Guarded Hearts

Chapter 3: The Truth That Hurts

Kim Pov.

Once I arrived at the hospital, everything became a confusing jumble of voices, lights, and hands touching me. Doctors and nurses moved around me in a blur, their faces wearing that same expression—pity mixed with professionalism. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want their sympathy, their quiet horror, their judgment disguised as concern.

If I had the strength, I would have run. I would have disappeared into some dark, quiet place where no one could look at me. But I was trapped, pinned to the hospital bed by the weight of my own broken body.

Pain anchored me there.

My arm, now encased in a cast, pulsed with every heartbeat. My ribs, fractured and bruised, restricted my breathing, turning every inhale into agony. The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils, sharp and suffocating. It was too clean. Too artificial. Nothing like home.

*Home?*

No. That house had never been a home.

The examinations felt endless, blurring into one another. Hands poked and prodded, measuring the extent of the damage, muttering medical terms I barely understood. Time dissolved. Minutes, hours—none of it made sense anymore. I thought nothing could feel worse than this.

Then the doctor brought it up.

A small woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice, she hesitated before speaking.

“Miss Blake,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “Would you be willing to see a gynecologist as well? Just to make sure everything is okay?”

The words were a dagger.

I stiffened. My breath caught in my throat.

Panic swelled, crushing me under its weight. My fingers curled into the thin fabric of the hospital gown, gripping it as if it could shield me from the suffocating pressure in my chest.

“No…” My voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to.”

The doctor hesitated. “Why?”

Her voice wasn’t demanding, just gentle curiosity. But I couldn’t look at her. Instead, my eyes locked onto the cabinet in the corner, the way the door was slightly ajar.

I scanned the room, searching. Making sure there were no men. No one who could see.

Then, slowly, with trembling hands, I lifted the hospital gown.

The doctor gasped.

I didn’t need to see her face to know what she was looking at.

The raw, red cuts on my inner thighs. Some fresh. Some older. Scars layered over wounds, evidence of a pain too deep to name.

She lifted a hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, she just stared, frozen in place, caught between professional detachment and human emotion.

“Kim,” she said finally, her voice softer than before. “That’s why we need to do this exam. We need to make sure you haven’t been sexually abused.”

“No.” I shook my head violently, yanking the gown back down. “I wasn’t. I swear, I wasn’t.” My voice cracked, but I forced the words out. “He never touched me like that.”

The doctor exhaled slowly, visibly shaken. “Okay,” she murmured. “Then let’s take you to your room. Detective Johns is waiting for you there.”

My fingers latched onto her arm, gripping tightly as she helped me up. My legs wobbled beneath me, every step a battle against the pain slicing through my ribs and back.

When I entered the hospital room, Detective Johns was already there.

He didn’t speak at first. He just watched, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, steady eyes—held something close to pity. Or maybe it was understanding. I didn’t want either.

With effort, I climbed into the hospital bed, carefully shifting onto my side to avoid the searing pain along my spine. The detective pulled up a chair beside me.

“How is she?” he asked the doctor without looking away from me.

I closed my eyes, pretending not to hear.

The doctor spoke clinically, listing my injuries as if I weren’t there.

“Right arm fracture. Three broken ribs. Severe bruising. Multiple open wounds on the back, consistent with a belt or strap. And…” She hesitated. “Lacerations near the groin area.”

Shame seared through me, hotter than the pain.

“Signs of s****l abuse?” Johns asked, his voice steady, professional.

“She says no,” the doctor replied, glancing at me briefly.

The detective nodded. “Thank you.”

With that, the doctor left, leaving the two of us alone in the suffocating silence.

Johns cleared his throat. “Miss Blake…”

I cut him off before he could finish.

“Is he dead?” I asked, my voice barely more than a breath.

The detective watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“Yes, Miss Blake,” he finally said. “Your father is dead.”

I stared at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Any hint that he might be lying. But he wasn’t.

He was gone.

Dead.

I thought the news would bring relief. That it would free me. But all I felt was… nothing.

“You kept asking that,” Johns said, his voice softer now. “May I ask why?”

The answer tumbled out before I could stop it.

“If he’s dead… he won’t follow me anymore. He won’t control me anymore.” My fingers clenched around the thin hospital sheet. “That was the only way I could survive.”

Johns remained silent. But I saw the way his fingers tightened around his pen. The way his jaw tensed. He wrote something in his notebook, though I had no idea what.

It didn’t matter.

I turned my face away, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. My body ached, my mind felt like it was unraveling, and my chest was too tight to breathe properly.

But for the first time in years, the fear wasn’t there.

There was nothing left to fear.

I closed my eyes, hoping that with the darkness would come silence.