Chapter 2 - Ella

Maggie's voice was soft, gentle, but the weight behind it was heavy.

"Ella, sweetie, I know you may not want to talk right now, but please let me in. Let me make sure you're..." She hesitated, searching for the right word, as if there was one that could possibly fit.

I forced myself onto my knees and cracked the door open, the air between us thick, suffocating. My voice came out hoarse, raw, but sharp enough to cut.

"That I'm what? That I'm okay? That I'm not broken? Not defiled, sullied, ruined? Damaged?" I spat, my breath shaky as I glared at her. "That I'm still whole?"

Maggie flinched but held my gaze, steady, unwavering. "You know I'd never say that," she whispered. She crouched down just outside the door, giving me space but refusing to leave. "I just want to make sure that you're not... bleeding too much."

The words sent a shudder through me.

I backed away from the door until my spine hit the bed frame, the wood pressing into my back. My knees ached from how long I'd been on them, the bruises forming a dull, throbbing ache beneath my skin. I let the pain ground me, let it remind me that I was here, that I had survived. But at what fucking cost?

Maggie slipped inside, closing the door behind her. She didn't move closer, didn't touch me. Just sat, waiting.

"I'm fine," I muttered, running shaky hands through my tangled hair. "I'm not bleeding."

"But Carl said—"

I shot up, my pulse hammering, my throat raw from all the screaming, all the crying.

"I'm not fucking bleeding," I snapped, my voice cracking under the weight of my rage. "He didn't actually do anything. Daryl got there before—" My breath hitched. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep talking, to force the words out before they suffocated me. "He touched me, yes. He put his hands on me, he put his mouth on me, but when he tried to..." I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into my palms so hard I could feel the sting. "I slapped him. He bit his tongue, and he spit on me. He laughed. And then he said—"

The sob tore through me so violently that I doubled over, my whole body shaking from the force of it.

"Fuck! What is wrong with me?" I choked out. "He didn't actually do anything! Why am I crying like a lunatic? Why am I scared for Daryl to touch me?"

Maggie stood slowly, moving to sit beside me on the bed. She was careful, deliberate, making sure not to invade my space, not to reach for me until I was ready.

"Just because he didn't violate you like that," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of her own pain, "doesn't mean he didn't violate you." She exhaled softly, like she was steadying herself, like she knew this moment wasn't just about me, but about her, too. "You know what happened to me in Woodbury."

I nodded, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. I remembered. I would never forget.

"Do you think that was any less of a violation than what Paul did to you?" she asked.

I shook my head, wiping at my face, hating the wetness, hating the weakness.

"He humiliated you," I whispered. "Made you stand there without a shirt."

"And Paul humiliated you," Maggie whispered back. She placed her hand on the bed, palm up, open. She didn't reach for me, didn't force me to take it. She just left it there, waiting. "It could have been worse, sure, but just because it wasn't doesn't mean you don't have the right to feel the way you feel."

I stared at her hand, the simple offer of comfort, of understanding, of solidarity. And when the sob wracked through me again, when my whole body trembled from the weight of it, I grabbed her hand and held on like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

And she held on just as tight.

The words felt foreign, like they weren't mine, like they belonged to someone else. Someone I didn't recognize. Someone I didn't want to be.

"He forced me to... get there." My voice was barely a whisper, the shame curling hot in my gut, making me feel sick. "How can that even happen if you don't want it to?"

Maggie's grip on my hand tightened, firm and grounding. "It's a natural reaction," she said, her voice steady but filled with quiet grief. "It didn't mean anything. And it certainly did not give him permission to keep going."

I let out a shaky breath, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself not to drown in the weight of it. The shame, the disgust, the guilt—it was suffocating. But Maggie's hand in mine was steady, solid. She wasn't letting go.

My fingers trembled as I threaded them through hers, seeking comfort, seeking something to anchor me. I forced myself to lift my head, to meet her gaze. "They really think he did the worst?" My throat felt raw, my voice barely more than a croak.

Maggie hesitated, but then nodded slowly, her eyes soft with understanding, with sorrow.

I let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. "I guess I need to go talk to my husband."

Maggie studied me for a moment, searching my face like she was trying to measure if I was ready, if I was steady enough to do this.

"I can come with you," she offered, voice gentle.

I swallowed, my grip on her hand tightening. For the first time since I'd walked into this room, since I'd locked myself away from the world, I felt something other than just the crushing weight of what had happened. I felt seen. Understood.

And that mattered.

I nodded, clearing my throat. "Thank you."

Maggie gave my hand one final squeeze before standing, giving me the time and space to follow when I was ready.

And for the first time, I thought maybe—just maybe—I would be.

Maggie walked beside me, silent, solid. I felt like I was made of glass, fragile, on the verge of shattering with every step I took down the hallway. My legs felt weak, my stomach twisted into knots so tight I thought I might be sick. But I kept walking.

Because I had to.

Because Daryl deserved to know.

I could feel Maggie watching me out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't say anything, didn't push. She just stayed close, letting me lean on her if I needed to. I was grateful for that. For her.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated. My fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeves, my breath coming in shallow pulls.

Daryl was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched forward, like he was carrying the weight of the world. His knuckles were still bloodied, barely cleaned, and his entire body was wound so tight I wasn't sure he'd ever come undone.

Maggie squeezed my arm gently, urging me forward.

I took a breath and stepped into the room.

Daryl lifted his head, his blue eyes latching onto me the second I moved. Relief flooded his expression, but it was short-lived. I could see the hesitation in his gaze, the careful way he sat up, like he was afraid any sudden movement might push me away again.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and sank onto the couch beside him, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. Close enough that I could see the pain etched into his features, the guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders.

He didn't say anything, didn't push, didn't ask. He just waited.

And somehow, that made it easier.

I took a shaky breath. "I need to tell you what happened."

Daryl nodded, his jaw clenching, his hands curling into fists where they rested on his knees.

I looked down at my hands, tracing the lines on my palms, grounding myself before I spoke.

"He made me..." I hesitated, shame curling in my stomach. "He forced me to kiss him. He touched me. He—he made me touch him." My voice broke, and my shoulders started shaking. "And my body... it reacted, Daryl. I didn't want it to, I swear to God, I didn't, but it did, and I—I feel so fucking disgusting."

Daryl's breath hitched, and when I looked up at him, I saw the tears pooling in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks.

My strong, unshakable husband was crying.

And not just silent, choked-up tears.

He was breaking.

His entire body trembled, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his hands gripping his thighs so tightly his knuckles went white. "Baby..." His voice was wrecked, raw.

I covered my mouth with my hands, sobs ripping through me, and Maggie moved closer, pressing her hand against my back. "It wasn't your fault," she whispered. "None of it was your fault."

Daryl let out a shuddering breath, his entire frame shaking. "I should've killed him slower," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "I should've made him fucking suffer."

I reached for him instinctively but stopped myself halfway, curling my fingers into my lap instead. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible over my crying.

Daryl's head snapped up. "What?" His brows pulled together in confusion, more tears falling. "What the hell you got to be sorry for?"

"For flinching away from you," I admitted, my chest aching with the weight of it. "For pushing you away when we got back. I—I know it wasn't fair. I know you were just trying to help, and I—" My voice broke again, and I shook my head. "I just need some time."

Daryl's face crumpled, and he reached out, but stopped himself, his hand hovering between us like he was afraid to cross that invisible line.

"You can have all the time you need, baby," he said, his voice cracking. "I ain't going nowhere. I'll never go nowhere."

Maggie squeezed my shoulder. "And neither will I," she said gently. "You're not alone, Ella. You never have to go through this alone."

I sat there, hands clenched in my lap, my throat burning, my chest tight with the weight of everything I hadn't said. I could feel Daryl's eyes on me, waiting, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I was afraid—afraid of what I'd see in his face, afraid of what I'd find in his eyes.

Afraid of what I might not find.

My fingers curled tighter, nails biting into my palms. The words hovered on the tip of my tongue, thick and heavy, suffocating.

I swallowed hard. "Are you angry with me?"

Silence. A beat too long, and panic surged in my chest. My breath hitched.

"Why would I be angry?" Daryl asked, his voice rough, careful.

I still couldn't look at him. I stared down at my lap, at the trembling fingers curled against my thighs. "Because my body... reacted?"

My voice cracked, breaking on the last word. The shame that had been clawing at my ribs since Paul forced his hands on me tightened its grip, sinking its teeth in deep.

I felt filthy.

I felt ruined.

I felt—

Daryl exhaled, the sound low and tired, like the weight of what I'd just said had crushed something inside of him. I risked a glance at him, and what I saw shattered me all over again.

He was crying. Not just a few stray tears—his whole face was red, his jaw locked so tight the muscle ticked, his chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths, like he was trying to keep himself from coming apart completely.

His hands dragged over his face before dropping to his knees. He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head up toward the ceiling, blinking hard.

"It ain't your fault," he said finally, voice raw and frayed at the edges. "You didn't ask for it. You didn't want it. That ain't on you." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "I could never—never—be mad at you for what happened."

A sob burst free from my throat, sharp and sudden, and I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Daryl turned his head, looking at me fully now, and the devastation in his eyes made it impossible to breathe. He reached for me, but hesitated, his fingers twitching like he didn't know if I'd pull away again.

I let out a shaky breath. "I don't know how to move past this."

Daryl's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You ain't gotta move past nothin', not yet," he said. "You feel how you feel. Ain't nobody got the right to tell you how you should or shouldn't be dealin' with this."

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

"Don't matter what he did or didn't do, don't matter what anybody else thinks. This is your pain. This is your body. You feel however the hell you need to feel, for as long as you need to feel it. Ain't no timeline for this shit."

My whole body trembled, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my shirt.

"I just feel so—" I let out a shuddering breath, my vision swimming. "I don't even know. Broken, maybe? Like I don't even belong to myself anymore."

Daryl shook his head. "You ain't broken." His voice cracked. "You survived. That don't make you broken, that makes you strong as hell."

I let out a soft, wet laugh. "I don't feel strong."

He turned his body fully toward me then, closing what little distance was between us, his face open, unguarded. "Then let me remind you," he murmured.

And that's when I knew—I wasn't in this alone. Not now, not ever.

I wasn't okay.

I wasn't sure when I would be.

But I was safe.

And for now, that had to be enough.

~~~

Author's note.

Hi everyone,

I usually don't include author's notes in the middle of chapters, but this time, I felt it was necessary.

This is a difficult, deeply personal topic, and I want to acknowledge that. I don't take this subject lightly.

Too often, survivors of abuse feel as though their pain isn't valid—like if something did or didn't happen, they aren't allowed to feel the way they do. Like they should be grateful it wasn't worse. Like they don't have the right to struggle.

That is absolute bullshit.

If someone violates you—your body, your mind, your sense of safety—you have every right to feel however you feel. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to be numb. You are allowed to grieve what was taken from you. You are allowed to not be okay, for as long as it takes.

Your pain is yours. No one else gets to define it.

You are not dirty. You are not weak. You are not broken.

You are strong. You are surviving. And you do not have to carry this alone.

Abuse, in any form, is unacceptable. It is never deserved. No one has the right to shatter your world like that.

If this resonates with you, if you've ever doubted your own feelings or your right to feel them, please know this: You matter. Your healing matters. And you deserve to take up space in your own story.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here.