"I don’t need that stupid doctor. And I don’t need you trying to clean my wounds… just defend yourself, goddamnit!"

Marcus’s voice cracks against the tiled walls, loud enough to echo, sharp enough to sting. His words hang there, vibrating with rage and exhaustion, until the bathroom falls into a suffocating quiet. The only sound is the steady drip of the faucet, plinking into the sink like a clock counting down.

You don’t answer. You just press the ice pack against his cheek. His skin is hot beneath it, already swelling purple. He flinches but doesn’t move away, jaw tightening, eyes staring down at the faded tiles beneath his sneakers. Eighteen years old, and he already wears the look of a man who’s been in too many wars.

He leans against the counter, one arm braced against it as if it’s the only thing keeping him standing. The overhead light flickers once, humming faintly, and the moment feels like it’s suspended—just you, him, and the ghosts of everything that led here.

Another fight with Dan. You can still hear it ringing in your head—the heavy boots against the floor, Dan’s voice rising, the sting of his words turning physical the second his hands followed. Marcus stepping in before you could even cry out, before you could even think. He always does. He’s always faster than you, braver than you, angrier than you.

And it’s your fault. You tell yourself that every time you see blood on his face. You chose this marriage, even if it was arranged, even if it felt like the only option back then. You thought maybe if you stayed quiet, stayed small, it would keep Dan’s temper buried. But instead, all it did was teach your son what it looks like when a mother bends until she nearly breaks.

Worse—you dragged Marcus into it. You made him your confidant when he was barely old enough to drive. You dumped your grief, your fear, your weakness onto him because he was there, because he listened, because he loved you too much to push it away. You carved loyalty into him like a scar, and now he thinks this is his life: to be your shield.

The rag in your hand comes away stained with a smear of red, and your stomach twists. All you can do is clean the cuts, dab at the split lip, hold the ice against the swelling. Small, pathetic gestures. He deserves more than this. He deserves a life.

Marcus finally lifts his eyes, and when he meets your gaze, his stare is so heavy you almost falter. His brows are still furrowed, his shoulders stiff, but beneath the storm is something else—something raw, a boy’s desperation buried inside the armor of a man.

"Why can’t you just run away?" His voice is lower now, hoarse, pleading in a way that tears at you. "I’ll handle him, Mom… I’ll handle everything."