Guarded Hearts

Chapter 4: Shackles and Truths

Kim Pov.

I woke up to a tightness in my chest, as if something unseen was pressing down on me, refusing to let me breathe fully. The hospital room was quiet except for the faint hum of machines and the steady, controlled voice of Detective Johns speaking on the phone. His calm, authoritative tone felt out of place against the chaos inside my mind.

I had barely slept—three hours at most—but my body was beyond exhaustion. Sleep hadn’t brought relief, only memories.

The door creaked open, and the doctor walked in, her hands clutching my medical file. She was a kind-looking woman, but her eyes betrayed concern. Without a word, she began checking my injuries—pressing lightly on my arm in a cast, running her fingers gently over the bruises on my ribs, asking about the pain.

"If you're in a lot of pain, please tell us, Kim," she said softly.

I nodded without looking at her. Lying would be pointless, but the truth was worse. The physical pain was nothing compared to what was inside me.

Behind her, the detective finished his call. He approached my bed slowly, waiting in silence. The weight of his gaze made my skin crawl with shame. It felt like he could see straight through me, into the ugliest, most broken parts of my soul.

Then he spoke.

"Miss Blake, given that your father lost his life as a result of your… assault, until the case is investigated and all the details are put together, you are charged with murder," he said, his voice solemn but steady.

I had been expecting this. I had known from the moment the ambulance arrived.

My fingers curled into the hospital sheet as I forced myself to meet his gaze.

"It's okay," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I understand."

The detective sighed, almost too softly to hear, before pulling out a pair of handcuffs. My breath caught in my throat, and my stomach twisted painfully. He stepped closer, gently taking my healthy wrist and locking the cuff around it, securing the other end to the bed rail.

His movements were slow, almost hesitant, as if he was trying to spare me. But the cold metal against my skin sent a shiver through my entire body. It wasn’t the pain—it was what the handcuffs represented.

Trapped. Powerless.

I stared at my wrist, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck. He was looking too. At first, I thought he was just making sure the cuff was secure, but then I realized—he had noticed the bruises. The deep, yellowing marks that wrapped around my wrist like ghosts of past restraints. His fingers hesitated for half a second before he stepped back.

"I need you to tell me everything that happened up until the moment you… attacked your father," he said, pulling out a recorder and pressing the button.

I took a deep breath, trying to organize the mess in my mind. My gaze stayed fixed on the white sheet beneath me. Looking at him felt impossible.

I started talking. Slowly at first, my words stumbling over each other. But once I began, I couldn’t stop.

I told him about my mother’s death. How it was my father’s fault. How, after she was gone, I became his punching bag—the outlet for all his rage and bitterness. I spoke about the nights he brought his friends home, their drunken laughter filling the house, the way he paraded his cruelty in front of them like it was something to be proud of.

And then, last night.

My voice cracked. My breath hitched. I told him about the yelling, the belt, the way his eyes burned with something darker than anger. How he had said I deserved everything that happened to me. How, in a moment of blind terror, I had grabbed the vase and swung it with all the strength I had left.

Silence fell over the room when I finished.

It was only then that I realized I was crying. Silent, shaking sobs racked my body, my vision blurred by tears I hadn’t even noticed.

The detective stood, poured water from a pitcher on the bedside table, and handed me the glass.

"Thank you, Miss Blake, for being honest with me," he said quietly as he sat down again. "I know how hard it must have been for you."

I took the water, my hands unsteady, but didn’t drink. I studied him, trying to read his face. He looked serious, professional—but there was something in his eyes. A flicker of something softer.

"And now… what happens?" I asked, forcing the words out.

He exhaled, glancing at his phone before meeting my gaze.

"Now, I put the case together. I go through all the evidence, the statements, the medical reports. But I want you to know that I will make sure the truth comes out, Kim," he said firmly.

Something in his voice made my chest tighten.

He meant it.

But did the truth even matter?

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that someone—anyone—would fight for me. But I had spent too many years learning that justice wasn’t meant for people like me.

The detective looked like he wanted to say something else, but he hesitated. Finally, with a barely perceptible sigh, he rose and walked to the door.

"Get some rest," he said over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

I was left alone.

Alone, with the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I shifted slightly, the handcuffs clinking against the bed rail. The sound sent a shudder through me. The cold metal dug into my skin, grounding me in a reality I wanted to escape.

It didn’t matter that my father was dead.

It didn’t matter that the bruises and scars on my body were proof of what he had done.

I was still shackled.

I was still trapped.

And even though he was gone, his shadows continued to haunt me.