“It’s okay, Dar,” I wheezed, leaning heavily over the toilet bowl, as a mixture of vomit and blood continued to heave from my black and blue stomach. “I’m okay.” “Joey,” Darren croaked out, as he knelt beside me and kept a steadying hand to my back. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I had training.” “It doesn’t matter,” I strangled out, as the pain of having my seven-year-old nose broken threatened to consume me. “I don’t care,” I continued to say over and over, hoping that if I said it enough times, it might come true.
