The dark orange glow from the mid-August setting sun shone in through Roger's small bedroom window. Somehow he still couldn't believe that sitting next to him was April - he was sure that when he turned around she'd be gone, or be someone else. So as hard as it was, he didn't look at her. Instead, he looked at his guitar, which was across his lap.
"Come on! Play something for me. Pleeeeease?" April pouted adorably, trying not to giggle.
"I told you, I can't really play much. Until a couple months ago, I had given up on playing all together," he said, but smiled, playing a few notes. April's giddiness disappeared, and instead of laughing or cheering, she leaned to her left and rested her head on his shoulder.
April sighed. "I wish this moment could last forever," she said quietly, almost sadly. Roger didn't know what possessed him in that moment, but he lay aside his guitar, put his hand on her face, and slowly leaned in to her. It was only supposed to be a light kiss on her cheek, but she turned her head. Their lips met. April's shock was momentarily evident - honestly, Roger's was too - but neither stopped. Roger slowly moved his guitar off his lap, and the two moved closer together, pressing their bodies gently against each other. They moved apart for air. April gasped in a quick breath, trying to realize what had happened. "Roger, I...there's something I should tell you, but I don't know how to say it - "
"Then don't say anything at all," Roger said, and wrapped his arms around her.
"I think I'm in love with you."
He didn't know what had come over him, but between the times he kissed her, he slowly extended one hand out towards her hip, a questioning look on his face.
"I'm ready," was all she said as she lifted off her oversized black t-shirt.
April could barely remember what happened. All she knew was that she'd never felt like this before. She was in love with Roger, and he loved her back. She was laying flat on his mattress in the corner, her clothes in a pile on the floor, and he was on top of her. She felt his lips kissing her neck, his hands wrapped around her wrists, his chest pressed against hers, the way their bodies connected and moved as one, and felt like she belonged with him.
What they weren't expecting was the loud bang of wood on wood as Roger's door was flung open. Both Roger and April looked up to see the large shape of a man fill the silhouetted frame of the doorway. April instinctively clutched Roger's arm, and Roger swallowed before whispering in her ear, "Fuck."
"What the fuck is going on in here?" yelled Roger's father, gesturing at April. She instinctively began to move closer to Roger, trying to enfold herself in his arms, but he was staring at his father, and he wouldn't touch her.
"Get up," he snarled. "I said, get up!" Roger looked at April fearfully and he murmured, "April, you should go." She reached off the mattress, picking up her large black shirt, recalling briefly how she elegantly slipped out of it not long ago at all (and how different he looked now, gazing at her with that hard and set and scared look that she was so unfamiliar with), and she stopped for a moment, frozen, because Roger's dad had begun to walk menacingly towards them. But his eyes were now fixed on Roger, and so she managed to slip past him, pausing at the door, brushing her fingers against the wooden frame. She stole a glance back at Roger, over her shoulder.
"April, go!" he yelled desperately, losing his emotionless composure, and her gaze lingered on him a moment. Her eyes filled with tears that quickly began streaming down her cheeks. "Just leave!" he shouted, his voice shaking - was he about to cry? - as he quickly pulled on his jeans. She tore her eyes away from him and ran out, slamming the door as she began to sob. As she ran out of the apartment, she could hear Roger cry out in pain and the furious cursing of his father and the spine-shivering sound of flesh upon flesh that made her sick to her stomach, throwing up as soon as she reached the sidewalk.
Roger stared longingly at April as she ran out of the room and slammed the door. He tried to keep his face stoic as the hot flesh of the back of his father's hand struck his cheek, but he couldn't help me - he winced in pain, biting his lower lip to stop from showing everything he felt inside.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing? Fucking some girl while I wasn't home? Thinking I wouldn't find out?" Roger's father hit him again, this time a punch to his left jaw. It was then that he cried out in pain, hoping April would be far enough gone not to hear. The tears that had welled in his eyes as she left, April, the girl he loved, the only girl he'd ever loved, the only girl he ever would love, walked slowly, painfully out his bedroom door after they'd had passionate sex and for the first time in his life, he'd felt like he belonged, those tears, fell slowly out of his eyes, like burning fire against the stinging flesh of his cheek.
"What, are you fucking crying now? Why, because of some fucking whore you could have picked up on the goddamned street for all I care?" His father shoved him. Hard. Roger stumbled backwards, tripping over his guitar - of all things - and his arm smashed into his dresser as he collapsed into the corner. "Get up." Roger's father snarled, walking over and kicking him in the stomach. Not wanting to get his father angrier, Roger struggled to his feet, using his opposite hand to cover his stomach with his hurt arm. He was scared - he couldn't remember ever being this afraid of his father before. But he wasn't fast enough for his father, who'd walked to the door and picked up the beer bottle he'd set down when he entered the room just moments before. Time seemed to slow down as it flew through the air. Roger felt too weak to move, but fell backwards, hitting his head hard against the wall as the glass smashed against his temple. His hand reached slowly to the side of his head. He was stunned to see it covered in his own blood as he brought it back down. He didn't know why he felt so dizzy. He half-stumbled, half-ran past his father, who threw out his arm to punch Roger's shoulder, to the phone - barely managing to dial 911. He was slowly becoming disoriented, the blood flowing faster and faster from his head, but he managed to get out his address before collapsing to the floor unconcious.
When Roger awoke, he had no idea what time it was, what day it was, or how long he had been asleep. All he knew was that he was in pain. He felt as if he was unable to move. "He's awake," he heard a voice say, and he tried to turn his head to look, but he was unable. "Well, Mr. Davis, you certainly have been through a lot."
"What-what happened?" Roger stammered.
"Well, we don't know the circumstances - no one else was in the apartment when the paramedics arrived - but we do know that you suffered a major concussion, needed two stitches in your right temple, the left side of your jaw was completely shattered, and your right arm was fractured in four places." Roger could see, now, that his arm was in a cast and a sling. "You're going to need surgery on your jaw - the damage looks completely fixable, and hopefully there won't be any lasting marks. That's been scheduled for this evening. For now, we have some painkillers that should sedate you."
"April, April," Roger murmured. "I'm so sorry."
"There, there," the doctor said as a nurse carefully inserted a needle into his arm. "Everything's going to be fine."