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

The force of the wall slamming against the back of your head is enough to make your eyes water. There won’t be tears though, not again. You had just walked though the door after school, foolish enough to believe that you’d be alone when you did. But he was here waiting. Now you can clearly see your stupidity. Except everything else is now a hazy blur before your eyes.

He pulls you away from the wall a few feet, and then shoves you back against it with enough force to knock the wind out of you and rattle a lonely picture frame hanging down the hall. You try gasping for breath, but he throws you across the small space toward the couch. You catch yourself before you fall over it into the coffee table. A small feeling of relief flits through you, but disappears as soon as you feel his fist connect with your side. The impact sends you flying to the floor, trying desperately to breathe again.

He won’t let you though. Your father stumbles down until he’s kneeling partly beside you and partly on you. One knee is pressed firmly into the carpet at your side, while the other is digging its way into your chest. You can’t breathe with the shock and force. Your head begins to pound and throb from the beating it’s getting from his fists, constantly attempting to smash your teeth in. His hand hits your lip dead-on and causes your lip ring to tear through your gums, causing them to bleed. The sickly thick taste of your own blood drips slightly from your lips and seeps down into the back of your throat.

You consider swallowing it, just to prevent yourself from choking on your own blood, but before you even get the chance, his fists stop swinging and instead clamp themselves around your throat. You sputter, and can feel the blood and saliva build up to the point that it leaks out the sides of your mouth, staining your chin and cheeks. This must have made him angry, because you can feel his grip tighten around your throat. You reach up, and feebly attempt to slap his hands away. You try to pry your fingers between his to get him to loosen his grip but to no avail. Eventually you can feel the tightening in the back of your eyes as your mind drifts into a forced sleep. You sputter and spit out your own blood onto your face just so you could try and breathe. Just as your eyes are beginning to loll to the back of your head, and just as your body begins to shut down, you hear something.

“Bitch.” He says, but not with the usual fierce hate and aggression, this time it’s soft and struggled. This time, he’s the one that’s choking.

His hands leave your throat, but they were gripped so tightly you were sure you were going to have bruises circling it again. You can feel yourself slipping again into unconsciousness because of how weak and tired your mind felt. But just before you feel his knee leave your torso, you feel a tear drop onto your cheek from above.

He cries…he feels.

-
It was roughly into the next day by the time you woke up, except you were still in the living room. Your head was shoved up against the back of the couch and as soon as you open your eyes it begins to throb with a pressure that made your ears pound. You can still feel all the blood rushing through, trying to get everything working again. The light pours in through the curtains of the living room, alerting to the new day.

You feel a crusty layer built up around the inside and outside of your mouth. You reach up and run a hand over it. Red flakes of your dried blood falls onto the carpet beside your head. You drop your hand and run your tongue along the inside of your lip, tasting the damage done. You take in a deep, hoarse breath and attempt to clear your throat. It just alerts you to how scratchy and painful it is because of the night before.

Why did he cry? You wonder.

You turn your head to look at the clock mounted to the wall. 11:34 am. Shit. You missed your first classes, but if you went in now you’d probably make it there in time for lunch. You were trying to talk yourself into getting up and leaving for school, but the pounding in your head, and the ring in your ears told you otherwise.

All thoughts of school vanish when you feel your eyelids droop and your mind fog over. There was just too much pain for you to deal with now. Your ribs were bruised and your stomach sore. your neck was stiff and painful to move. You just wanted to sleep again.

You can’t sleep here, he’ll come back and do it all over again. Something tells you.

No, he left you lying in the living room. That means he didn’t intend on coming back soon. You had a good two days to yourself. What to do?

Sleep.

The word triggers the fog in your mind to build, consuming your thoughts and movements. It was as if you were in a trance, but too weak to fight back. Which you were.

-
You wake up again, this time with a little less pain than before. The crusted blood feels uncomfortable as you feel it cracking along your skin. Your eyelids still feel heavy, too heavy for you to open them now. You feel a slight heat along your shoulder and neck and realize that the sun was shining through the window, down onto your mangled body. The warmth was comforting in the cold you still felt, so you embraced it and basked in it a little longer before deciding to move.

You wash off your face and brush your teeth…twice. The first time, the toothpaste mixed in with the blood still in your throat, causing bile to rise up and lurch its way into the toilet you were kneeled over. The second time was just to get the taste of your own vomit out of your mouth, and the rest of the blood. You inspected your face in the mirror to find not too much damage done. Your face was dabbed with sweat from your previous retching, but your pasty complexion didn’t seem to have wavered in the slightest. As you suspected earlier, bruises circled your throat. Looks like a high collar today.

You found yourself walking down the sidewalk a while later, for what reason? You don’t know. You had the strangest urge to just go out. You didn’t know where you were going mentally, but physically you seemed to know exactly where you were going. You watched your feet move as the city passed you by. After a while though, you recognized where you were headed…The Park.

He was sitting there when you arrived, having passed out and slept straight through school, you arrived just after it ended. He had his back to you and his head down, so he couldn’t see you make a line straight for him. You didn’t even know what you were doing, and it seemed as if your body reacted on its own again. But you walked up and stood behind him on the swings, it was your usual meeting spot, and you’d both be getting there right about now.

“Hey.” You started.

He jumped, startled, and turned around to look over his shoulder at you. A slight smile spreads over his face, and relief fills his eyes. You’re sure that’s what it is.

“Hey Ken.” There’s the name again. “Where were you today?”

You contemplated the answer, and decided to give him a half-truth. “Home, I didn’t feel so well. I threw up.”

He nodded his head and motioned for you to sit down, probably tired of turning his neck around already. “What are you doing here then? Shouldn’t you still be home?”

You sat, letting the swing carry all your weight as you ease the tension in your stomach. “It was boring…and I thought I’d find you here.”

He smiles at this and looks down in his lap. It was then that you noticed the sketchpad sitting there, a pencil resting lightly on top. He must have been drawing. You remember seeing other sketches that he’d done, and wondering how much talent this boy is really hiding from the world. You wanted to find out though. Today you wanted to attempt being his friend.

“Are you alright?” The words were spoken softly, as if it was something that he just remembered.

You turn to him. “Why do you always ask?” You hoped it didn’t sound annoyed, you were just curious.

“I feel like I have to.” He says, looking out at the distant cars, his hazel eyes dreamy and unfocused.

“Well, you don’t.” You remind him.

“I think I do.” He lowers his head as he speaks, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear as he replaces the sketchbook back into his bag.

“Why?” …should you care?

“Your eyes…” he turns away, and you see a faint hint of pink tinge his cheeks. “They look like you’re always in pain. I don’t like to see my friends hurt.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. You’re genuinely surprised by his forwardness. Even though he blushed and turned away slightly, it seemed as if he wasn’t embarrassed by the confession he just made. Sure, you considered the two of you friends, but the fact that he just said he cared (albeit in a roundabout way) made you speechless…again.

“Well, I’m not hurt.” It was a lie you were willing to tell.

“Then why are there bruises along your neck?” He turns, showing you that your lie didn’t matter. He knew, and he could see through it. The high collar you wore didn’t hide it, somehow he saw them there. The incriminating purple and blue spots felt hot on your skin then, as if an iron were put to them.

You turned before he could see the tears escaping your eyes though. You stood before he could see your shame. And you walked away before he broke you. But before you reached the sidewalk…he grabbed your hand.