Who Can Really Blame You?

The next day in school, people stare at my neck, which I noticed, after my shower, was covered in bruises. I don’t make eye contact until English class, where we’re all gathering our things to leave the room to go outside. I of course have my entire book bag to pack and am one of the last people in the room.

“What’s going on?” someone asks. I look up to see Carter, the only other person in the room now.

“What do you mean?” I ask quietly, hurriedly shoving my things in my book bag.

“I knew you when your dad did this to you,” he reminds me, staring at me with a mix of concern and slight annoyance on his face, “I recognize purposeful bruising.”

I stare at my hands, frozen with a notebook halfway into my book bag.

“I don’t want you to be with me or anything, I’m just offering help,” he assures me.

“I don’t need help,” I say harshly, what feels like a deep wound forming in my chest, and go back into action, shoving my things into my bag, ignoring the pain spreading up my back from last night, which I can’t forget. I start to make my way to the door, when Carter steps in front of me quickly. I flinch back when he reaches towards me. Something spreads over his face. I step back and try to walk around him. He blocks my escape again, and again, until I feel frustration building in my throat, tightening, and he grabs my shoulders to keep me from getting away.

“Please, just tell me,” Carter begs, “I can’t stand to see you like this.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I say, pleadingly, not managing the annoyance I wanted to get across, and try to wriggle my way from his hold on me. He only holds tighter.

“There is,” he says, staring at me like he’s only now seeing me, “Why do you always seem to feel like you deserve everything that happens to you?”

I look up at him momentarily, and then look away quickly at the pity in his eyes.

“There’s nothing happening to me,” I lie after a long moment of silence.

“Stop lying,” he demands, “You either tell me, or I tell the police and they find it out.”

“Don’t,” I beg, hysteria building in my gut. He’d kill me. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Please don’t tell the police. They’ll put me in a home,” I say staring up at him, searching his eyes for assurance that he won’t, that this conversation will be as if it never happened to him.

“Then you tell me,” he says.

“I’ve been trying to! You don’t believe me!” I exclaim.

“Because you’re lying—”

“Is this some scheme to get alone time with me or something?” I ask brutally, not even remembering thinking it, but it works because he lets go of me instantly, and gives me the most hurt expression I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face. An apology is glued to my lips and won’t let go.

“I don’t see how you can do that to people,” he says coldly. I remain standing where I am, until he dives at me, knocking us both to the floor, a noise of pain breaking from my throat. Before I can fight him away he lifts my shirt and sees all the bruises and scars, all of different ages, spread before him.

“Don’t look at me!” I cry out, yanking my shirt down and struggling under him. He takes my wrists and pushes them into the floor hard enough to keep me still. I cry out as the heels of his palms dig into my bruised wrists. He looks shocked and guilty that he hurt me. After he gets over the initial shock he pushes my hoodie sleeve up my arm, making me wince as the material squeezes the blossoming bruises along the underside of my arm. I look at Carter’s face, gauging his reaction, for a moment and am transported to my bedroom, months ago, this same position, but an entirely different feeling. The next thing into my mind is Mitchell. Sluts let boys who aren’t their boyfriends straddle them.

“Please get off of me,” I beg quietly. This position is too familiar and as of late, completely unlikable. I can’t help the small amount of worry growing in my stomach, despite the fact that this is Carter, and Carter never hurts anyone.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice heavy.

“Please,” I beg, my hands shaking, and my mind racing. He somehow knows this is happening. He knows I’m being bad. He knows.

“Shh,” he soothes, staring at me, and inching closer.

“Please,” I plead, some part of my brain begging the teacher to come looking for us, but he won’t. We weren’t meeting anywhere in particular. They don’t even know we’re missing. Carter’s face is still closer, and I feel his breath on my face. “Please,” I say, feeling myself shaking. He knows. He was right. He’s going to kill me this time.

Carter’s lips press into mine gently, and my mind races, panic burning down my spine and to the rest of me body. My lips move with his, and a thought goes through my mind that if this is what gets me killed, then it’s worth just one more kiss with Carter. I’m begging him silently to leave me alone, but at the same time to never leave again. I don’t know which I really want. His tongue runs along my bottom lip tentatively, but I don’t deny him this time. Maybe dying now would be best. No more Mitchell. No more hurting. No more seeing Carter and not having him, even a friend. No more being alone. No more bad dreams. Just sleep forever. It’s a good trade off to me, a kiss I’ve been dying for my whole life, for peace. It’s a win-win situation.

Carter’s fingers on my wrists loosen and my hands find their way to his hair, messy and perfect and soft. His hands move gently to my face, cupping it and pulling me closer to him. My tongue moves into his mouth, bravely, and I turn redder than I am already. A small piece of my mind is still in full blown panic mode, reminding me that Mitchell will know, that he’ll make me hurt so bad before he ends it; that Carter will have to go to my funeral.

Carter breaks away for oxygen, the content look falling off his face when he sees me, completely distraught.

“What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly through bruised lips. He moves off of me suddenly, and kneels next to me. I sit up, and pull my knees to my chest.

“I’m such a slut!” I sob out, covering my eyes as tears spill over.

“What?” He asks, honestly confused, “No you’re not.”

“I cheated on my boyfriend,” I cry into my palms, trying very hard to breathe. “I’m going to die a whore!” I choke out, pulling my knees tighter to my chest. He stares at me.

“Why would you die a whore?” he asks slowly. I realize my mistake far too late.

“Because no one ever st—stops being a whore! They are for life,” I cry, lying about why I really said it. He buys it.

“You’re not a whore for kissing me,” he says, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

I can’t breathe and I realize that I have to tell Mitchell this, so I won’t have to live too long without a kiss again.

“I have to go,” I say, grabbing my bag and wiping my eyes quickly.

“Don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at him, committing him, his face (sharp and soft at the same time), his shoulders (broad and thin, and Carter-like), the color shirt he’s wearing right now (red), the way he speaks (deliberately), to memory and run out of the room, wishing I had told him how much it meant to me. Instead, I left him kneeling in the middle of a classroom, obviously still concerned for me.

When I get home, Mitchell’s there (of course). I go inside, and he looks at me from the couch with a confused look.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, turning off the TV. I enter the apartment, my heart pounding. I close the door behind me, and kick off my shoes.

“I have to tell you something,” I say, staying a fair distance from him.

“What?” he asks.

“Carter,” I start off, and see his expression darken, “Carter kissed me and I kissed him back, and I had to tell you because I’m trying to change for us, and I’m so sorry.”

I remain staring at my feet as Mitchell remains silent, and makes his way towards me. I feel my lungs become unable to absorb any oxygen when he stops directly in front of me for a moment.

“You what?” he asks. I gulp in oxygen.

“I kissed him back,” I whimper. I’m immediately on the floor, clutching my nose, which is definitely broken. I cry out when his foot connects with my stomach. I roll over in pain, my knees pulled to my chest.

“Say it one more time,” he orders, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I—I kissed him ba—Ow!” I stutter out as he pulls me up by my hair.

“So,” he says calmly, “You’re saying he kissed you first?”

I nod, and squeeze my eyes closed, but he never hits me. I open one eye carefully, to see him looking at me.

“Why would he do that?” he asks, stepping back from me and looking confused, obviously faked. I remain silent, until he glares at me and says, “Well?”

“I—I don’t know,” I admit, my voice warped through my bleeding nose.

“I do,” he growls, and he pulls me up, pushing me against the wall and holding me off the ground with his hands around my throat. “He didn’t,” he spits.

I nod frantically, and struggle against his hands for oxygen. The fresh bruises on my neck scream in agony.

“Why would anyone kiss you?” he demands. I can’t answer as I try to hold back my tears. “NO ONE WOULD!” he shouts, letting me drop to the floor, gasping for air, as my blood and tears drip onto the carpet.

“I’m—I’m sorry! I came here to t-tell you so you wouldn’t hear—hear it from some-someone else,” I choke out, looking up at him.

“So you did it in public?” he hisses. I shake my head frantically.

“Fucking whore!” he yells, kicking me again, and I feel pain erupt in my chest, and I can feel that my rib is broken. I groan, turning on my back from him, instinctually, I gasp though, when a searing pain erupts in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “GET UP!” he roars, and I scramble to do it. I stand in front of him, my nose spurting blood onto the floor and my clothes, my lungs begging for air, and it hurting to inhale. I don’t look at Mitchell. “Are you ready to admit that you’re a whore now?” he demands. I nod, but he just snorts. “Too late,” he spits, and hits me again in my face. I cover my face with my forearms, hoping for some protection.

“Please!” I cry out, finally falling to the floor when he slams me into the wall. My head hits the edge of the kitchen counter as I go down and then my eyes start to fade and all I can feel are the kicks and hits, but as if in some merciful act of god, I hear nothing, and soon become aware of nothing.

I come back.

I hear beeping and whispering. I open my eyes, and look around the room. I feel nothing. I see only white light. And I realize that I’m dead.