What He Left Behind

Austin breathes in sharply, wincing in pain, as I carefully touch the antiseptic wipe to the gash above his eye. My stare meets his momentarily, my expression cold, before I apply more solution to the wound and continue cleaning it.

“That hurts,” he complains, his voice tired and monotonous.

“Well maybe,” I hiss, dabbing the wound more aggressively, “You should have thought about that before you got in a fucking fight!”

Silence follows.

Once I finish cleaning the cut, I grab a washcloth from beside the sink and soak it in the hot water I filled the basin with. The water stings my hands but I grit my teeth and continue. When I turn back to Austin, I take his hand that is holding an icepack to his cheekbone and prise it from his face.

Then I begin to wipe his face with the washcloth, scrubbing away the dirt and dried blood. He almost falls backwards when I apply the slightest pressure to his forehead. I grab his wrist and help him regain his balance.

When his face is patched up as best it can be, I crouch down and stare intently at him, my eyes hard and narrow. I note his busted lip, which had barely healed from the last time. There’s stubble on his chin which crawls up his cheeks too. Obviously shaving was the least of his worries during the four-day bender he’s just resurfaced from.

His long narrow nose, which was gushing with blood ten minutes ago, is now clean, albeit slightly bluey-purple. No doubt there will be a nasty looking bruise by the morning, or, should I say, a more reasonable hour of the morning?

The bruise on his cheekbone has already come up pretty fiercely, and it appears that the ice pack has done little to bring down the swelling. He must have taken some punch.
The scar I was just cleaning frames his heavy eyes, bloodshot from whatever drugs and alcohol he’s been continuously maxed out on for the past four days. It was probably a lethal combination of cannabis, liquor and heroin if I know Austin. Which I do. The needle marks on his arms are a giveaway he’s been injecting something.

Austin coughs loudly and then dashes forward just in time to spew up the contents of his stomach into the toilet. I cringe as he retches, my own stomach doing somersaults. I pass him the toilet roll and then turn to the small mirror mounted on the cupboard above the sink, examining my tired eyes and chapped lips. Perhaps one of these days I’ll learn the art of self-care. That’s if I can get a long enough break from Austin’s mayhem.

“Do you want some water?” I ask. All I get in response is more retching as he throws up again.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, anger bubbling in my throat, “We can’t keep doing this! This isn’t normal.”

“Not right now, Noelle,” he dismisses whilst spluttering, clutching his stomach with one arm and propping himself up with the other.

“Then when?” I cry, “It’s never a good time with you anymore. All I’m doing is trying to help you!”

He leans back against the bath, still holding his stomach and looking utterly miserable. “I don’t want your help,” he grunts, his voice thick with sorrow. “I just don’t care anymore. I’m done.”