Here is the translation of the text into English:

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**(AMANDA)**

I’m in Gavin’s bathtub again, and the water beneath me covers almost completely. Behind me, Gavin is gently washing my hair with lavender shampoo. His hands are meticulous and gentle. We are in complete silence, but there is no tension between us, only peace. It is also noticeable that there is melancholy, because we both know well what may lie ahead.

Donovan doesn’t say a word about the company to me, and that has never bothered me. I know that all he wants is to enjoy the time with me, and thinking more deeply, he must be so stressed from dealing with complicated issues one after another that the only free time he has is with me—and he won’t waste it talking about what troubled him so much.

Even so, if only the vice president of Urus would say anything to me, I could be more aware of the situation and understand what it was about... At least the general idea. One of my biggest concerns was Gavin. He hated dealing with all the bureaucracy, pressure, and deceit that ran rampant within that corporation, and not only was he at serious risk of having to fully assume the leadership position, but he wouldn’t have any means of escaping it. If Urus really started to have serious problems, Gavin would have to become the CEO with the leadership spirit he never wanted to be.

So what would Donovan have to do? Step back completely? Appear only at events where he was required? Or simply withdraw and watch from a distance while Gavin took care of everything?

If my mind was in such a mess, I could hardly imagine how my host’s was. However, as he gently washed my hair and massaged my scalp, there was no trace of annoyance or anxiety on his face.

— All done. Now I’m going to rinse.

I move my back away from the tub and lean forward so he can use the water to remove the excess shampoo. I notice his hesitation, the brief second it takes him to start, and I instantly know what it’s about. He has once again seen the scars I never explained the origin of, and obviously felt pity... or something like that.

The water begins to pour over my head in generous portions. Gavin must be using one of his many containers instead of his hands. I close my eyes to avoid any residue of shampoo getting in and wait for his signal to indicate that he’s finished.

Seconds later, he says:

— All done.

His tone is subdued, even a bit gruff. I frown and look at him.

— What’s wrong? — Gavin asks.

— Are you upset about something?

His eyes widen in genuine surprise.

— What? No!

— Then why do you look like that?

— What do you mean?

— You seem angry.

The Californian lowers his head, embarrassed, and can’t formulate an answer. I ask:

— Is it because of my back?

I see his chest rising and falling slowly, and still quite awkwardly, Gavin nods. Then he says:

— I can’t look at your marks and feel... a lot of anger. And outrage. — Then his blue irises fix on mine. — But you don’t need to talk about them. I don’t want you to... Relive your painful memories.

— But do you want to know?

— There’s no need to...

— Do you want to, Gavin?

He doesn’t answer. I reflect for a minute and come to a conclusion.

— Wait a minute. You’ve seen me naked before. I mean, when you took me to the hospital because I had... You dressed me, but you saw my back. You never mentioned anything until now.

The blonde man who saved my life sits on the closed toilet lid, resting his forearms on his knees. He seems about to confess something. I let him take the time he needs to organize his thoughts. Finally, Gavin seems ready to verbalize. I listen attentively.

— I noticed most of your scars. The ones on your arms and thighs are straight lines and almost perfectly regular. I didn’t need to think much to reach the obvious conclusion. The mark you have on your neck... That one is completely difficult for me to look at, and even more to think about how you got it. But the ones on your back... — I see a slight tremor in one of his hands, which he tries to hide but can’t. — They are the ones that drive me crazy. Because I try to understand how they were made, and every time I’m close to understanding, I want to kill the person who did it.

His breathing is now heavy and labored. His face is red. Not from embarrassment, not from nervousness... But from anger.

— I’ve never been an aggressive person, Amanda. — His voice is not loud but trembling and grave. I’ve only heard him speak like this once before, and never thought I’d see it again. — I prefer to solve everything by talking, never raising a finger to hurt or physically restrain someone. I’ve always believed that the person who hits needs to be willing to be hit, and that all the reason you had for confronting someone is lost when there is violence. But I can’t stop contemplating... imagining in detail what I would do to that person. How I would... — His hands clench and grip the fabric of his pants. — ... Make them suffer and bleed in every way possible.

I remain still and mute. He continues speaking, his anger becoming more evident and explicit:

— How can someone do this to another person? How can someone destroy someone’s mind in this way and continue to roam free... Without any punishment that makes them regret being born?... — Gavin looks at me, and his eyes are shining like steel. — I don’t know if they are alive or dead, but if I find them... There will be no mercy. I will never forgive them. Not today and never.

He stands up and crouches right next to me, outside the bathtub. His hand gently grabs my chin, and his finger slides across my cheek in a soft caress.

— I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I want to take care of you, just like I have for these months and will continue to do. I didn’t mean to upset you with that talk about you not being ready to be independent. I... — I see how difficult it is for him to say all this. — I just wanted to say that... That you mean everything to me, and it would hurt me so much to see you away from me... And to know that maybe you need my help, and I won’t be there...

We are very close to each other, and it is impossible to resist the urge to get even closer. Our faces are almost touching. I close my eyes and feel his breath on my nose and mouth. We don’t kiss, but we touch our noses and foreheads. I feel my heart beating fast, the connection we have becoming more intense.

I feel his fingers gripping mine, a sign of union and complicity. That was the rawest way Gavin could express that sublime and powerful truth, but couldn’t put into words. There were many variables, many circumstances and things we needed to analyze before saying that.

I understand his message. I can grasp every detail of that message.

So I just smile at him.

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**(AMANDA)**

Lying in Gavin’s bed, I breathe slowly. I inhale once, then twice, and then exhale very slowly. I need to calm my body, and especially my mind. I am okay. I am with a man I trust and who takes care of me. He won’t hurt me, and I am not in danger. Everything is okay, everything is okay, everything is okay.

I am still naked, or at least the upper part of my body. Except for the panties and the shorts that are part of one of my pajamas, I am not wearing anything else. Resting my chin and neck, a soft and fluffy pillow from the owner of the room—and the apartment. My hands are still and resting on either side of the pillow. I am lying on my stomach.

With my eyes closed, I patiently wait for Gavin to finish thoroughly examining each of my scars.

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**(GAVIN)**

The affection I have for her is absurd.

Absurd because I know that, even when compared to intense passions I’ve had throughout my life, this feeling is absolutely incomparable. Amanda was strong, so strong to have gone through all of that and still be alive. But she was also fragile, and had broken so many times that she thought she didn’t even have the right to live. Thanks to all the saints, gods, and forces of the universe wandering around, watching us and even helping when needed, I prevented that beautiful, bright soul from fading away like the wick of a candle.

The flame was getting stronger over time. Sometimes it flickered back and forth, dangerously oscillating, but remained lit. I would always be there for her; I wanted her by my side for the rest of my life. I don’t know what my future would be, but I was sure that was my desire... and I hoped it was hers too.

And now Amanda was here, with her back naked and completely exposed to me. She still hadn’t said a word after saying she would come up to my room and that I should follow her.

Seeing the strange lines and small circles, I can’t help but feel a red stain take over my eyes, and I feel that same anger burning my veins that could make me roar with discontent if I were allowed. I’ve been standing here for so long trying to imagine how they were made, what materials were used, that I’m afraid Amanda thinks I’ve frozen above her.

Slowly, trembling much more than I thought I would when finally given such permission, I touch one of the lines. **(GAVIN) - continued**

The depression is quite rigid to my touch, a stark contrast to the soft brown skin covering the rest of her body.

I make a small, involuntary hissing sound. Amanda doesn’t react.

I continue to touch each of the scars, with the sepulchral silence of a funeral. I try to rid myself of all that rage blinding me and focus on what is right in front of me. How were those scars created? I try to remember my time in nursing school when we had to analyze different wounds, as well as their angles, structures, and so on to identify their causes. It demands perfect attention, and my focus now is purely medicinal.

When I finally take the necessary time, the conclusion hits me like a jolt.

The silence now is oppressive, threatening to suffocate me completely.

Tears begin to flow desperately, and I can do nothing, absolutely nothing, as they fall one after the other.

I make sure not to let any of the drops fall on her so-mistreated skin, and I lock away my moans and sobs in a hole so deep in my soul that all I do is let more silent tears stream down my face.

The tremors threaten to shake my whole being. How could they... how did they have the courage...

Amanda doesn’t move.

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**(AMANDA)**

The faces are misshapen and horrifying, just like the situation I’m in. That was the price of being someone who worked with truth, commitment, and without fear of retaliation. That was the price of incompetence, of not having measured well the ground I was treading on. Now I would pay for it.

I would pay dearly. And there was nothing I could do.

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**(GAVIN)**

Still with my face drenched, I move away from the bed and go to the bathroom cabinet. I get a bottle of almond oil for the skin and head back to the bed and Amanda’s inert posture. I don’t know what’s going through her mind at that moment, but I’m so stunned and frightened that my own panic prevents me from saying a single word.

I pour a bit of oil into my hands. Respectfully, and still not fighting against the torrent flowing from my eyes, I begin to massage her back. I do everything with great care, affection, and attention. Her scars don’t hurt, or she would certainly complain. I see her fingers gripping the bed subtly, and I try to slow my pace. Her breathing is heavy but slow.

Donovan should know about this. I don’t know if Amanda had told him, though I have strong suspicions that she hadn’t. Regardless of the situation going on between us, even if we were battling each other at this very moment, we needed to talk about it.

Of course, we knew from the beginning that it was something serious; that this girl now before me had been hurt so terribly that she wanted to commit suicide. But that... that was... was... I didn’t even have words.

... I still didn’t quite know what the small circles near her ribs were. But I definitely knew what the strange lines, like tiger stripes, were—making her back a real patchwork quilt.

Amanda had been whipped.

Many. Times.

I can’t hold back anymore.

While massaging her back, I imagine this poor girl being beaten like an animal. I imagine the sound of the whip tearing her skin, making her blood flow. I can hear her crying, her screams pleading for them to please stop doing that. Stop destroying her back. Stop trying to kill her.

I hear her screams growing louder, more desperate, until the voice starts to falter.

Until she can’t feel the air entering her lungs anymore, and the shadow of death finally reveals itself to her with its bony physical form and face hidden in the shadows of the cloak.

Until she tries to draw in a breath to scream more, and finds, in mortal and terrifying shock, that she has no voice left.

I cry.

I cry loudly. The tears drip onto the confusion of stripes below me, but still, Amanda doesn’t move. The only thing I notice, the only change in her posture, is the slight rise and fall.

Because she is crying too.

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**(AMANDA)**

At this very moment, I hate Gavin for crying. I hate Donovan for being away from me. I hate myself for existing. And more than anything, I hate that no matter how much I try and want, no matter how hard I fight to rise from the ashes, I will never be able to rid myself of it: the mark of shame and cowardice.

It would follow me until my last day, until my last breath.

And worse still, I don’t know why I showed that to Gavin; my certificate of incompetence and lack of awareness.

The marks on my arms and legs were bad, yes, but I had made them. In moments when emotional pain crushed me like a stone, the horizontal lines made by sharp blades, shards of glass, or anything that came to mind would serve. I didn’t like them, but at least I knew that... That...

The shadows are consuming me again. I think I’m going to succumb.