Collins didn't know how he got home. He remembered stepping onto the sidewalk – how surreal everything seemed. Why was everyone acting… normal? Didn't they know the world had just been turned upside down? After that, nothing, and he now found himself standing in the bathroom of the apartment he shared with his friends, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

Collins stared at his cheek. There was a dark spot there from where he had been hit. It wasn't very noticeable, he thought, hidden by his dark skin. The problem was the lump. The lump and the scratches on his chin from when he had fallen. Collins stared at them Stared and tried to find an explanation for them. Something that his friends would believe.

I fell down the stairs.

"I fell down the stairs," he repeated aloud, the sound of his own voice causing him to jump. He shook his head, leaning forward to rest his hands on the sink. He couldn't use that. That would make them suspicious. Collins was not a clumsy man and they'd never think he could do that much damage to himself by tripping. Plus, there were the other injuries.

Slowly, Collins stood, peeling off his shirt to check out his side. He winced as he lifted his arms over his head, a jolt of pain hitting him. Looking down, he could see no visible marks, but as he touched the tender area, he knew immediately that something was wrong. A cracked, maybe broken rib. He wasn't sure, but he didn't care – as long as there were no marks, it was one less thing for him to explain.

Turning, Collins moved to the shower and ran the water as hot as he could stand it. Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he stepped in, relishing the hot water on his body. He shuddered as he saw a tinge of pink in the water running down the drain and squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of nausea that threatened to overtake him, knowing where the blood had come from.

Crystal-clear, cold, blue eyes swam before his vision and he recoiled, slamming his back against the tiled wall of the shower, eyes wide, darting around, arms flailing against another attack. After a moment, Collins remembered where he was. Breathing heavily, he stepped back under the hot spray of water, grabbing the soap and viciously scrubbing the area clean. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but didn't let up, needing to wash away every trace of what had happened.

A loud pounding at the door made him tense up, relaxing only slightly when he realized it couldn't possibly be them.

"Collins, man! Save some hot water for the rest of us! You been in there forever!"

Roger. It was only Roger. Heart racing, he managed to call out, "Fuck you, Davis!" pleased with himself for being able to keep the tremble out of his voice.

If Roger replied, Collins would never know. He was quickly running the soap over the rest of his body, being careful around the tender areas, rough everywhere else. When he finally felt at least somewhat clean, he rinsed and turned off the water. Stepping out of the shower, Collins grabbed a dark-coloured towel and wrapped it around his waist, picking up his dirty clothes and moving toward the door.

Roger was standing directly in front of him when he opened the door and he gasped, nearly dropping his clothes, stance becoming defensive. Coming back to his senses, Collins pushed past Roger, heading for his room and mumbling, "Get out of the way, man."

Collins stayed in his room for a long time. He had dressed and was now pacing, unable to sit, trying to come up with a plausible explanation for his appearance but finding none. Sighing, he left his room, walking toward the kitchen for a beer. Didn't matter how early it was – he needed it.

Cracking open a bottle, Collins downed it in one shot and reached for another, but was stopped by Roger's hand on his arm.

"It's 8:30, man."

Collins just stared at him, blankly, then jerked his hand away and grabbed another beer. Roger's eyes widened a little as he saw Collins' face, narrowing at his strange reaction.

"What the hell happened to you, man?" he asked, tone a mixture of concern and irritation.

"Nothing, Roger," Collins replied testily, taking a long swig from his beer.

"Bullshit," Roger shot back, "You look like someone beat the crap out of you, and you're acting weird. Don't tell me nothing's wrong."

Collins bristled. "Just leave it, Roger," he snapped, "I'm fine. Drop it." He moved away from his friend into the living room, eyeing the couch warily. Instead of sitting, he resumed his earlier pacing, taking occasional sips of his beer.

Roger sighed, running a hand through his hair, and followed Collins as he left the kitchen. It was obvious that something had happened, even more obvious that Collins didn't want to talk about it, but Roger was never one to let things go, and he was determined to find out what had happened to his friend.

"Collins, man. I know something happened. It's written all over you. Is it that bad that you can't tell me?"

Collins stopped pacing and turned to regard Roger once again. Yes! His mind screamed. Yes it's that bad! That bad and worse! Why won't you just leave me alone?

Opening his mouth to tell Roger once again to go away, he suddenly had an idea. Looking at the ground, he said, trying to sound sheepish, "It's just embarrassing, Roger. I don't want to talk about it."

Roger grinned a little. Now he really wanted to know. There was no way Collins was going to get away with not telling him. "Embarrassing?" he asked with a smirk, "Do tell,"

Taking a deep breath, Collins glared at his friend. "I got hit with a purse, okay?"

Roger blinked. "A… purse?" he asked, face breaking into a grin.

Collins sighed, irritated. "Yes, a purse. I was walking home and there was this girl in front of me. Apparently she thought I was stalking her. She spun around and swung her purse at my face. I swear to God she must have had a brick in it!" He shook his head, adding, "Women."

"Oh. My. God," Roger exclaimed, bursting into laughter, "Oh my God, Collins! A purse? Shit!" Turning toward Mark's room, he hollered, "Mark! Get out here, man! You gotta see this! Collins got his ass kicked by a chick!"

While Roger had his back turned, Collins let out the breath he had been holding, surprised, but relieved, that Roger had believed his story. He watched as Mark emerged from his room, camera in hand, eyes wide, looking Collins over.

"Collins?" he asked, still trying to register what Roger had said, "What is he talking about?"

Before Collins could answer, Roger had wrapped an arm around his shoulder and was telling Mark his own version of what Collins had said. His words were punctuated by bouts of laughter, and he embellished the story, adding in little details like how Collins had hid from the woman in an all-night diner until he was sure she was gone. Mark tried not to laugh, but by the end of Roger's tale, his face was red and he was biting his lip to keep the laughter inside.

Winding up his camera, Mark pointed it at Collins. "Close on Tom Collins," he narrated, "Who's just been beat up by a girl!" Collins just glared into the camera, flipping Mark off and turning on his heel, storming into his room and slamming the door.

Once inside, sure that they weren't going to follow him, Collins lay down on his bed, on his good side, and stared at the wall. Through the door, he could hear Mark and Roger roaring with laughter, talking about who they were going to tell. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He'd cried enough over this, and he was not going to cry any more. His friends had believed his story. All he had to do was get through the reactions of the others and he'd be able to put it behind him.

They didn't know.