Still Beating

by Jennifer Hartmann

I’m here, and I see her—every scar, every flaw, every broken, hollow piece. And I understand.

He brushes his fingers over my knuckles and says, “We fuckin’ made it.”

A grin spreads across my face—a real, big, genuine grin. “Hell yeah, we did.”

He holds me like a lover. Like my own, personal defender. Like my savior. After all, he saved me from a serial killer. He saved me from an overdose. He saved me from myself.

“As long as it’s beating, I’m yours.”