Curly

Drip,

drip,

d

r

i

p

.

Your blood is on his shirt, his hands, the bathroom walls, and now the floor, a messy stream of red seeping in between the cracks in the tile and the holes in your bottom lip—you'd been gnawing so much lately, you're surprised your teeth haven't already disintegrated into chunks of enamel.

You're sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, watching him through one eye, the other one glued shut by popped blood vessels and eyelashes. You can barely see the tips of his dirty stocking-feet pace back and forth across the eight-by-five-space. He snarls something at you (where you supposed to be listening?) and curses.

Cabinet after cabinet is opened, rummaged through, slammed shut.

Bang.

He must have found the things he needed—sometimes, you think he's more disorganized than you are—'cuz his voice just becomes a low murmur that is barely heard over the loud ringing in your ears. He turns around, his face suddenly right there in front of yours, and holy shit could you pass as his twin.

This makes you titter.

He scowls, the skin around his eyes instantly tightening, mouth forming into a cross between a frown and a sneer. When your teeth sink into your tongue, more blood begins to dribble down your chin. It's a constant process to keep from saying somethin' stupid—your whole body is still smarting from when he tossed you up against the wall moments earlier. (Don't want that happening again; it hurt enough the first time.)

"Curly."

You don't answer the first time. E'ryone knows that pretending is better than believing, anyway.

"Curly?"

"Yup."

A bottle cap falls onto your toe, bounces off into the corner. He swears again, louder this time—fuck—and shakes his head, pouring some type of clear liquid onto a washcloth. The potent scent of antiseptic lights your nostrils on fire, eye watering. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, in, out, in, out—

"Ow!"

He jerks his hand away, sighing, "What the hell did I do now?"

"You fuckin' lit my chin on fire, Tim!"

"I'm just tryin' to get all the glass outta your face, shithead. Cool off." He takes a breath, sits back on his heels. Underneath the upstairs bathroom lighting, his skin radiates off a pasty green color, almost like he's sick or tired—his soul too old for his body. For a brief second, you wonder if you're staring at your own reflection: defeated at every battle so far, but still holding on for the war yet to be fought, hope so close yet a thousand miles away.

"Oh." (What else is there to say?)

He mutters something incomprehensible and gets back to work, his fingers and the washcloth darting in and out from your view every few seconds. By the time he's done, a pile of red-stained glass sits in the sink. (You don't ask him how many band-aids he stuck on your chin—there are at least three empty boxes lined up by the bathtub.)

"I'll take you in the mornin' to get stitches."

You nod and stand up for the first time in about two hours, a little shaky on your feet as all the blood in your head rushes down to your toes. You stumble out into the hall while he lags a few paces behind. Already, you can hear a nasty argument brewing from the kitchen downstairs, low voices—Donny, Ma, Donny, Ma, then Donny again—bouncing off the walls.

There are thirteen steps leading down to the ground level. Figuring you've got about forty-five seconds to make it to the basement, not counting how long it'll take to sprint down another flight of stairs, you're only the fourth step—forty-one-point-eight seconds left—when his hand comes crashing down on your shoulder.

"Don't."

You look up at him from your spot on the staircase. Instead of you towering over him it's the complete opposite, and suddenly, your height doesn't really matter—you're just another ant waiting to be squashed on.

He's leaning against the wall with one of his 500 frowns on, fingers melted into your tee-shirt. Again, he says it, like you didn't hear him the first time or somethin' (which you clearly did). You're surprised he still has an ounce of patience left to waste.

"Don't, Curly."

Glass shatters.

Ma screams.

Donny yells.

You hiss, "Then where the hell else am I s'posed to go?"

He rolls a shoulder and nods his head towards the last ajar door at the end of the hall.

(You'll sleep on the floor tonight.)