Guarded Hearts

Chapter 2: The Shame That Hurts More Than the Wounds

Kim Pov.

The sound of sirens was like a distant echo, barely registering through the pounding in my head. But I knew they were coming for me. The ambulance. The police. They would be here soon. I was sure of it.

Yet the wait felt unbearable. Time stretched unnaturally, distorting seconds into hours. The silence in the house was oppressive, thick like a fog that smothered everything. The only sound was my own breathing—shallow, ragged, trembling.

I forced my eyes to my father’s body, lying motionless by the stairs. A cold shiver crawled down my spine.

*What did I do?*

The images wouldn’t stop playing in my head. The vase crashing into his skull. The way his eyes had widened in shock before rolling back. The heavy, sickening sound of his head hitting the steps. Over and over, like a broken film reel I couldn’t shut off.

I pressed my injured arm against my chest, but the pain barely registered. My forehead throbbed where blood had seeped into my hair, the strands sticking to my skin. The smell of iron mixed with the dust of the old house. It was suffocating. Everything felt wrong. Unnatural.

Then, the front door burst open.

I flinched violently, my body instinctively curling inward. Heavy footsteps filled the space, the weight of boots pressing into the floorboards. Flashlights cut through the darkness. Shadows stretched and shifted. Voices filled the room—sharp, commanding, urgent.

But I couldn’t move.

I was frozen on the floor, my back pressed against the wall, my knees drawn to my chest as if I could disappear into myself. I couldn't even lift my head. If I stayed still enough, maybe they wouldn’t see me. Maybe this wasn’t real.

A firm hand landed on my shoulder.

Panic exploded inside me.

“No!” My scream tore through the room, raw and desperate. “Get your hands off me!”

I lashed out, my limbs jerking wildly as I tried to escape. My fists struck against something solid—a chest, a shoulder, an arm—but the hands didn’t let go.

“Miss, I’m from the police,” a voice said, calm but firm. “You’re safe now.”

But I couldn’t hear him.

All I could feel was the terror, thick and consuming. I struggled harder, flailing against the grip that held me in place.

“Please—stop hitting me! Leave me alone!”

The officer didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t hurt me. He only held on, keeping me steady. But my mind wasn’t in that room anymore. I was back in the past, back in the dark nights of bruises and fear, back in a place where hands were never gentle.

Then, suddenly, my body gave up.

The fight drained out of me, leaving me empty. My limbs went slack. My chest heaved as sobs overtook me, violent and uncontrollable.

The officer loosened his grip, but he didn’t let go completely. His voice softened.

“Okay, okay… you’re safe.”

The words felt like a lie.

When my crying finally quieted to shuddering breaths, I forced myself to look up. A man in a police uniform knelt in front of me, his expression unreadable. His shoulder had a stain—red against dark blue. My breath caught in my throat.

*Blood.*

*My* blood.

I tore my gaze away, unable to bear it. Instead, I looked back toward my father’s still form. And I instantly regretted it.

His face was pale, his chest barely rising. The pool of blood beneath his head looked too large. Too real. My stomach twisted violently.

“I’m Detective Johns, from Forensics,” the officer said gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

My throat closed. I tried to speak, but the words stuck, suffocating me.

“Is he… dead?” I finally forced out.

Detective Johns glanced at the paramedics who had rushed to my father’s side. One of them knelt, pressing two fingers against his neck. The seconds dragged painfully.

“He’s still breathing,” one of them confirmed, though his voice held no relief. “But his condition is serious.”

Serious. But not dead.

The knowledge sent a sharp jolt through me, but I wasn’t sure if it was relief or something else—something darker.

A medic knelt beside me, reaching for my arm. I winced as she probed the injury, her expression tightening.

“We need to get her outside,” she murmured to the detective. “She’s in bad shape.”

Johns nodded, then stood, offering me a hand. I hesitated. The idea of being touched again made my skin crawl, but my legs were too weak to lift me on my own. Slowly, I allowed him to help me up. The moment I was on my feet, dizziness crashed into me. I swayed, gripping his arm for balance.

The cold night air hit like a slap. I sucked in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to steady me. Flashing red and blue lights painted the street in chaotic colors. A small crowd had gathered—neighbors watching from their porches, whispering amongst themselves.

Their eyes were on me.

Shame curled around my throat, suffocating. I wished I could disappear, fold into myself until I was nothing.

Inside the ambulance, Detective Johns sat beside me. He didn’t speak right away, letting the medic clean my wounds in silence. But when she lifted my shirt to check my ribs, she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, God…” she whispered.

I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I knew what they saw—bruises in various stages of healing, some yellow, some deep purple. A fresh welt across my ribs. Thin scars crisscrossing my skin, ugly reminders of years of silence.

I kept my eyes down. My fingers curled into fists.

I felt naked. Exposed.

Detective Johns didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, his voice came, softer than before.

“Kim,” he said. “Did your father do this to you?”

The question made me freeze.

The blood drained from my face. My breathing hitched.

I couldn’t answer.

I stared at the floor, willing myself to disappear. My nails dug into my palms, but I barely felt it.

When I didn’t speak, Johns exhaled through his nose. I could feel his gaze on me, waiting. But I had nothing to give him. Nothing but silence.

The ambulance started moving.

Through the window, I saw the paramedics lifting my father onto a stretcher. My stomach twisted again.

“Is he… really going to survive?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Johns hesitated. Then he sighed.

“No. But his condition is critical. We’ll know more soon.”

I nodded, but his words didn’t bring me comfort.

I leaned back against the cold metal, letting my head rest against the wall. My body ached. My mind was unraveling. And my tears—silent, relentless—refused to stop.