Sometimes its the details not given that are the most concerning.

ZZZ

Saving up for a car was a waste of money at this point in his life, in TJs opinion, at least. He preferred to use part of his paycheck in getting the ever loving shit beaten out of him, and how could he enjoy limping home in agonizing pain if he could just sit and drive? That's just no fun.

He rather limp home, leaving a trail of blood as it dripped from one the many cuts on his body, the pain in his right knee and ankle shooting through his leg and spine every time his weight shifted. Those guys did a number on him this time. Should've gave them a bonus.

Home was right up the street sadly enough. . .maybe he could make good use of those sewing needles he brought a while ago if he didn't lose consciousness first. Or tomorrow, these things always hurt more the day after.

"TJ?"

A glance over to his left and he saw Spinelli. That's right. . .they lived right across the street from each other, didn't they? Still.

He continued on his way.

"Woah, hey, what the hell happened to you?" She asked as she came up to him. "You look like you got hit by a car!"

With no energy to entertain her with an answer, he turned and started to cross the street. The short step down was enough to make his knees buckle, but he kept himself standing.

Goddamn reflexes.

"Do you need any help?" She asked. ". . .That's a dumb question."

She took his arm and lead him to her house. He blinked, though it was increasingly hard to see through his right eye with the area around it quickly swelling and throbbing with every heartbeat. His house was right there, but he needed to sit down.

Next time he needed to make it clear to limit the hits to his head next time. Being dizzy was garbage, and concussions were absolute trash.

"What the hell happened to him?" Vince asked from his seat on the couch. They were dating, weren't they? Hmm.

By now the cut on his right arm seeped through his clothes and now his fingers. That one had to be deep. Might have to stitch that one up. So he gripped it tighter, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh around it.

"I don't know! I found him walking around like this," she said. "Help me get him to the bathroom."

ZZZ

When he was 8, his grandfather gave him a pocket knife. It was an old thing, back from when he was a kid himself. Despite that, it was in considerably good shape, minus the layer of rust. But with no real use for it, TJ stored it in the back of his desk drawer and forgot about its existence for years until he cleaned that drawer out.

With a bit of effort he was not only able to remove the rust, but sharpen the blade, restoring it to it's former glory. The pathetic excuse for a knife was able to cut through anything with minimal effort.

That became his go to knife of choice when it came time for him to indulge in his favorite form of entertainment, soon replacing the blades her pried out of shaving razors. Those things rust so easily, it's a shame.

ZZZ

With the help of the A/C, he was aware of the cool wetness of his clothes, the blood soaked fabric clinging to his skin. He's gonna have to stop by the store to stock up on what he needed to get the stains out tomorrow, he was running low. While he's there he might as well get another bottle of rubbing alcohol; he was halfway through the bottle under his bed, anyways. . .

"So. . .what happened? You didn't actually get hit by a car, did you?" She asked. Or that's what it sounded like. The dried blood around his ears made it hard to hear.

The cut (cuts? Could be a gash, he needed a mirror to fully bask in his injuries) barely stung as she attempted to clean with a tissue dabbed in alcohol. Why even bother with that pathetic amount. . .if he couldn't feel it burn his inner exposed flesh then what's the point?

He opened and closed his hands into fists. By the feel of it, two or three of them were jammed (yes!), an index, pointer, on his left, and ring finger on his right. A splint can take care of that whenever he'll get bored of pulling on them and pushing them backward just to feel the bones creak and pop. Taking notes was going to be fun for a while, so a plus. . .

"Hello? Is anybody home?" Spinelli said. She waved her hand in front of his face. "You can at least talk to me if I'm cleaning you up. . ."

Goddamn the lights in this bathroom were bright. The blue tint to it made the room look almost clinical, but the person in front of them couldn't treat a wound for jack shit. What kept him in place was the need to sit and. . .that's about it really. He could've sat on the edge of the sidewalk for all he cared. Pulling away from her grasp took too much energy at that moment. He should be able to walk now.

"How's he looking?"

"I dunno. I think he's out of it 'cause he's not answering or looking at me," she said. "Maybe he really did get hit by a car."

"Should we take him to the hospital? He looks pretty bad."

That was his cue to leave. He had his own 'hospital', and he didn't need those doctors or their assessments. He stood on shaking legs and steadied himself before limping past the two of them. Which way was door again. . .?

"Do you think we should follow him?"

"Yeah, probably. Make sure he gets home, Vince."

He stumbled a few times, but stayed standing as he made his way out. He took a deep breath, soaking in the stabbing aches from the massive growing bruise on his stomach, and shook off the sleepiness to clear his head before he crossed the street hunched over.

ZZZ

There was something almost hypnotic about the perfect shine of a knife fully restored from neglect and a coat of rust. A days work and the right supplies, and it was easy enough to turn the ugliest knife into something that sliced through anything (anything!) with next to no pressure. You could use it as a mirror if you wanted to.

In hindsight, TJ supposed his parents concern that their 12 year old son picking up knife restoration and sharpening was understandable, especially with how easily he lost himself in restoring which ever neglected knives he found at a garage sale for 30 cents. And they were right to, whether or not they knew what he was doing with them.

Goddamn you could toss a tomato against the sharp end and it would slice in half like nothing, so it should be able to do the same thing with skin, right? Right! And it did and it cut cleanly and LEft No SCar wHen iT hEaleD But hiding them in his room for himself would be too suspicious so he ended up selling most of them at a flea market or when they have a garage sell or some shit. Made money but rather have kept them.

Then again the emerging masochism was enough without a collection like that. He probably shouldn't feed into that.

ZZZ

Damn keys, why'd they have to be so small and hard to turn? Leaning against the front door on his bruised left shoulder, he struggled to turn the key. His parents, out of town, weren't there to open the door (good. he was on a solid 2 year streak of them not knowing about this and wasn't about to break it), so it was just him and his jammed fingers.

"Here, you're not gonna get the door open like that."

The keys were taken out of his mangled fingers and the door finally opened. Finally home. Now he had to tackle the beast of climbing the stairs. Five steps up in and he had to stop, almost falling over if he didn't lean on the railing to catch his breath. The wood creaked under his weight as he struggled to stand up straight again.

His right arm was grabbed and slung over Vince's shoulder (was he still here?) as he helped him the stairs and into his room. He pulled away at the sight of his bed. Finally. Sitting, he was still slouch, struggling to stay awake

"So, uh, are you gonna be okay?"

The slight tremble from trying to stay awake was easily interpreted as a nod. Without a steady grip, entertaining himself with the collection of needles had to wait until tomorrow. Faintly, he heard the front door close as he laid down. Weakly, he kicked his shoes off, getting them fall to the floor with a thud that echoed through the room. He curled in on himself and dozed off.