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Grace doesn’t like to talk about it. The most she ever says is that it was a bad break up. That she accidentally slammed her hand on a nail.
“At least I got a goat out of it,” Grace would joke. “And a couple dollars.”
When it’s something small, I appreciate the way she talks about bad situations. Quipping after she chokes on her food, stubs her toe, or gets caught in the rain. Little things. I don’t like how that extends to something like… Whatever happened to her. I don’t know exactly what that was. Something terrible, I know that much. Something that’s put her in regular therapy once a week and physical therapy every two months. Something that weighs heavy on her soul and her joints alike.
I’m not going to pry. I wish she felt like she could tell me. I wish she’d get it off of her chest. Faith thinks she’d feel better if she did, but she also assures me her silence isn’t because Grace doesn’t trust me. Grace stays quiet, apart from the occasional vague joke, because it hurts. A deep, thorough kind of hurt.
That’s fair. I can understand that. I have a few things I hope stay buried as well. Nothing that caused the kind of scars Grace is sporting, but still. If I’m allowed my privacy then she’s allowed hers.
Maybe, eventually, she’ll open up about it. For now I settle with comforting her after her nightmares. Rubbing lotion on her scarred skin. Kissing her tears away when they come while Grace snuggles into my chest, soaking my blouse as she sobs. I can be content with that, with doing whatever I can to help her heal.
I just wish I knew who hurt her so I could hurt them worse.