Sebastian Blake – First Person
I hadn't meant to speak it aloud.
I thought I was alone in the garden, late at night, shadows swallowing my voice. But maybe I wanted someone to hear. Maybe a part of me wanted to say it — finally say it — because I was tired of carrying it in silence.
"She screamed once," I said to no one.
The cigarette burned down between my fingers, ash falling like snow.
"My mother. She screamed once, and then she went quiet."
The air was too still.
I used to think that silence was mercy.
But I was wrong.
I remember the way she looked at me. My mother. Eyes wide and full of blood and fear and love — all at once.
He didn't know I was there.
My father. The great Anthony Blake. The man whose name made grown men sweat bullets.
He didn't know I'd slipped out of bed. That I'd followed the sound of something glass shattering. That I saw him dragging her through the roses in the back garden. Her nightgown caught on the thorns.
I still remember the sound.
Not of her screams.
Of the roses. The way they tore through silk. The way they bloomed red with someone else's blood.
She didn't scream after the first time.
Just whimpered. Just gasped. Just went quiet.
I was twelve.
I didn't move.
I didn't stop him.
I stood there, and I watched.
That's the truth.
I watched the only person who ever loved me die.
And I did nothing.
Because I was afraid.
Because I was a coward.
And now… when I look at Ray…
When I see bruises on her…
I see my mother.
I see the way she used to smile at me even when her lip was split.
I see the way Ray flinches — but then still says thank you.
I see the same fire, the same kindness.
And I swear to God, I will never stand still again.
Not for her.
Not for anyone.