Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Beta'd by alexmichele and pinkrose14. The song is 78Violet/Little Notes. Enjoy. Review.
Chapter 2
"Tris," I say, looking around helplessly. It's still dark outside, the blinds showing no light beyond them. I haven't even turned on a light. The hardwood floor is cold beneath my feet. I kick the bed. "Tris. Come on, wake the fuck up."
Tris whimpers, kicking out at nothing, her face a mask of distress. Her hands are up by her face, shielding it.
"Tris!" I exclaim, curling my hands into fists, "Tris, wake up!"
She lets out a sob, tears breaking free of tightly closed eyes, and in a moment, my pleading is interrupted by a scream.
Desperate, I grab the water from the bedside table and upend it over her head. She screams again when she sees me, scrambling backwards against the headboard. I put my hands up like a criminal and back away a few steps. She dives for the lamp on the nightstand, and it flicks on, illuminating the room.
"T-T-Tobias-" Tris starts, fresh tears staining her cheeks. "I-"
"Don't you dare say that you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for," I push my hands through my hair, "Are you . . . "
"I'm fine," Tris says, curling into a ball, chin on her knees, the gray comforter wrapped around her, "I'm sorry."
I sigh and close my eyes.
"C-can we just-" She has to stop before the new tears fall, biting her lip on a sob.
"Come on," I say, and turn to the door, opening it for her. She is trembling.
We walk into the kitchen, and I put a mug of water in the microwave. While it's heating up, I throw her a banana. She is skinny as shit. She peels it and takes a bite. When she does, I notice what she's wearing and quickly avert my eyes. She is in a black Arctic Monkeys tee shirt, one of mine, and fuzzy socks. The shirt just barely falls to middle of her thighs, probably 'cause she's tugging on it. The sleeves are rolled up exposing her bare her arms, which are still a shock to me. I remember when I was eighteen and she was sixteen, we went on a trip to the lake with both our families. I wore a shirt to the scars Marcus gave me, but she never changed into a bathing suit. Long sleeves all summer.
Who did that to her?
The microwave beeps, startling both of us. I let go of my white-knuckled grip on the counter and retrieve the mug. I fill it with hot cocoa mix and stir.
The clock proudly declares that it is four a. m., so I start a pot of coffee for myself. Tris never liked the stuff.
She accepts the mug, looking at the floor, and I take the banana peel from her, throwing it at my trash can. It makes it.
"Four-" Tris starts.
"It's okay," I say, "you can finish your drink first."
She blinks at me, smiles weakly, and brings the mug to her lips. She looks at the ground when she is not sneaking looks at me, which I studiously ignore. I look into space, thinking about her scars. Again. The clatter of her setting her glass on the bar makes me look at her. She is, surprise, studying my tiles. "Okay," she says. She is chewing on her bottom lip, and obviously afraid.
"Come on," I say, and lead her back to the bathroom connected to a guest room. I show her the guest room. It's empty, basically stored with shit I've yet to unpack, but it'll do. I tell her that she can stay here, and she nods, silent.
"I'll get a bed for you later today," I say, "and you can go shopping then too." She simply nods—again—at this, though I know shopping isn't her favorite pastime.
"What are we doing in here?" She asks, when I start digging through the cabinets in the bathroom.
I hand her a rag, after I soak it and wring out the water. "Take your makeup off," I say. She swallows, and studies the tub while she does.
Her face is a mask of bruises. She doesn't look at me. I wrestle around in the cabinet again, and get to work on her arms. Most of the time, no one abuses the arms or legs because they don't want to get caught. They usually target the torso and back. However when they do go for the arms and legs, it isn't some weird form of punishment, it's torture. Obviously, that's what was going on with Tris.
I first scrub away the dried blood. She doesn't make a sound, though I can imagine having her wounds cleaned hurts. I have her lean over the tub, and pour peroxide over her skin. She whimpers and bites her lip, hard, when I wipe the disinfectant off with a wet rag. After that, I spread a mixture of creams along her arm—for bruises, scars, and cuts. I then use up a whole box of band aids, wrist to elbow. After that an ace bandage, and her left arm is done.
Her right arm is easier to handle, 'cause she knew what to expect, and I knew what to do.
As I'm tending to her wounds, she talks, a little, mostly about meaningless things, like what I did for a living—construction—and the usual friends and girlfriends and shit like that, questions that you get from a sister—not that we were related. We weren't even that close, I thought, I mean look at her bruises!
Shut up! I tell myself savagely. This is not about you!
As I am doing the second ace bandage up her arm, I spot a dark red outline on her shoulder, and tug the sleeve up. "Wait-" Tris immediately protests, tugging at my hands, but I have already seen.
Drawn out in jagged letters, staining deep into her porcelain skin, in dried blood is carved the word, "pathetic".
"Tris. . . . " I trail, blinking dazedly at the wound. She manages to stay quiet for about five minutes, biting down on her trembling bottom lip.
"I'm sorry," She blurts out, on a sob. "I told him, I told him I was sorry, he just . . . I was hungry. . . . "
"It's okay," I say, and she looks so lonely that I pull her into a soft hug. She holds on with a death grip, burying her face into my shirt. Tears stain the cotton. "I won't let him touch you ever again."
We stay like that for about five minutes. Then, she pulls back and lets me clean up the wound. I tape gauze over it, since the ace bandages won't fit around her shoulder, and I clean her face, before applying bruise cream. Then I grab her a fresh change of clothes and a towel from my room, hand them over, and return the kitchen for coffee and leftover chicken.
. . . . . .. . . . .. . . .. . . . . . .. . . .. . . . . . . . .. . . . . .. . . .. .
She sings. Loudly. I can hear the water running, but under her voice. Which is glorious. "I left you notes . . . on your bed . . . I left you notes . . . on your night stand . . . I wrote it on . . . the kitchen table, and better yet . . . 'refrigerator. . . . Gotta get out, gotta get out, gotta-gotta get out, gotta get out. Gotta get out. Since I'll never hold your hand now . . . my ghost will, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh. Since I'll never hold your hand now . . . my ghost will, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh."
It goes on, and my coffee is cold when she stops. I chug the rest of the coffee, and manage to start on another cup before she comes out with her hair wet. It's loose, dripping on her sweater. She's done up her makeup again, which I expected her to.
My eyebrows come together, but she speaks before I can ask.
"I put on more of that cream."
I smile a little. She's always correcting herself. "Okay, let's go."