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

You wake up in bed. Your head pounded, but not in the way that you were used to. You could feel pressure building up so thick in your head it felt as if it were ready to burst. There was a near ring in your ears at the extreme feeling of strain on your temples. You were scared to open your eyes. There wasn’t any light in the room, but still you felt that at the slightest hint of extra light then your eyes would begin to bleed so badly that they would lose all shape and slowly drip their way out of your sockets and onto your cheeks in some menacing type of tears.

That’s all you needed though, to go blind.

Besides the massive beating it felt like your head had just been through, you felt like you were rested. You felt as if you had been asleep for an entire day. It was then that you remembered the beating you had gotten by your father the day—or days—before. You simply excused it and snuggled down slightly further into the bed. You could start to say you actually felt good.

Trying to will yourself back to sleep, your mind wanders. You remembered your father knocking you down in the living room, and you remembered the heaviness your mind felt. You remembered how quickly you fell asleep then, and how, after so long, you finally woke up. You had a hard time remembering the rest at the moment, and trying to think about it too hard made your head hurt so you stopped trying. You must just be still sleeping off the rest of the effects of it all.

You snuggle down in the bed and pull the comforter up around your shoulders. The movements hurt, and this makes your head pound. You were sure there were more bruises with how drained you felt now.

Great. Now you were going to have to make special efforts to hide everything at school.

School. You missed it. You went to the park. You saw Gerard. He saw the bruises. He saw everything. He held you back. He held you to him. He held you.

The pounding in your head grows worse as all the memories rush back into your mind so quick you believed your head was going to explode.

How could you let that happen?

How could you allow him to do that?

What happened?

You tried harder now to remember. You squinted your eyes shut and fought back the pain in your skull, but to no avail. You couldn’t remember what happened after that. You just remember crying, and you just remember him holding you. You don’t remember moving. You don’t remember coming home.

Home.

Suddenly, nothing felt right. Something wasn’t right here, but you couldn’t figure out what it was, as you pursed your eyes shut further in an attempt to jog what that thing was. It was hiding in the corners of your mind, but no matter how much harder you shut your eyes, you couldn’t coax it out.

A soft click in the room made you swiftly remember what it was.

There was no comforter on your bed.

That seemed like nothing, but the thought didn’t stay long as you realized something else.

What was the click?

Soft footstep echoed in your room. They were stepping lightly so that you wouldn’t wake up, but they didn’t know that you were already awake and alert to their presence. The first thought that ran through your head was that it was your father.

That thought alone sent a shiver through your spine and a cold sweat on your brow. He was finally here to finish the job. He was finally here to put a real knife into your heart and kill you painfully, like you deserved. You just lay still, and waited.

The foot steps came closer and closer to the bed, you could hear it. The sound echoed off the walls, and seemed muffled, yet magnified somehow with your ear pressed firmly into the pillow. You could hear his breathing as he leaned over. You waited for the piercing blade that would stab through your heart. You waited for your death now.

You wait too long though. What was he waiting for?

A soft tap next to your head confuses and startles you. You jump lightly at the noise and open your eyes just as a lamp on the other side of the room comes on.

You groan and slam your eyes shut again as you throw your hand over your eyes.

“Jesus!”

You know that voice.

How could he get into your room? How long has he known where you lived? Why the fuck is he still here? You slowly raise your hand off your eyes and open them to look around the room. You eyes scream and beat against your sockets in protest at the light. Only this wasn’t your room.

Small boxes stacked up against the corner, and a wooden desk pushed up against the wall sat on the other side. An open window sits to your immediate right, on the other side of a small side-table next to the bed, which sat in the corner. The room was sickeningly familiar, even though there were completely different furnishings. It was still her room.

You stared at it in part awe as you took in the sight before you. The headache seemed to ebb away temporarily into a faint throb in the back of your skull. The papers scattered across the floor were all too familiar, and the open closet door set your nerves on edge at just the sight of the offending space inside. Clothes spilled out in a fashion that only a teenager was able to accomplish. It was all too familiar, even with the differences.

You hadn’t noticed the person standing against the wall until they moved. It was Gerard. You stiffened.

“Uh…hi?” he greets, noticeably nervous.

You suddenly became extremely self conscious and looked down to find yourself sitting up in his bed. Thankfully you still had your sweater on, but it was warped and twisted around your body uncomfortably. You spotted your shoes sitting idly on the floor beside the bed, and wondered when you had taken them off. You didn’t know what to do or say, so you just grabbed the collar of your sweater and pulled it up closer to your neck.

“How are you feeling?” There’s that question again.

You wince, the memories of the park come back to you again and you attempt to push them out of your mind. They make the headache return.

“I brought you some aspirin.” He says, noticing your grimacing, but misinterpreting it for something else.

You look to the side table and notice two small caplets sitting next to a glass of water. You would have normally declined them, thinking you didn’t need them. But the constant throb in your head was enough to make you take the pills and shove them greedily into you mouth.

Silence becomes nerve racking after a long moment.

“H- how did I…” you just couldn’t finish. You felt even more drained than you did before. Thankfully he didn’t wait for you to finish.

“I brought you home. In the park…you,”—he paused, glancing down at his feet, which you now noticed only had socks on them as well, before he glances back up and looks you directly in the eye—“you passed out after what happened. I couldn’t just leave you there.”

You should have.

He must have read your thoughts, because then he stared at you crossly. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

You couldn’t take his eyes. They seemed to take you apart and break through whatever expression or shield you wore, and you remembered your previous thoughts of being broken. It felt like since then, you wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him, no matter what you tried. You were now a plate glass window waiting to shatter, but able to be seen by the entire world. You felt insecurity wash through you momentarily before ebbing away.

You throw your feet over the side of the bed and sit at the edge, throwing the blankets behind your shoulder. When you turn back, he’s moving toward you, already having your shoes in hand. You stop him by holding up your hand. He stares at you in the dim light.

“Please.” It was all that you could say, and even that sounded pathetic.

“What?” he asks, still not moving, confusion evident.

“Don’t…”—you sigh in frustration—“don’t care.”

You look away, and down at your hands folded in your lap. You can feel a different kind of pressure behind your eyes, but you didn’t want that to happen more than anything. You just knew he wouldn’t agree.

“Why not?”

The question threw you off a bit, but you still didn’t want to look up at him, for fear of seeing the impending tears.

“It’s just…easier to deal with.” You sigh, not changing your depressing tone and not looking up.

“No.”

You sigh. You knew it.