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We stare at each other for several long moments, both wondering what’s going on, until I remember the cuts on her thighs. Planting my feet on the floor, I press back against the wall and slide up with her still in my arms. I put her down on the counter by the sink and reach beneath for the first aid kit and a washcloth. I debate on whether to leave to let her clean her own wounds, but I just don’t have it in me to leave her yet.
I wet the rag from the shower before turning it off. I look up at her in question. She purses her lips and nods. With all the blood, I don’t know how bad the cuts are or how many. Not wanting to hurt her any more than necessary, I start by just gently pressing the rag on one of her thighs to soak up some of the blood. We both stay quiet, but I have a hundred questions running through my head.
“Why did you do this?” I ask quietly.
She grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white. I don’t know if it’s from the pain or if it’s the question.
She takes so long to answer, I start to think she won’t.
“Because it’s the only way to make the pain of everything else go away,” she answers sadly. “It’s the only way I know how to replace it. For a little while, anyway.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. She’s like me. She hurts herself to mask the horror of her memories.
I lift the rag, rinse it, and set it back down on the same thigh.
“Why tonight?” I ask hoarsely, afraid I already know the answer.
Rella rests her hand on the back of mine. “Aziah, look at me.”
I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment, gather my courage, and look at her. She leans closer until her face is only inches from mine.
“It wasn’t what you did to that guy. It was him looking at me. It’s stupid and wasn’t his fault either. All he was doing was looking, but it still made my skin crawl. My head is so messed up. I understand why you hurt him. You felt you were protecting me, and I’ll never fault you for that. Ever.”
How in the hell this woman ended up so amazing is astounding. She claims her head is messed up, and yes, she has some issues, just as anyone would who’s been through what she has, but that doesn’t make her any less special.
I lift the rag again, and most of the blood is now gone. There are two two-inch cuts on her inner thigh. But that’s not what holds my attention. It’s all the old scars surrounding the new wounds. There’s a shit ton. They go from her knee all the way up to a few inches before the crease where her leg meets her torso. I have no doubt her other thigh looks just the same.
“How long have you been doing this?”
She shifts nervously on the counter, and when she speaks, her voice is so low, I barely make out her words. “About ten years. I started right after I left with Deanna and Mick.”
I grind my molars together.
“You do it too, don’t you? With the key you told me about.”
I glance up. Understanding softens her expression. I want to deny her claim, because I don’t want her to think less of me, but maybe it’ll help her if she knows she isn’t alone.
I nod and go back to cleaning her other thigh. Just as I suspected, her skin is riddled with small lines, some old and some newer. I grab a cotton ball and uncap the peroxide. After soaking the cotton, I start dabbing the fresh cuts.
“I keep waiting for it to get easier, but it never does.”
A lead weight settles in my stomach.
“It will. Being here, surrounded by people who love you and will protect you, it’ll get easier.”
It has to. For her, anyway. The thought of her suffering makes me feel nauseous. I’ll do everything in my power to help her, no matter what it takes, to lessen her misery.
Remembering my promise to Maisy to use antibiotic ointment on my own wounds, I squeeze some on the bandages before placing them over Rella’s cuts.
After putting everything back where I got it from, I stand back and regard her. Her long hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves. Her face has regained some of its color, especially in her cheeks. Her hands are clasped tightly together and resting on her lap, and she gazes back at me.
As if my eyes were waiting until after her wounds were taken care of, they stray to the parts of her I have no business looking at. Her legs are closed, but I still see a small triangle of her white panties, and the dark shadow of hair beneath it. I’m a sick bastard, because just that small gli
mpse has my dick twitching. Nausea rolls in my stomach.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “And thank you for not telling Trouble.”
I think he needs to know, but I understand her reluctance. It’s her decision to make.
