Hover
The funny thing about being in mortal danger is that really, when it all comes down to it, it's a simple choice of fight or flight. Except not now.
The man stood over me, not groomed, not at all clean, and scariest of all, grinning. In one hand, he held a bottle of alcohol. In the other, he held a lit cigarette. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you, girl?" he asked, still grinning.
"No, Father," I answered, my eight-year-old brain searching frantically for a way out, my eight-year-old body shielding my little sister, Becca, who was only six, from what I was sure would be something bad. Very bad.
"I'm going to light you on fire. You always wanted to be a firecracker, and tonight you'll get your chance." I was shaking. He started pouring the alcohol on me. I threw myself to the right, praying that Becca would have the sense to go in the other direction. I knew what was going to happen.
He was laughing now, at my feeble attempt to escape, and then he kicked me in my empty stomach, hard. I threw up only water, having not eaten in the past three days. It didn't hurt, just added to my colorful collection of bruises. Then he tossed the cigarette onto me. Flames shot up. Pain entered my body and mind. I writhed, screaming, sobbing, pleading with him to stop the fire, stop the flames, stop the pain, stop everything. Just kill me. I begged for death. I wanted to die.
Becca ran toward me, but I yelled for her to stay away. She huddled in a corner, yelling for help, for anyone.
And all the while, the man laughed.
I woke up screaming. Peter's frightened face was right over me.
"Alex?" he asked, sounding terrified.
"I'm fine."
He sighed, relieved. "Good. I'd thought, after the battle . . . "
I remembered. The battlefield, being stabbed and cut, then nearly strangled, yelling for Peter to run, him not listening, blacking out. I felt a surge of anger rushing through me.
"You hovered," I growled. He knew what I meant.
"Alex – "
"You hovered! You hovered when I ordered you to run! You hovered! Where's your wound? Was it so bad that you had to take Lucy's cordial? What was it this time? I've heard Ogre's bash people against rocks. Or was it an arrow or a spear, thrown by a Minotaur? You idiot! Why do you always hover? I told you to run before you got yourself killed and you hovered! For me! Why do you have to be so freaking good all the time?"
"Alex, calm down. You'll hurt yourself."
"I'm gonna hurt you!"
"I know." He said it so calmly. How did his siblings stand it? Granted, I was tired, starving, wounded, delirious, and sick, but still!
"I needed to make sure you were okay."
"You could've done that afterwards! You should've run, you (insert swear word of your choice here, because I probably said it) imbecile!"
"Alex. Stop." It was an order. He pushed me gently back against the pillows. "Rest. You're half-dead. I'm fine, and you will be too, as soon as you stop struggling." He quoted Aslan. "What's done is done."
I sighed, and leaned back, watching him with resentful eyes.
He grinned. "Alex, seriously. Get over it. Just because I got mortally wounded and you didn't doesn't mean you have to get in a huff about it."
He turned and walked out, laughing infuriatingly when he heard me protesting.
Delah walked in, carrying clean bandages. "He's right, you know."
I gave up on getting any support and sighed heavily. "He needs to learn not to hover."
Delah looked at me, disapproval in her eyes about my response to my over-protective boyfriend.
"Dear, it's his job."
Fin.