Hemorrhage.

John snatched the phone out of my hand before I had the liberty to read what I had gotten. I made a sound of protest, rolling over to my side and extending my hand to try and take the phone back from him. He held it over his head as he pressed the open button and started reading the message.

“What the fuck?” He asked, his eyebrows narrowing as he stared at the screen.

We were lying on his bed. I had to leave in half an hour to go to my therapy session. John didn’t know that of course, but that was okay. We had gotten closer somehow, in two days. I had hung around with him backstage at the show, tucked securely underneath his arm. I was avoiding Nick.

I wasn’t avoiding Nick because he sent me the text message, because he hadn’t. Halvo had, but I had a feeling that Halvo only did it because Nick didn’t have the guts to send something himself.

John and I talked a bit, but mainly just about stupid stuff. We joked about bands and clothing and how scrumptious Kennedy’s hair was becoming. We were just having fun.

We were still having fun.

“What?” I asked him, trying to hide the nervous tone of my voice. I didn’t know who sent me the text message.

“Who the hell is sending you this?” His voice was venomous, which was unusual for John. John was laid back. It took a lot for him to get really upset, because generally he just vented silently for a few hours until he was okay.

“What is it?” I asked him, my voice going lower with each word. I was afraid to look.

“You’re basically transparent, you whore.” He quoted angrily, staring at the phone in disgust. He looked away to look at me. “Who the hell is sending you this, Emelie?”

I looked down at my fingers, inspecting the saggy skin and yellowing nails. “I-I don’t know.” I whispered out, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. He wasn’t supposed to find out.

No one was ever supposed to find out.

The text messages had been a private thing. A me, myself, and I thing.

“How do you not know?” John asked, looking down at me skeptically.

“I don’t recognize the number. I’ve been getting them since I got back.” My voice was so low. I had to strain to even hear it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, his voice softening. He sat back down on the bed next to me, scooting next to my shaking form. I was so scared of his reaction. What was it going to be?

At least now I knew John wasn’t the one sending them.

“I didn’t think they were a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” His eyes were wide in disbelief. “This is a huge deal, Em. These things do nothing for your self esteem. You don’t need shit like this. You’re not a whore, you’re not transparent, and you’re not ugly.”

I said nothing in return. I focused on the gray pattern of my cardigan and how it felt for John to notice my existence. It felt nice, I guess.

Except now I didn’t really want the attention all that much.

“They’re not a big deal.” I repeated.

John sighed, running a hand through his hair in the way that I knew he was frustrated. He always ran a hand through his hair when he was frustrated.

“Okay.” He said, setting the phone back down on the bed. “Okay. It’s not a big deal, but next time someone sends you something like this, tell me, okay? I just want to know.”

I nodded, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell him.

It would hurt too much. Because he was always talking about how much they hurt me, but they had done no damage compared to him.

He had always done the most.