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Jimena
Tears stream down my cheeks as I wipe them away and stare at Florian through my blurry vision, as he stands by the balcony door, watching me.
He told me about his past, a past that’s hideous and tragic.
“So now you know why I pushed you away and tried to protect you. He’s vicious, and I don’t ever want him near you. As long as he thinks I’m indifferent toward you, you’re safe.” His hollow laughter rings in the room. “How can I stay indifferent now when you’re carrying my baby?”
Oh my God.
How hard must it be for him to carry all of this burden and not be able to share it with his best friends?
To hide something so horrible happening to you and not be able to lean on the people you love and trust the most.
Florian has always been a protector who hid behind his charming facade while he kept their brotherhood together.
Always there for them but never allowing for them to be his support.
I get up and go to him as he watches me warily as if expecting me to either erupt in hysterics or look at him somehow differently after confessing all this to me. Although I shouldn’t be surprised.
I’d seen firsthand what this kind of trauma does to a person, and my brother at least didn’t bottle it up inside. He never shared any details, but we knew he was hurting.
Florian buried his hurt, and on some level, I think…he tried to pretend it didn’t exist or happen. Unfortunately, though, it did, and it screwed him up.
I was right.
No one becomes a serial killer just because. They all have their own reasons, but I didn’t expect his reason to be so hard for me.
A raspy breath escapes him when I start to unbutton his shirt, and he grabs my wrists, stilling my movements. “What are you doing?”
“I need to see them.”
The dark four rarely walk around shirtless, but over the years, I’ve seen them sometimes working out. Endless scars mar their flesh, some more angry-looking than the others, and my heart always squeezed at the sight of them.
They spoke about their pain and what they had to go through, but even in these rare moments, though…I don’t remember a single time seeing Florian’s back or chest.
Not once.
Even during our first and only time so far, he was fully clothed and had the chance to admire me, masterfully hiding himself from me. Realization hits me. “You’ve never been naked in front of anyone, have you?”
Darkness crosses his face as he tries to gently push me away, but I hold my ground and continue to unbutton his shirt. “If you think I’m going to discuss with you—”
I place my palm on his mouth so he won’t say something mean again to make me back away. I think I’m starting to understand Florian’s behavior. “It’s okay, Florian,” I whisper as he swallows. “You can trust me with your vulnerabilities.”
“What if they are too hard and hideous to bear?” he asks as I finally remove his shirt, letting it fall on the floor and leaving him bare to my gaze. Tears fill my eyes. “Stop it, Jimena.” He makes a move to hide himself from me but my pleading gaze must stop him.
A raspy breath slips past my lips at the sight of the endless scars marrying his skin, red and deep slashes all over his chest as if someone burned his skin and then poured salt and acid over it for good measure so the wounds would never heal.
Never let him forget what he has experienced and in this make him hate himself even more.
My palm lands on a particular vicious scar on his six-pack that must have been done with a kitchen knife since his skin still holds imprints of its razor-sharp edges on it. “I’m so sorry, Florian,” I whisper through my clogged throat and slowly walk around him and cover my mouth with my palm because his back doesn’t just rival his chest in the scar department.
The back outshines it.
Countless small scars and long slashes; someone must have hit him with a belt buckle. One goes from his nape to his hips, angry and red, and I kiss his shoulder blade as his muscles grow rigid against me. “I’m sorry you had to be so brave at such a young age.” I hug him from the back, resting my cheek against him while my hands settle on his chest, running up and down his scars, gently rubbing over them and hoping that my touch…can show him that to me they don’t mean anything.
They don’t paint him to me as a monster or turn him into someone bad and dirty.
It shows me he’s a survivor and each scar speaks about his strength, never weakness.
