Hurtful Words

A little over a week had passed and, before we knew it, it was Christmas. I had taken Max’s advice and invited my mother over for dinner. I had spent all day cleaning the apartment and Max had agreed to help me make dinner, though he did more complaining than anything else. “Can you chop the vegetables?” I asked, handing him a knife.
“I don’t know how to cut vegetables, Linds,” he whined. “You do it, I’ll screw them up anyway.”
“I’m already trying to cook this fucking thing!” I replied, motioning over to the chicken sitting in a tray on top of the stove, ready to go in the oven. Max and I had decided against cooking a turkey when we went to the store and had bought a chicken instead. We continued to argue, passing the knife back and forth until I heard thudding footsteps coming from one of the back rooms. The ornaments on the small, pathetic attempt at a Christmas tree Ronnie, Max and I had decorated only the night before quivered as the footsteps grew closer, a couple even falling to the floor. It was Ronnie. We had been getting along over the past few days, surprisingly, though he was always incredibly moody. One morning he would be follow me wherever I went, interested in whatever I was doing only to throw a tantrum and slam a door in my face that night.
“Here! Here, I’ll cut them!” he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard over the music playing and mine and Max’s squabbling. Ronnie grabbed the knife from me, beginning to chop the vegetables viciously. “I’ll cut the fucking carrots, you can cook the fucking chicken and Max,” he said, bits of carrot flying onto the floor and into the sink, “Well, Max can make the fucking sauce.”
“Sauce?” Max whined, “I don’t even know how to make sauce. What’s in it?” I smirked at him, pushing a jar of pre-made sauce into his hands. He read the instructions out loud as I turned my attention back to the chicken. “Hey, can you past me that spoon?” I asked Ronnie, trying to reach over him and failing. He dropped the knife to the bench, reaching over, grabbing the spoon and thrusting it in my direction. I looked down, taking it from him, and noticed a small blood spatter on my shirt.
“Shit, Ronnie,” I growled, “you’re bleeding.”
“What?” he asked, looking over at me and noticing the blood on my shirt. He quickly looked down at his hands. “Fuck,” he muttered, grabbing the dishcloth I was holding out to him and wrapping it tightly around his hand, which now had a deep gash in his palm. “Jesus Christ, Ronnie. Didn’t you feel that?” I asked, putting pressure on the cloth as Max searched the cupboards for a bandage of some sort.
“Of course I felt it,” he snapped, “It’s almost gone halfway through my fucking hand! I was just caught up in the Christmas spirit!” I shook my head, rolling my eyes at him and pushed him into the light so I was able to get a better look at his hand. He stumbled a little before finally flopping down in one of the chairs sitting around the small round table. “I mean, the carrots and the chicken and we’re all in the kitchen,” he rambled on.
“Hold still,” I instructed him, removing the cloth and holding his hand up to the light.
“Shit, Ronnie,” I groaned, “you’re going to need stitches.” Max looked over my shoulder at the gash passing me a wet dishcloth. I mopped at the blood dribbling down Ronnie’s arm while he tried to squirm from my grasp, complaining like a child. I finally let him free and he stumbled in the direction of the bathroom. “Come on,” I called after him, “I’m going to have to take you to the hospital!” I heard nervous laughter echoing off the tiles in the bathroom. Ronnie hated going to the hospital, or so I’d found out about a week ago when he’d almost given himself a concussion and refused medical assistance of any kind.
“It’s fine, I’m fine!” he shouted back to me before staggering back into the lounge. I pulled a face as I noticed he was licking at the wobbling line of dry blood that trailed down his fore arm.
“You’re not fine,” I said, grabbing his upper arm to steady him as he almost tripped over the small end table beside he sofa. “Tell him he’s not fine, Max.” Max put his hands in the air telling us he wasn’t getting involved; he always played the peacemaker in mine and Ronnie’s arguments.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said, leading Ronnie towards the door. He slumped against my shoulder, barely able to walk straight. I looked up into his eyes, his pupils were dilated and he couldn’t seem to keep still. “Christ,” I muttered, holding his chin in my hand and moving it from side to side to get a better look at his eyes. He couldn’t seem to focus on me, or anything for that matter, avoiding my gaze each time. “Are you on something?” I asked in disbelief. He didn’t say anything, simply shrugging, and flashed me a lopsided grin. “Oh fucking hell, Ronnie,” I snapped, grabbing my coat and a jacket I presumed belonged to Ronnie off a hook by the door, “I can’t believe you.” Max tried to follow after us but I pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him. “Wait here,” I told him, “my Mom will be here in, like,” I said and craned my neck over his shoulder to glance at the clock. “Twenty minutes,” I concluded, “fuck.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Max replied, trying to calm me down, “you go. I’ll deal with the Mom.” I shot him a thankful glance before chasing after Ronnie to make sure he didn’t fall down the stairs.

The emergency room was packed. It was almost three hours later when we finally managed to see a doctor. Ronnie needed eight stitches. The nurse didn’t say anything about what he had taken, though I’m sure she noticed. Outside the emergency room, I tried to hail a cab while Ronnie slumped against a lamppost. “Lindsey,” he whined, clutching at his stomach.
“Don’t talk to me,” I replied, finally managing to catch the attention of a taxi driver, piling Ronnie and myself into the backseat.

When we got back to the apartment, my mother was already there. And had been for quite awhile, apparently. “Mom,” I sighed, hanging my coat up, “Mom, I’m sorry we’re late.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she giggled. It was obvious Max had helped her make a start on the bottle of wine she had offered to bring. Ronnie was hiding behind me, his hands buried in his pockets. “Are you alright?” she asked me, cupping my cheeks in her hands.
“I’m fine,” I replied, though I’m sure I didn’t sound that way. A bright smile spread across my mother’s face.
“Well, then,” she slurred, “that’s the main thing.”
I can’t believe you got her drunk! I mouthed to Max, who simply shrugged in reply.
“We kept a plate of food warm for you,” she said, grabbing her glass of wine and gesturing to the oven, “you too, Ronnie.” I turned to look at him, expecting an answer. He had been so quiet since we got home I had almost forgotten he was there. His eyes met mine before he looked up at my Mom.
“I’m actually just going to go to bed,” he said quietly before disappearing down the corridor. Max shot me a questioning look. I shook my head in response, not really wanting to give the subject much thought, before turning to my mother, giving her a tight hug. It was the first time I’d seen her since moving in with Max, though I’d spoke on the phone with her a couple of times. “Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said, pecking her on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart,” she replied. “Now, how about a glass of wine!” she cheered, holding her own glass in the air. “Max,” she called, placing a hand on the back of his shoulder, “grab Lindsey a glass.”

It was almost midnight when I finally called my mother a taxi, sending her home. We were going to visit Dane the next morning and I quickly arranged to meet with her at her house before saying goodnight and wishing her a Merry Christmas one last time. “Well, I think that went rather well,” Max sighed when I got back up to the apartment. I scoffed, finishing my glass of wine.
“I think I’m going to go to bed,” I told him, running my hands through my hair. I know he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t.
“G’night,” he said, wrapping me in a hug.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied as he kissed my forehead.
“Merry Christmas.”

I was still lying awake in my bed an hour later when Max finally went to his room. I sighed and rolled over to face the window, the moonlight streaming through and lighting my face. I didn’t even move as I heard my door open and the tears continued to dribble down my cheeks. “Max,” I croaked, “Max, I really just want to go to sleep.” I didn’t get a response and, instead, felt the weight shift as he sat on the edge of my bed.
“Max, I-,” I began to say when he interrupted me.
“You know,” a voice said, “I’ve always been pretty good at screwing things up.” I jumped when I realised it wasn’t Max but Ronnie sitting beside me. “Even when I was a kid,” he continued.
“Ronnie?” I asked, only being able to see his back. He turned slightly so I could see his face.
“This is for you,” he said, setting a small package, barely the size of his palm and wrapped in soft pink tissue paper covered in silver stars, on my pillow. I didn’t know what to say as I reached out and let my fingers graze the wrapping. He got up off my bed and went to leave my room but hesitated at the door. He turned back to look at me, resting his hand on the doorframe. I was about to say thankyou when his gritty voice washed over me once more. “Merry Christmas, Lindsey.”