Questions Without Answers

Jay

The police come in pairs.

Two uniforms, polite voices, notebooks already open like they expect me to suddenly remember everything if they wait long enough. One of them asks my name. The other asks the date. I answer both. That seems to disappoint them.

They ask me what I remember about the night of the party.

“Nothing,” I say. “I woke up here.”

They exchange a look. Not annoyed. Worse—understanding.

“Do you recognize any of these people?” one of them asks, turning the tablet toward me.

Faces slide past. Blurry. Ordinary. None of them spark anything. No fear. No anger. Just emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating how useless I sound. “I don’t know them.”

“That’s okay,” the older officer says quickly. “You’re not in trouble. You did nothing wrong.”

Nothing wrong.

I nod, even though the words feel thin.

Before they leave, they tell me there was a video. Someone filmed it. Enough of it, anyway. Enough to identify the people involved. Enough to make arrests.

“You don’t need to worry about that part,” the officer says. “Focus on getting better.”

I get discharged two days later.

Mum cries again, this time with relief. Lily holds my good hand too tight like she’s afraid the world might take me back if she loosens her grip. They tell me to rest. To heal. To be patient with myself.

The court hearing happens without me.

Six months of community service.

That’s it.

I hear the words secondhand, filtered through other people’s anger. Lily is furious. Mum goes quiet in that dangerous way that means she’s trying not to say something she can’t take back.

“They said the judge didn’t think it was serious enough,” Lily spits. “Boys being boys.”

I lie in bed later, staring at the ceiling, arm aching, head still foggy.

Six months for almost losing a life.

For teaching someone like me a lesson.

I don’t remember the attack.

But my body does.

And somehow, that feels worse

Home doesn’t feel like home anymore.

The walls are the same. The couch still dips in the middle. The smell of Mum’s cooking settles into everything like it always has. But I move through the house carefully now, like it might hurt me if I don’t.

Mum goes back to work three days after I’m discharged. She hates leaving me alone. I can see it in the way she checks the locks twice before she goes, in how she keeps her phone face-up on the table, volume all the way up.

Lily goes back to school too. She calls every night, sometimes just to breathe on the other end of the line, like silence between us is better than being alone. I tell her I’m fine. She doesn’t believe me. I don’t think I do either.

“I hired someone to help out,” Mum says one morning, already halfway into her coat. “Just until you’re stronger.”

“I don’t need a nurse,” I tell her. My arm is in a cast, sure, and I still get dizzy if I stand too fast, but I’m not helpless.

“He’s not a nurse,” she says. “More like… assistance.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. She looks exhausted. Worn thin by fear and guilt and four days spent sitting next to a hospital bed. I let it go.

Mike is already in the kitchen when I come out later.

He’s young. Early twenties, maybe. Broad-shouldered, dressed casually, like he didn’t get the memo this was supposed to be a medical thing. He smiles when he sees me, easy and familiar, like we’ve met before even though I’m sure we haven’t.

“Jay, right?” he says. “I’m Mike.”

He doesn’t hover. That’s the first thing I notice. He doesn’t rush to grab things for me or ask if I’m in pain every five minutes. He just… exists. Makes coffee. Cleans up without being asked. Keeps an eye on me without making it obvious.

It’s unsettling.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I tell him that afternoon when he insists on walking behind me down the hallway.

He shrugs. “Your mum worries.”

“Everyone worries,” I mutter.

Mike smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something about him that feels slightly off—like he’s always listening for something I can’t hear. He asks questions that don’t matter. What music I like. Whether I sleep well. If I feel safe.

That one makes me pause.

“Safe from what?” I ask.

He hesitates. Just a beat too long. “Just… in general.”

Life keeps moving.

The days blur together—pain meds, afternoon naps, the sound of Mum’s keys at the door every evening. The news mentions my case once, briefly. Community service. Six months. A headline that doesn’t use the word hate.

I sit on my bed at night, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember something—anything—but my mind gives me nothing. Just flashes of fear with no shape. No faces.

Mike sits in the living room most nights, lights low, phone dark in his hand. Watching nothing. Or maybe everything.

I tell myself Mum’s just being careful.

Still, sometimes, I catch Mike looking at me like he’s counting something.

And I don’t know why that makes me feel safer—or why it scares me just a little.

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