"You're one of those Type A people, aren't you?" my biology professor asks slyly as I approach his desk after class. I pretend to be embarrassed and nod, hearing a familiar hunger in his voice. I want to be unsure of his intentions, but men are awful at hiding them. Perhaps they aren't really trying. My professor certainly isn't, as he gives me a look up and down and smiles knowingly. "At the moment, I don't have any formal extra credit opportunities, but I hate to say no to a willing student. I could use some help in the lab, if you'd be interested in getting your hands dirty?" he ends with a wink. Looking at him makes me want to die. I smile back, well aware that my reputation has preceded me.
"No thank you, professor," my voice drips with venom. "I'm very busy. I hope you can find an assistant able to work with your schedule." His eyebrows raise in surprise, but his face remains composed. I turn tail and walk away, patting myself on the back internally. I'm somewhat surprised that he would act this early in the semester. Usually professors wait until they're sure I'll say yes before they invite me to "assist" them. Crushing them is always a good time though, so I won't complain. The classroom is empty and I feel powerful as I exit to the busy hallway, full of students heading home or possibly to the cafeteria. Blending into the crowd is my specialty, my hobby: I pop in my earphones and coast along. The campus is less busy for night classes, but once 10 rolls around it bursts into life again. I take primarily night classes so I can work during the day to pay my ridiculous tuition. However, saving money means that most other aspects of my life are patently unglamorous. We were never rich, but at least in high school I was able to afford nice clothes. Now I buy my heels from bargain bins, and getting hand-me-down dresses is not all too uncommon. Not to mention my current residence, which is the definition of unsavoury.
I'm sighing again as I push through the crowd onto the bus. I pray for a seat, but of course I'm left standing up. I pretend not to notice the man seated near me checking me out. Men really do repulse me, but they can be useful sometimes. I shrug off their advances, until I need them. Sex is just an exchange if you think about it, trading a part of yourself for companionship and someone to keep you warm. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the bus window and feel perfectly lewd for thinking about sex on the bus, but I guess it comes with the territory. It's certainly not the first time I've been checked out while trying to get home. At least no one yells things at me when I'm on the bus.
I pull the cord for my stop, leaning over the man whose gaze is now firmly planted on my chest. I'm almost ashamed at the charge I get, despising this man's attention but feeding off it all the same. It's the same with my professor, in a way. My sex appeal is my source of power, giving me leverage over men who I control with a flick of my long blonde hair. I doubt I'll ever get a bad grade in his class, not that grades are much of a concern to me. My mind is brimming over with confidence due to my victory of the day as I walk along the sparsely lit sidewalk to my apartment. The walk isn't long, but I have my house keys out and between my knuckles as a necessary precaution. My mother's been asking when I'll move somewhere else, but she's certainly not willing to fork over more money to make it possible.
As I'm walking I hear shouting ahead, and instinctively reach for my phone. The colour rushes to my cheeks and I can feel my hand shaking but I'm a good girl, so I head straight toward the noise with 911 pushed into my phone. My hand hovers over the CALL button as I grow closer to the source of the noise. Of course it's the dark alley right next to my apartment. It's only natural that terrible things would be happening at 10 pm on a Wednesday night, right next to my place of residence. I almost sigh and stop myself but my body is too tense, so I press onwards. There's a street light in front of my building that sheds some light into the alley, and I can make out at least three people, who are all focused on something beneath them. Forgetting my phone, afraid I am witnessing a rape or murder, I scream "Get out of here!" The three figures pause for a moment and one jerks their body in my direction. I realize I'm an idiot at this moment and take a pre-emptive step back, cursing my heels.
"I called the police already," I yell at them, but my voice is shaking. My legs are quaking as the other two turn completely around. I can see now they were on top of a smaller figure. My words seem to do the trick, as after a moment's hesitation they regain momentum and run in the opposite direction. Remembering my phone, I finally let out a large sigh and close it. I really am a moron, but it's not really something I ever forget.
The figure in the alleyway stirs. "Don't move!" I call as I run towards it. Ignoring me, the person begins to rise and I realize they're about my height. I'm closer; it's a man. "Are you okay?" I ask, timidly, still several feet away and somewhat afraid to go closer. He says nothing, standing up to his full height and stretching. The streetlight lights up his face, allowing me to see his stunning green eyes and hair red like (or maybe with?) dried blood. He walks towards me a little crookedly, as if daring me to step back. I hold my ground and allow him to get about a foot away from me before he speaks.
"Thanks," he barks at me in a voice raspy with disuse before promptly crumpling to the ground. Unsure of what to do but unwilling to do nothing, I poke him a bit before taking his arm and putting it over my shoulder. He's surprisingly light for someone my size, but heavy enough to make me thank god I work out. I lug his unconscious form to my apartment entrance, all at once grateful and upset that there is no doorman. The front desk attendant doesn't even look at me as I enter. Sliding past him silently, I make my way towards the elevator. Sneaking around in my apartment building is incredibly easy. Normally this would piss me off, but now I feel relieved. Upon entering my apartment and setting the unconscious man down on my bed, I realize I have made a mistake.
I'm majoring in kinesiology, not pre-med like my genius friend Sakura. I can give him some nice stretches to relax, but I sure as hell can't fix internal bleeding. I can only hope there is no internal bleeding to begin with. Beginning to panic, I switch on the lights and allow myself to examine the figure breathing shallowly on my bed. He's got a cut on his collarbone: not very deep, but leaking blood onto his black sweatshirt. At least it won't stain, I joke to myself. When did my sense of humor get so morbid? I'm realizing I need to undress him and my brain goes into overdrive. I have undressed a lot of men in my life, but never while they were unconscious and possibly half-dead.
I prop him up against the wall behind my bed so he (hopefully) won't bleed onto my pristine pink sheets. Peeling off his sweatshirt is fairly easy, and also doesn't really count as stripping him so my conscience is clear. Underneath the black sweatshirt is… a black shirt. Charming. At least he can coordinate, I mentally note as my eyes shift to the black jeans clinging to his hips. He seems much smaller without the sweatshirt, and I feel like a predator. The boy (man?) can't be much younger than my barely 21 years, but he feels small beneath me. This must be how it feels to be a man, ready to devour an innocent young woman. Shaking the thought from my head, I remove his black shirt and am greeted by white flesh marred by wounds.
The sight sends me physically backwards, and I nearly trip over my shoes trying to back away. It takes a full minute for me to process what I've seen and begin to move closer once again. Most of the wounds are old, in various stages of age. Yellow bruises, dark purple bruises, something that looks like a knife wound? I'm alarmed but admittedly my interest has been piqued. None of the wounds look particularly fresh, and I surge with pride that I likely stopped them before it got too bad. Replacing his shirt on his body awkwardly, I grab some tissues from the living room-slash-kitchen and blot at the blood near his neck. Most of it has already dried, saving me the trouble.
I only have one bed. My apartment is fairly small, if I'm being honest. The front door opens up to the living room, which is sparsely furnished and connected to the kitchen. There's a bathroom to the left and my bedroom to the right. I have a queen bed but it feels wrong to share a bed with an (unconscious) stranger. Covering him timidly with a sheet, I exit the room leaving the door open and light off. I take up residence on the couch, glad that tomorrow is my day off. I've said it before, but this is definitely not the first time I've taken a stranger to my home. It's different this time, though, and I feel slightly uneasy as I drift off to sleep.
I wake up with a pressure on my throat, my eyes popping open to meet a cold gaze. "Who are you?" the man whispers threateningly at me. I have a knife pressed down on my throat and I've been awake for less than 20 seconds. Tears spring to my eyes and the pressure decreases, then comes back again quickly. "I'm fucking serious. What do you want from me?" he's saying, but I can barely hear over the sound of my heart thumping in my ears.
"I helped you!" I manage to gasp out despite the fear of moving my mouth to speak. He's sitting on top of me and I can feel him flinch at these words. Finally the pressure is removed, and he stands up to tower over me instead. Moving slowly in an attempt to avoid startling him, I sit up and scoot myself into a corner of the couch, making myself as small as possible as he contemplates my fate. "This is my apartment," I break the silence between us. He gives me a bemused look and puts the knife back into his pocket. The tension in my body releases immediately and he turns away from me.
"I need food," he states plainly, before heading directly to my kitchen. I want to stop him because I also need food, and don't want a stranger raiding my fridge. But feeling a knife on my throat is an experience I hope to never have again so I keep quiet and trail behind him, rubbing my neck. I sit at the table and watch him as he pulls items out of my pantry, pulls a face, and puts them back. Finally he settles on the box of poptarts I keep solely for other people to eat. He rips open the package unceremoniously and devours both of them in seconds. Regaining my confidence, I smirk at him.
"Those will fill you up but they aren't very nutritious so you'll just get hungry again," I scold him. He puts eating on hold to stare at me. His eyebrows are raised, and he seems more bewildered than pissed off.
"So?" he retorts, turning away from me and heading to the fridge for more food. I walk over to the fridge door and place my hand on top of it. He tenses and puts his hand to the pocket with the knife, startling me.
"Let me make you something," I sputter quickly, not eager to be attacked. He sizes me up and steps back, giving me permission to access my own fridge. I crouch down and take stock. "Do you like pancakes?" I ask calmly, looking up at him. He shrugs. "Pancakes it is," I nod to myself and take out the milk and eggs.
Making food while you're being watched is awkward. He doesn't offer to help but he also stays far out of my way. As I pour the batter into my well-used frying pan, I can sense him getting antsy behind me. I guess he hasn't eaten in a while. Maybe that's why he passed out last night.
A few minutes later I'm eating pancakes in my small kitchen with a stranger who sort of tried to kill me. Things are pretty tense, and this dude is not really big on conversation. I hate silence more than anything, so I begin to overflow.
"My name is Ino," I tell him between bites. He looks up from wolfing down his pancakes to nod at me. "What's yours?" I ask impatiently, since he obviously wouldn't offer it up for free.
"Doeshn't madder," he replies with his mouth full. Cocky bastard. I feel my temper rise up, and I lean towards him in a way I hope is intimidating.
"I carried you into my apartment and let you sleep in my bed. I let you eat my morning-after poptarts. I made you pancakes for fuck's sake. What is your god damn name?" He definitely isn't intimidated, but he does swallow and look up at me with a smirk.
"Morning-after poptarts?" He's laughing at me and I am pissed off. I stand up, pushing back in my chair and storming past him to the bathroom. I don't have to use it but I need to decompress and I cannot do it in the presence of that guy. I lock the door even though it's doubtful he will stop eating long enough to try and come in. It just feels safer that way. Minutes pass. I wish I'd brought my phone in here. I sort of want him to check up on me. I want an apology. Men don't treat me like that. This whole morning has been a disaster and I probably should have just called 911 and left his body in the- I hear a light knock on the door.
"Gaara," he announces quietly. I sit completely still, willing myself into the floorboards. He doesn't try to open the door, but I do hear him lean against it. "My name is Gaara," he repeats himself, firmer this time. I'm not sure how to respond so I remain silent and motionless.
"Are you going to kill me if I open the door?" I finally ask, although I'm not really worried he will. He laughs in response, and I feel my skin crawl.
"Probably not," he whispers, and I'm not sure if I was meant to hear that. The silence returns. After waiting a few minutes, I unlock and open the door expecting him to be gone. Instead I am greeted immediately by his face. I struggle to hide my surprise but he notices and a smile graces his thin lips.
"Listen," my voice is wavering but I want to be strong, I will myself to be tough. "We need to set some ground rules. This is my apartment. I thought I was saving your life last night. I cleaned up your damn wound. I took off you-" I stop myself here. He notices.
"You took off my what?" he bristles. I cover my mouth, feeling my face turn bright red. Shaking my head is not a satisfactory answer for him, but thankfully he makes no move to fix it.
"I didn't see anything," I try to say hastily, but the words all merge together and come out of me like a jumbled mess. I try again. "Why were those people beating you up?" I can hear myself asking, surprised that these words are coming from me. Gaara seems surprised too, because his eyes widen the smallest amount. I expect a snotty answer, but get a sincere one instead.
"My dad wants to kill me," he states placidly, as though this information bores him. My reaction is more subdued than I would have guessed, but I have spent the past hour fearing for my life. The idea that this man is steps away from being a homicide victim is not exactly surprising. But the word "dad" hits me in the gut, and I'm sure he sees me wince. He makes no indication that he'll continue, and instead wanders back to the table where I see he has completely cleaned his plate. Once again I follow him carefully, like a hunter stalking prey. Staring at the plate idly, he looks up with a start when I sit down across from him. It's almost as if he forgot I was here, a visitor in my own house. I clear my throat calmly, used to his antics and pleased that this surprise didn't result in the knife coming out again.
"What's your uh, plan from here?" I ask timidly, losing my usual confident edge. He slowly brings his eyes to meet mine, searching me for answers I cannot possibly give. An awkward silence sets in, and I open my mouth to fill it. Before I can speak, he rises from the table.
"Thank you for the food, Ino," he meets my eyes again as he speaks. I feel his gratitude- for someone so stoic, his emotions are surprisingly easy to read. "I'll get out of your hair now," he grins crookedly at me. I feel frozen in place, and am cursed to stay seated as he disappears from my view and I hear the front door slam. Once he is gone, the apartment feels empty again. I feel the emptiness poised to swallow me whole, and all at once I am in motion again.
I clean the kitchen. I wash my sheets. I find his hoodie on my floor. I wash it, carefully fold it and finally set it down on top of my dresser, as if he will come back for it. As if he'd come back at all. I take a cab to a nicer part of town, to a nicer bar, where I will meet a nicer boy to fill my void.