The Part I Stopped

I gave up the fight before my body did. That is the part I keep turning over. Dain had me by the collar, and I could still feel the old choice rising in me: make it hurt until he let go. I let him go instead. I do not know whether that was wisdom or cowardice dressed up as restraint.

Nia made it impossible to pretend I was only protecting myself. She brought him straight to me and pointed at the crate. I wanted to be angry with her for ruining the clean shape of the plan, but mostly I was ashamed that part of me was relieved. She chose the person in front of her over my secrecy. I did not deserve that kind of loyalty.

The initials were out where two skippers could see them. I wrote them down anyway, because facts are still facts when they make the town ugly. I covered the crate because leaving it in the wash felt cruel, and then hated myself for caring. Protection and vanity can look identical from the inside, especially when I am the one holding the rope.

My knuckles are split. I cleaned them twice, but the blood felt like it had gotten underneath the skin. I kept checking the ramp entrance, listening for messages, eating without tasting anything. The rain made the wharf windows rattle hard enough to shake the memory loose again: being young near water and wanting everyone to look at me, even while I was already certain they would turn away.

I slept beside the ute with the crate under watch. I did not dream clearly. I only kept thinking that I stopped the fight, and now I have to live with the possibility that stopping was the first brave thing I have done in years.