quickly shifting the subject to help calm me down.

I clung to her with my one working hand, and she guided me gently back to the room.

Every step was a battle, and the pain worsened with each movement.

When we arrived, Detective Johns was already there.

He looked at me with a neutral expression, but there was a flicker of compassion in his eyes.

He helped me onto the bed, and I turned onto my side to avoid pressing on the wounds across my back.

— "How is she?" he asked the doctor, his gaze never leaving me.

I pretended not to hear, focusing on the bland pattern on the ceiling.

— "Right arm broken, three fractured ribs, a concussion, open wounds on her back consistent with belt marks, and… cuts near the groin area," the doctor said.

I closed my eyes, feeling the heat of shame burn my cheeks.

— "Signs of sexual abuse?" the detective asked, jotting something in his notebook.

— "She says no," the doctor replied, glancing at me.

— "Thank you," he said shortly, and the doctor left the room, leaving us alone.

The detective cleared his throat and sat in the chair beside the bed.

— "Miss Blake..."

I cut him off before he could finish.

— "Is he dead?" I asked, my voice cracking.

He studied me for a few moments, assessing.

— "Yes, Miss Blake. Your father has died."

I stared at him, trying to read his face, to see if he was telling the truth.

— "You kept asking that. May I ask why?"

I took a deep breath and let the words spill out, no longer trying to hold them in.

— "If he’s dead… he can’t follow me anymore. He can’t control me. That was the only way I could survive."

The detective stayed silent, but I saw his fingers tighten around the pen. He scribbled something down quickly, but said nothing more.

I closed my eyes, praying that with the darkness would come peace.

I woke up with a weight pressing on my chest, as if something invisible was stopping me from fully breathing. I had only slept for three hours, but my body felt completely drained. I could hear the detective speaking on the phone—his calm voice clashing with the chaos in my mind. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but his authoritative tone seemed to fill the small hospital room.

The door creaked open slowly, and the doctor walked in holding my medical file. Her face was gentle, but her eyes betrayed concern. She examined me carefully, touched my casted arm, checked my wounds, and asked about the pain.

— “If the pain gets worse, please let us know, Kim,” she said softly.

I nodded, avoiding her gaze. I didn’t have the strength to lie and tell her I was okay—because I wasn’t. The physical pain was only a shadow of what I felt inside.

The detective ended his call and walked over to my bed. He waited in silence, and that silence made my shame feel even louder. His eyes seemed to look right through me, into the deepest corners of my soul.

— “Miss Blake, considering that your father lost his life as a result of… the assault from you, until the case is fully investigated and all details are gathered, you are being charged with murder,” he said solemnly.

I knew this was coming.

My gaze dropped to my trembling hands.

— “It’s okay,” I whispered, my voice shaking as I looked up at him.

The detective pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and stepped closer. He gently took hold of my uninjured wrist and locked one cuff to the metal rail of the bed. His movements were slow, almost cautious, as if trying not to hurt me more than I already was. As the cold metal touched my skin, I felt smaller than ever. He stared at my wrist, and I flushed with embarrassment. I didn’t know if he noticed the bruises or was simply trying to understand me.

— “I want you to tell me everything that happened up until the moment you… attacked your father,” he said, pressing record on the voice recorder.

I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts.

My eyes fixed on the plain white sheet—I didn’t have the courage to look at him.

I started talking.

At first, slowly, the words broken by hesitation. Then faster, as if, once the silence was broken, everything had to pour out.

I spoke about my mother’s death and how it was my father’s fault. About how, after she died, I became his punching bag—the target of his rage and hatred. I told him about the nights he brought his friends home, about their drinking, and how he abused me in front of them without an ounce of mercy.

When I got to last night, my voice began to tremble. I told him how he started yelling, how he raised the belt, how he said I deserved everything that was happening to me. And how, in a moment of terror and desperation, I grabbed a vase and hit him.

By the time I finished, I realized I was crying. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and the sobs made my whole body tremble.

The detective stood, poured some water from a pitcher on the nightstand, and handed me the glass.

— “Thank you for being honest with me, Miss Blake,” he said as he sat back down. “I know how hard that must have been.”

I looked at him, trying to read his thoughts.

He looked serious, but there was a flicker of compassion in his eyes.

— “So… what happens now?” I asked, trying to steady my voice.

He cleared his throat and checked his phone.

— “Now, I’ll build the case and put all the information together. But what matters is that I will make sure the truth comes out, Kim,” he said.

He looked at me for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but changed his mind. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he stood and left the room.

I was left alone, chained to the bed, in the suffocating silence of the night.

And in that moment, I realized that even though my father was gone, his shadows were still chasing me.