This one was the worst to do...
Whitney/Sweets: Friendship
Whitney Black in his home, on the floor by his sofa, sobbing, out of breath and a mess was not the sight Doctor Lance Sweets had expected to come home to.
He had just returned from a grocery run when he sensed someone's presence in the Silver Streak. Cautiously, he let himself in and almost did a double take at the sight that greeted him.
She didn't look like she had fallen, more like was forced to sit from the pain and stress that came from the hard blows that emotion dealt her heart. Alarm and the panic that came along with it was his initial response, making him drop the bag he held and he wondered if she was wounded, sick or in pain even though there was already a huge part of him that already knew that she wasn't. Whitney never cried when she was ill or in pain. In fact, he'd seen her cry very little during all the years they've known each other. But he'd never seen her succumb to tears like this.
He found himself approaching slowly, and with much care the girl on the floor, not unlike approaching a wounded, threatened animal he would find in one of the numerous traps from his uncle's land in Vancouver. He knelt in front of where Whitney sat and felt his knees sink into the thick carpet. Up close, Sweets could see the big, violent bruise that ran from her left eye to her cheek bone, making him gasp. "Oh, God," he cried, "Whitney, what happened?" He quelled the urge to touch his fingers to the swollen area. There were a million questions he needed to ask, ranging from who had done this to how it happened. Questions, he could see after a closer study of her face, that needed to wait. Whitney would tell him when she was ready.
Her face was naked from the makeup she habitually wore. Her hair was not polished and perfect, but roused by restless, grabby hands and lacked its classic luster. There were bags under her puffy eyes big enough for a thief to hide in. Her clothes were muddy, a bit torn and damp from the drizzle outside. She looked broken, hopeless and utterly miserable. But even in her grief, she was lovely: more lovely than she'd ever been in Sweets' eyes. Her deceptive mask of bright composition and savage beauty had come off and he knew it was times like this when Whitney was at her most vulnerable. The soft, feeling side of his ex-girlfriend was as rare as rain in the dessert and seeing it weakened Sweets. What was it about a strong woman in tears that bought a man to his knees? Sweets found himself wanting to give her everything and anything, echo all of his love and devotion just to stop the vicious flood of emotion she exuded.
He carefully gathered her in his arms, making her gasp in surprise. She was frail and trembling; a sharp contrast to the fierce woman he came to love with all his heart after all these years. He carried her to his bed, mindful of her physical condition, and he held her like a precious vase that he kept expecting to shatter. When she coughed up blood, he had to force his panic down as he calmly wiped the crimson droplets from her mouth. With great patience and soothing pats, he allowed her to stain his shirt with tears and ride out the violent tides of misery that washed over her.
He felt her relax against him gradually. The fists she'd clenched around the back of his shirt loosened and the tension in her body evaporated like steam. Eventually, the sobs died down to whimpers to sniffles to harsh breathing. Still, he kept his hold on her. Like an exhausted child, she lay limp against him, her face pressed against his neck. Sweets detangled himself from her and rose from the bed to go to his dresser and hunt up some fresh clothes. He picked up a white shirt, sniffed it and deemed it clean enough. Upon his return to her, he said quietly, "I'm changing your clothes, okay?" She gave him a small nod and sat up weakly with his help.
Sweets gripped the hems of Whitney's shirt and peeled if off her slowly, carefully as he'd dreamt of doing so for the longest time, but now that it was finally here, he didn't have it in him to think about anything but how hurt she might be, how terrified. Her long-sleeved shirt rode up her flat stomach and her perky breasts to reveals bruises that undoubtedly came from fists and various nicks and scratches. He sucked in a breath upon seeing more of the damage on the body Whitney had always been proud of, the envy of all women and fantasy of all men for being flawless and heavenly. She was obscenely colorful: red from the raw scrape marks on her back and sides, black and blue from the bruises that bloomed over her breasts, her stomach and her back like lethal flowers. His own hands shook from anger, nerves and sadness as he set her ruined shirt aside. She winced when he touched cool fingers to a long scratch on her side. "I'm going to call a doctor." He stated.
"No," was the first thing she said, desperation heavy in that one word. "Please, just stay Lance."
He nodded before he rose yet again to retrieve the first aid kit from his bathroom. Later, when she was calm, he would take her to the hospital. In the mean time, he would take care of anything he could. He took out gauze and disinfectant and worked on Whitney with gentleness fit for a mother. For the longest time, they were silent. The air was dense with misery and Sweets found himself struggling for air and words to say. Then the unbearable silence was broken by the words that would change their lives forever.
"I was raped," There was a raw edge to her voice, as if it hurt her to say it. "They raped me and they said it was my fault." Whitney blurted out, a sob riding out on her voice. The rest came bursting out of her like vomit: how she had been at some random party with people she didn't know and was passed cup after cup of alcohol that she drank willingly. It wasn't long until she started to lose feeling of her body and soon, she had been dragged outside by three men, ones she recognized because she was positive she had rejected their proposals of dates, midnight rendevous and other activites time after time. They men had proceeded to dump her unceremoniously on the ground and verbally abusing her. They'd called her a whore, a bitch and many other ugly names. She was a high-strung slut, they said. Someone kicked her in the face and blinded by pain and so stunned by the attack, Whitney didn't even notice the boys touching her, tasting her. No one even bothered to remove her clothes, just shoved her underwear aside and violated her. They pounded fists into her stomach, on her ribs, on her arms. Whitney did not even bother to fight them, since the feeling of shame and self-hate was greatly weakening and the drug she'd ingested took away her ability to move, anyway. It seemed like ages until they left, laughing like drunks and cursing like sailors, but not before spitting at her and kicking her again for good measure. She didn't know how long she lay there, on the hard concrete ground, waiting for the effects of the drug to wear off. Come sunrise, she had enough strength to stand. In a haze, she righted her clothes and came straight to the one person she trusted most.
Sweets hand froze in mid air. He dropped the cotton swab he'd been using on a cut on her shoulder and lifted his glance to her face. There was no point in asking any questions now. And besides, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to say anything. The sympathy he'd been feeling turned to rage simmering to a boil and he felt as if he had enough angry energy to wreak havoc all around the god forsaken village even as his heart exploded in a million painful pieces. A brief vision of himself beating to oblivion three faceless boys entered his mind and he tasted blood in his mouth. He longed to plant his fist into something, someone.
But alas, he knew that the last thing Whitney needed right now was his anger. What she needed was to be tended to, to feel safe, to feel supported. Sweets could see that her dark blue eyes were clouded by shock and grief and that her hands trembled so he took them in his and gave them a firm squeeze. He wasn't sure now if she was holding onto him or if he was holding onto her. All he knew now was that he loved her and that he would do anything that she asked of him.
The feeling of helplessness, weakness and humiliation must have been -and still be- great for Whitney and Sweets knew not what do for her. He wasn't one to believe that time could heal. Time did not always heal, but had a bigger tendency of fucking things up even more. He hoped to whatever god was listening that would not be the case with Whitney.
Her breath came out in half a sigh, half a sob as she dropped her head on his shoulders. She turned her face into the junction between his neck and jaw and let another torrent of bitter tears fall. He gripped the back of her neck and pulled her closer. He felt absurdly sick; nausea sliding slyly through is stomach. A sob filled his own throat but he battled it back because he needed to be strong now, for her. "I'm sorry, Whitney." he said against her hair gently. Apologies for his incompetence seemed to be the only thing he could offer her now because comfort would not come easy. "I'm so sorry."
Arrg. I'm still not happy with this.