Care For Me Not, I'll Hurt You Too Much

The last time you had opened your eyes, you were now on your street, being led in the right direction to your house. As usual, all the lights were out in your house. Not only that, the new neighbors’ lights were off as well. This helped a little, now you didn’t have to worry about anyone of them seeing you being dragged home bloody and beaten by some stranger. They wouldn’t even know anyone lived next door to them.

The two of you stepped up the curb, but your foot caught the edge and you ended up stubbing your toe on the sidewalk. This brought your brain crashing back down into your body and caused all the pain to come rushing back.

A throb in your skull made it hard for you to hear, smell, see, and even think! The throbbing worked its way around the base of your neck, to your temples, and down to the bridge of your nose. You could feel the blood pulsating through your ears, accompanied by an annoyingly high pitched ring. You clasped your eyes shut. Even the light coming off the street lights seemed like too much and the dim shade of red coming into your mind through your eyelids aggravated your eyes. Everything was so sensitive and the dragging of your weak limbs and the light coming through gave you a migraine to top it all off.

Your neck had become even more stiff and it hurt every time your head lolled forward, off it’s resting place on your supporters shoulder. You still didn’t know who they were, but you were grateful that they were actually helping you to get home.

Your shoulders hurt, and the one slung across his shoulders had prickles running up and down it to signify that it had fallen asleep and the blood was finally rushing back into it. You hissed at yourself and groaned.

“We’re almost there.” He said softly.

The pounding in your head and the ringing in your ears made it nearly impossible to hear him, but the fact that his mouth was so close to your head made you able to register his words. You risked a glance through your eyelashes as you passed underneath one of the dotted streetlights. You were indeed nearly home, you could see it coming closer and closer before you shut your eyes once again.

Everything hurt. Your chest, your side—where his hand had kept a firm hold on you to keep you from falling. Your legs weren’t that bad. A majority of the blows had been concentrated to your torso and back and now the light sting running through your legs every time you took a step with either foot seemed so minimal you learned to ignore it.

Soon you found your feet being pulled up a sidewalk. You only knew this because of the sharp turn your bodies had taken and the crease in the cement beneath your feet came more and more. You were near the door.

Oh God! What if he’s home?! You panic in your head, attempting to pull yourself away from whoever this person was and just run inside without them.

Your legs had been getting better, so the act of running didn’t seem too impossible to do. As long as this person who may have just saved your life—and the remnants of your sanity—wasn’t exposed to your father or your regular blows to the heart and head.

Your attempt to push away from them as the two of you stepped up the porch, coming ever closer and closer to the door, didn’t work. They just tightened their grip around your waist and readjusted the placement of your arm on their shoulders.

The two of you pause in front of the door. He must be waiting for you to produce a key of some sort. You refused to do it though, you wouldn’t let him be hurt in the same way you were now hurting.

He clears his throat and tightens his grip around your waist even more as his other hand left where it had been holding your wrist around his shoulders. “Kendall hold on.”

You don’t know if this was an order or not because then you hear the sound of keys and the lock coming undone. When did he get your keys?

You hear the door opening and his hand now returns to your wrist to once again pull your arm across his shoulders. Please don’t go in. You beg him.

No such luck as he now pulls you through the door way and kicks the door shut with his foot. The lights are out and now you only see stars and darkness behind your eyelids. You want to open them, just to be slightly prepared for whatever your father has in store.

“Isn’t anyone home?” he breathes out lowly.

You want to shake your head at him, but it would be pointless. It’s pitch black in the house anyway. You just stand, preparing yourself for the shouts and fists to come at you from some unknown direction. Foolish boy, he condemned himself just then by shutting that door.

You feel like pushing him away and shoving him quickly out of the house, but the aching of your muscles makes you question this. You simply stand there and wait in the silence, the only sound is of his breathing near your ear.

You wait for the fists to come, sending you spiraling to the ground, probably knocking down your foolish, unsuspecting carrier to the floor on top of you, only adding to your suffering. He’ll probably scream, he’ll probably shout and grunt while trying to fight back. This will make your father mad, you know it will. He doesn’t like it when you fight back. He won’t hurt you as bad if you don’t try to defend yourself. If you just lay there and take it without a sound, you won’t be put through too much.

You wished so badly that this person could hear your thoughts as they ran through your head quickly in a matter of seconds. No. You feel yourself being pulled through the living room and down the hallway to the first-floor bathroom.

You hear them bump against the wall and furniture as they pull you down the hallway. How do they know where it is? Who are they? Why are you even trusting them? You ask yourself, but your body is in too much pain to keep those thoughts for long.

“Here, sit down.” You feel yourself being guided down onto the seat of the toilet bowl.

Soon all of your weight is resting on the toilet bowl and your arm is being pulled off around their shoulders. The light comes on and you glare through your closed eyelids at it. The sound of rummaging reaches your ears as you hear pill bottles and various items being pushed around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. When did those get there? Pills were never kept in your house. Either that or they were all confiscated by your father so that you would have no ways to ease your suffering.

No words are spoken as this mystery person digs through the cabinets in search of something. You feel the strongest urge to open your eyes and look at whoever they might be for the first time that night. Maybe then that’ll ease your worrying and wondering. You open your eyes with difficulty…well eye. Your left eye had been sealed shut and the dried moisture from your eyes made it crusty and itchy. You wanted to reach up and rub it away as the familiar sightings of the bathroom come into your vision. Then something hits, the tiles are the wrong color.

You were hoping you were imagining it as you glance at a pair of shoes standing in front of the sink. Looking at his face didn’t matter much now. You were wondering why the tiles were the wrong color and the small carpeting surrounding the toilet were different. They weren’t the ones you were used to, yet they seemed so familiar.

The stinging in your eyes caused you to shut them once again and lean forward slightly, hanging your head even more to the ground as you began to reach up and rub them. This was probably a bad idea, but it seemed to be the only thing you could think of to relieve the itch and sting of the crusted eye gunk now permeating their way into your cornea. You breathe in and squint your eyes and the rummaging stops briefly.

You hear the squeak of the cabinet door below the sink being opened before the sound of running water reaches your ears. You bring your hand up to your face and attempt to rub your eyes. You left eye was strictly out of the question as you lightly ran your fingers over the large bruise now encircling it. Your right eye however seemed to be fine, except for the itch and sting. Before your other hand reached your face though, you felt something cold and moist drop onto your hand suddenly. It startled you so you gasped and dropped it into your lap. It wasn’t until seconds later that you realized it was a washcloth and picked it back up.

You held it to your eye. The cold felt soothing and you soon leaned your head back against the wall behind you as you pressed the cloth lightly further against your eye.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You nearly forgot that he was there. You want to open your eyes, but are afraid that the simple bathroom lighting fixture might burn your corneas out. You settle for shaking your head, and apparently so does he.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” He asks again, empathy lacing his words.

What a stupid question. Of course you’re hurt. You’re hurt everywhere. The real question would have to be ‘Where are you injured the most?’

“Shit, you’re still bleeding.” He says as you hear the water of the faucet run again. You can feel your head slowly clearing, but it wasn’t enough to rid you of the haze in your head. The throb was still there, but it became a distant enemy. What you were wondering was what he was talking about. Your lip had stopped bleeding and you were pretty sure that he had cleared up whatever residue was there earlier in the alley.

You flinch when you feel a water droplet on the skin of your neck shortly before another cold cloth is applied to it. You feel him trailing the cloth down, then he removes it and rinses it. While he does this at the sink, you reach up and feel where he was applying the cloth seconds before. There was a cut behind your ear, just near the base of your hair line. The sticky warmth of blood grazes your fingertips and you attempt to remove the cloth covering your eye just to make sure. Before you can even get the chance, he’s back with the cloth to your neck.

“You have cuts all across your shoulder.” He breathes lightly. “Can you take off your sweater?”

You want to say no, you want to finally see who this is, you want him to stop touching you, but most of all, you want to have your thoughts clear up.

Before you knew what was happening, the hem of your sweater comes up your chest, accompanied by your long sleeve over-shirt as it ended up sticking to the sweater. They both came up over your head before you even knew what was happening. The neck of your sweater pulled on your face and neck a little, causing the throbbing to circulate more. You ended up dropping the washcloth as your sweater came over your arms.

When it’s finally off, you bring you hand to your face and take out the shit lining your eyes so you would finally be able to see. The cold air sweeps across your skin and you shiver lightly as you are left in only your muscle shirt that had been beneath your long-sleeved shirt. Your neck hurts as you hang your head. Uneasiness sweeps through you as a sickening feeling and thought pop into your head and drop down to your stomach.

He just took off your shirt. Suddenly you don’t feel so comfortable as fear sweeps through you.

What you hadn’t expected though, was the gasp that came after your sweatshirt was all the way off your body.

“Shit Kendall.” That voice. It registers finally whose voice that is.

No. Not again. It can’t be.

You freeze at the words and your body stiffens with fear. All the familiar feelings of exposure and embarrassment come rushing back. Except this time they’re so much stronger and accompanied by fear and panic.

You open your eyes, fighting against the stinging and slowly raise your head to this person’s face. This face is sickeningly familiar. You feel tears prickle your eyes as embarrassment and shame come flying into you. His eyes are staring at your now exposed bruises and cuts. He can see the way they shine prominently compared to your pale skin. His eyes are wide as he looks you over slowly, running them up one arm and down the other.

You suddenly hate those eyes. You hate that face. You hate where you are, and you now know exactly where that is. You’re in the neighbor’s house. You’re in your cousin’s old house. That was why the tiles were the wrong color, yet why they were familiar. He lived next door.

“Are you okay?” His words become lost.

Shame and anger flow freely through your body as the tears break their way through and begin to run down your face. Why did it have to be him? He’s seen your scars now, he’s seen your tears, he knows your deep secrets now. You hate that. You hate that he now knows more about you than anyone else. He even lives in the house next to yours, the house you’ve made your diary and safe haven. This was one of the only places you ever truly loved, and here he is to taint it. You can’t stand that. It’s as if just by living here he’s reading your diary and looking into your soul. That invasion is threatening. You don’t want to stay. You can’t. You can’t stay in this place any longer after vowing to never return, after finding out that he lives here now. You just need to get away.

You grab your sweater and shirt of the floor quickly. Your movements startling the both of you as you bolt through the bathroom door and down the hallway. You don’t listen as your name is called from the bathroom. You run straight for the door and yank it open. You slam it behind you as you run quickly across the lawn. You hope that he didn’t see you enter the house next door. You just wanted to get as far away from Gerard as possible.