Strawberries

The afternoon goes by painfully slowly until, finally, it’s dinnertime. I’m starved from the fact that I haven’t eaten all afternoon aside from that pitiful sandwich. Really, I just can’t bear to look at you, so I’d been avoiding you. When I finally do go downstairs, I don’t find anything decent to eat, nor do I find you. I assume you’re in the living room, so I call your name.

You shuffle into the kitchen quietly. “Yes?”

“Make some dinner,” I order before I really have a chance to think about what I’m saying.

You blink once. “I can’t cook.”

“Then put a pizza in the oven. I don’t care, just make something.” I finally look at you, and your tired eyes look away, down at the floor.

“Alright,” you mutter. I make myself a quick sandwich and then announce “I’m going upstairs. Call me when the food is ready.”

And so I do. Yes, I know I’m being rough. I realize I’ve never acted this way,,, towards anyone, really. You’ve just been wiring me to explode… and it’s finally happened. So I hope you’re proud. Truth is…. Maybe I feel a little guilty. But not guilty enough.

After about another half an hour, I hear the oven beep, and a few moments later I hear you call me. I put the book I’ve been reading down on the bed and head downstairs. You’re setting the pizza on the counter. “I hope you like pepperoni,” you whisper, though I hardly hear it. I just nod. I watch as you pull a pizza cutter out of a drawer and drag it over the pizza twice, cutting it into four slices. You move slowly, and I can sense the sadness and tiredness lacing all of your actions. Then you push the tray over to me and head back into the living room.

“Are you going to have a piece?”

You turn. “Am I allowed to?”

“I don’t know. Why? Should you not be?”

You look up at me briefly, and shrug, stuffing your hands in your pockets. I resist rolling my eyes, and cross the kitchen to get two plates. I pick one slice up and drop it on your plate, keeping the other three for myself. “Here,” I say tonelessly. “I don’t want you to starve.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, taking the plate. “But I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are. Eat.”

“Bu-”

“Just eat the fucking food, Joe.” I look up at you, staring into your eyes. You bite your lip, and I can see fear in your eyes. Are you afraid I‘m going to hurt you?

Interesting.

“Okay,” you mumble, and then start heading for the living room again. I grab the back of your collar and drag you towards me.

“Sit at the table. You’re not going to avoid me all day. You owe me more than that.”

You sigh heavily, and I watch your eyes travel to the ceiling, as if praying. Then you silently take a seat at the table. I sit across from you, taking a bite of the pizza. You’re just kind of picking at yours, playing with the cheese with your fingers.

“Eat the food,” I growl, rolling my eyes. This time, you don’t argue with me. I drum my fingers quietly on the table as you take a small bite of the slice, taking a long time chewing it before you swallow. Then you take another, and I go back to eating my own food.

Dinner is awkwardly silent, as neither of us can bring ourselves to say out loud what’s on our mind. I’m not paying any attention to you until you start staring at me with this zoned-out gaze. “What?” I snap, narrowing my eyes.

You blink, hard, and get up from the table. “I’m done,” you whisper quickly, dropping your plate in the sink on your way to the den.

“Joe, wash that plate off and put it in the wahser,” I call after you. You don’t even acknowledge me. “Joe!”

You disappear into the living room. Growling under my breath, I push my chair out from under the table. It scrapes loudly on the floor and I almost knock it over. I hear the door close and I glare across the kitchen. You ought to know to listen to me. I bang on the door.

“Go ‘way,” I hear you whimper. I bang on the door again, harder, before I open it, my eyes widening when I see you. You’re curled up in a ball on one of the couches, head buried in your knees. You’re hardly breathing, trembling.

“Joe,” I say firmly, sitting down on the couch next to you. Don’t get me wrong, Joe… it kills me to see you like this. And as much as I want to comfort you and hug you, I just can’t. Because I’ve been in your current position too many times - and you were the one that had caused those tears. “What’s wrong with you?”

”I j- just want to b- be left alone,” you whisper, and it sounds like even talking is a feat for you.

But you’re being stubborn. “Joe,” I rest a hand heavily on your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Go ‘way.”

“If you’re not going to talk to me, then I don’t want to hear you whimpering.”

You just cry harder, screaming into your knees. I grumble and grip one of your kneecaps, pulling it sideways, to get you to look at me. “What?” you whine.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask again, softly.

“I c-can’t tell you. You’ll be a- angry,” you manage to sputter through your sobs. I want to comfort you, I really do. I don’t like seeing you cry as angry as I am. But I can’t.

“I’ll be angrier about having to listen to you whimpering than anything you could tell me,” I cross my arms and give you a cold stare. “I’m giving you until the count of ten to calm yourself down. And then you’re going to talk to me. One. Two. Three…”

You pull in a shaky breath, holding it for a few moments before you release it slowly. You back and chest are wobbling with your uneven breaths. “Four…”

You scream into your knees again. Obviously, you’re not calming down anytime soon. And I can’t bear to look at you. “Forget it,” I grumble, standing up off the couch.

“Nick! Wait…” you call after me, lifting your head up. Now I can see your read eyes and tear wetted face. I cross my arms and turn back around to face you.

“Do you want to talk?”

You rest your chin on your knees, pulling them in tighter, nodding. I sit down next to you on the couch, resting my hand on your back gently. “Alright. What’s the matter, Joe?”

You take a minute to catch your breath before you begin. “Ruh- Rory and I--”

“Fuck. Forget it. If it’s about her, forget it.” I shake my head and stand up off the couch. If there’s anything I don’t want to hear about, it’s that woman.

“Way- Wait, Nick!” you cry after me. I turn around and glare at you, sighing.

“What?”

“Puh- Please. Just hear me out.”

I sigh, sitting back down on the couch, again. You swallow. “I went to Rory's house last night, to talk to her…” yes, that’s right. You left. But I hardly noticed. I didn’t want to see you anyway, so I ignored it. “I t- told her I had to break up with her. A- and she got really mad. She said that I’d never get anyone else and that I was a piece of sh- shit. And she thought I was just dumping her with the baby and she got really m-mad and…” your voice trails off. You rub your arm.

“Joe… did she hit you?”

You turn away, burying your face in your knees again. I wait a few seconds and say “Joe. Did Rory hit you?”

You don’t respond verbally, but you take a deep breath roll up your sleeve and show me two dark bruises, turning your head away. I gulp, holding your arm lightly. Seeing you in physical pain is something that just kills me. You continue. “A- and I’m just sorry about all of this. I wish it would all go away.”

“It’s never going to go away. I hope you know that.”

“I know. I just wish it had never happened.”

I narrow my eyes. “It’s your own fault.”

“I know it is. And I’m sorry.”

“Did she hit you anywhere else?”

You shake your head, but I’m not convinced. “Show me your other arm,” I say softly, but you don’t move it. I reach over and lightly grab it. You cringe as I pull the sleeve up, and there’s another bruise on your forearm. “What the hell happened?!”

“S-she kicked me out of the house. I kept trying to talk to her, and she didn’t want to hear it, so she …puh- punched me, She almost got my face but I dodged it and she got my arm. And I fell on the ground and she kicked me and when I g-got up she puh- punched me again.”

“Oh God, Joe.” You didn’t deserve that. As much as I hate to admit it, you don’t deserve her hurting you. You did nothing to her.

You whimper and I, a bit reluctantly, pull you into my arms. Mostly because you’re still freaking out and not breathing right, and I don’t want to have to take you to the hospital. “Breathe, Joe. Come on. Breathe,” I say firmly. You take in a deep breath, holding it, and let it out shakily. You wipe your face dry and press your fingers into your temples, trying to breathe. “In. Out.”

“I c- cant.”

“Yes you can. Do it, Joe. Breathe..” I say it so coldly I instantly feel bad. But you take a couple deep breaths, and your breathing starts to subside, but your body is shaking. “Now… are you calm?”

“I think so,” you whisper. I tangle my arms from around you and lie you down on the couch.

“Lie here for a while. I’ll be upstairs.”

I crouch down and pull a blanket out from under the couch, where we keep them. I unfold it and drape it over you. Ruffling your hair gently, I leave you on the couch and shuffle upstairs, thinking.