The Slap That End 18 Years novel Chapter 8

**Inside the Fading Emerald Shadows Quiet Storms by Livia T. Rynn**

The crimson droplets continued their relentless descent from Joseph’s hand, forming a vivid, small pool that spread ominously across the floor.

It was a stark reminder of a rainy afternoon from my sixth-grade days. I could almost hear the pitter-patter of raindrops as I recalled how Joseph had cornered that boy who dared to tug at my hair, leaving him a crumpled mess of bruises and tears.

As we walked home together, Joseph shook out his sore wrist, a triumphant grin lighting up his face. “You’re such an ugly crier, Lucille,” he teased, all the while discreetly hiding his bloodied sleeve behind his back, a secret he thought he could keep.

But the cycle of revenge was swift. Not long after, that same boy and his gang retaliated, shoving Joseph out of a second-story window.

When I finally found him, he was sitting amidst a chaotic sea of shattered glass, his expression a mix of pain and defiance. He was awkwardly attempting to conceal the wound on his arm, mumbling, “Don’t cry. It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

Yet, the crimson liquid was already pooling between his fingers, his sleeve drenched in it, a stark contrast against his pale skin.

That night, my heart raced as I darted to three different pharmacies, desperate to find something to help him. I returned home with an entire box of cartoon band-aids, their cheerful designs a stark contrast to the grim situation.

The next day, when I rolled up his sleeve, I noticed his ears turning a deep shade of red. “Don’t you feel shy, Lucille?” he asked, a hint of embarrassment in his voice, yet he allowed me to cover every cut and bruise on his arm with those pink kitten band-aids, a silent acceptance of my care.

But everything shifted after that. One fateful day, Yvonne sauntered by my desk, her tall heels clicking against the floor, and with a dramatic flourish, she knocked my bag off the chair.

As my cartoon band-aids spilled out across the floor, her laughter echoed in the air. “Oh my god, are you twelve? Who still uses these?”

At that moment, Joseph stood behind her, an amused smile playing on his lips, but it felt like a distant echo of the past.

“I don’t carry band-aids anymore,” I replied, my gaze locked onto Joseph’s, the weight of our shared history heavy in the air. “I quit a long time ago.”

A shudder coursed through him, and his bloody hand reached out, grasping at the memory of a summer night long gone—me on my toes, placing a band-aid on his cheek, his smile illuminating the darkness.

“Lucille, when are you gonna grow up, crybaby?” he had teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I broke our gaze, looking down, feeling the weight of unspoken words.

His hand lingered in the air, blood dripping from his fingers like tiny red petals falling from a wilting flower.

He let out a soft, fragile laugh, his smile reminiscent of cracked ice, barely holding together.

“Fine,” he whispered, the word seeming to drain him of everything he had left.

He pulled his hand back, turning away, stumbling slightly, leaving a smeared red handprint on the glass door.

Yvonne rushed forward, her instincts kicking in to steady him, but he gently shrugged her off, a silent assertion of independence.

I watched his retreating figure until the elevator doors closed, and a wave of realization washed over me—I had seen that same silhouette when we were sixteen, after he had fought for me, his shadow stretching long and protective against the evening sun.

Now, under the sterile office lights, his shape cast against the wall was barely a shadow, fragile enough to shatter with the slightest disturbance.

Charlie, ever the silent observer, held out a damp tissue, his expression unreadable. I glanced down to see the crescent-shaped marks my nails had left in my palm, a testament to my rising anxiety.

One day, after a particularly tense meeting, Yvonne cornered me in the break room, locking the door behind her with a decisive click.

“Lucille,” she said, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, the tension palpable in the air. “Tell me this was all on purpose.”

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