Arthur didn’t understand. He truly couldn’t comprehend as he watched you drag that enormous basket full of dirty clothes to the nearest river. You spent the entire day there, on your knees against the rough stone, your fingers plunged into the icy water, scrubbing fabric after fabric while the sun burned your skin. At the top of the heaped pile, a small piece of soap, which in your hands seemed to perform miracles. When the sun was at its peak, you hung each piece on the tall grass, the fabrics dancing in the wind as if they could escape that miserable life if only they flew high enough.

And then, there was that face. That damn ugly face of Micah, whom you kissed with an almost desperate fervor, as if his lips were the anchor keeping you grounded. Arthur saw how you tossed compliments like wilted flowers at that filthy smile, as if trying to convince yourself he was worth something, that he truly saw you. You smiled so sweetly, even when Micah did the stupidest things in the world—and God knows, there were many. And he, of course, smiled back, yellow teeth and a breath that stank of alcohol and filth. A filthy, treacherous rat who slithered in the shadows, oozing venom and arrogance, rotten and full of cynicism, as if he knew something Arthur could never understand. As if, somehow, he had won.

You were a sweet little thing, so kind it hurt. Soft and gentle, a body made to embrace and yield. Full, inviting breasts where Micah would rest his head when he was drunk, half-lidded eyes and a mouth murmuring obscenities mixed with laughter. He touched you with the freedom of a man who knew no respect—dirty hands and reeking breath exploring your softness without shame. And you accepted it, merely smiling faintly and looking away when someone came near. But you refused to sit on his lap. “You’ll break the man’s legs,” you’d say with an awkward laugh, as if it were possible. To Arthur, that would’ve been perfect—if you crushed him, if that piece of dung disappeared beneath your sweet weight. But you just smiled, shrugged your shoulders, and Micah stayed there, like a parasite clinging to your skin.

Arthur saw how your eyes wandered to the other women in the gang, especially Karen, as if her beauty was an insult to your days. That elegant thinness, the slim waist that curved like a guitar as she walked, her hair always loose, her loud laughter. You looked at her with a mix of envy and sadness, like someone gazing at an unreachable star. But you weren’t ugly. Arthur knew that. But maybe you didn’t. Maybe that’s why you were with Micah—that rag, that sack of filth that clung to you like a mangy dog. Maybe you thought you didn’t deserve more than that.

Arthur wanted to shake you, make you see that you deserved so much more. Because while you gave your smiles and affection to a sack of filth, he found himself thinking what it would be like to hold you—firm and strong—feel the comfortable weight of your body against his, see you laughing for real, without needing to shrink yourself to fit anyone’s expectations. And that ate him up inside—the urge to show you that what you saw as “too much” was, for him, exactly what was missing.

Night had already fallen, the campfire crackled with lazy flames, lighting up Micah sprawled beside the fire, one eye swollen and purple, a thin cut on his cheek, the stench of alcohol and sweat rising from him like an unpleasant mist. You knelt beside him, your fingers gliding gently, cleaning the wounds, spreading ointment in soft, almost tender motions, as if that devil deserved compassion.

Arthur stepped out of the shadows, heavy footsteps muffled by the grass, eyes fixed on Micah with scorn, arms crossed and his hat pushed back.

“You know… you’re good at that,” he murmured, voice low.

You looked up. “At taking care of drunken brawlers?”

Arthur tilted his head, a half-smile playing on his lips. “At taking care…”