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Late, late Saturday night, early, early Sunday morning, you were sat comfortably on your bed, soft jazz coming from your record player, and nose deep in a book. Your tranquility was interrupted by the loud slam of your back door, and soon after, your bedroom door was flung open and slammed shut. Dallas, out of breath, leaned against the closed door with his head back, letting out a big sigh.
He stayed like that for a minute. You got a good look at him; his hair was soaked with sweat, his forehead dripping blood from one side, knuckles quickly bruising and his hands were shaking. You closed your book gently and placed it on your nightstand, followed by your reading glasses, waiting for Dallas to calm himself.
You sat crisscross on your bed, allowing Dallas plenty of room next to you. He didn't move from the door.
"You alright?"
He nodded with his eyes closed, then pushed himself from the door and shut your window, pulling the curtain shut. Still, he would not sit next to you. He couldn't seem to get himself together.
"Tim and me," he swallowed, pacing slowly, "we were foolin' around earlier. Picked a fight with this guy in an alley downtown. You know how it is down there," he looked at you for a second and went back to pacing, "it was one of them Brumly boys, he had the bandana. I was talkin' real nasty to him, Tim too. We ganged up on him and this other guy hopped a fence behind us. He had this thick wine bottle. Them Brumly boys are crazy," he went on slowly and swore at the gang, "he threatened Tim and I stopped poundin' on the kid and started talkin' to the guy, and he chucked the thing at me. Hit me square in the head and knocked me out a good minute." He swore more at the situation. His words were calm and unplanned.
Dallas stopped and put a hand on his head, touching the wound and wiping the blood on his jacket. You knew it hurt him real bad.
"I wake up," he continues pacing, talking with his hands, "and Tim was gettin' the guy good for almost killing me. I get up and start poundin' on 'em some more. We's all yellin' and screamin' and the guy grabs the kid and starts running. I didn't know why 'till I saw the lights. Tim grabs me 'cause I'm out of it, couldn't even hear the sirens, he drags me out and we book it. My head's on fire and I couldn't see straight, just kept runnin' and we was at the park and I lost Tim. Bastards probably followed Tim."
He stops rambling, stops pacing, and his hands stop shaking. You pat the empty spot next to you, again, for Dallas to take a seat. He finally does, keeping his dirty boots on the ground and dropping his jacket to the floor with a thud.
"Quite the adventure," you said, turning to face him. He stared down at his bloodied hands. "Tylenol, Smirnoff, or a cigarette?"
"Give me everything."
You tossed Dallas a pack of Kools from your dresser, then took your parents' vodka from the kitchen and the Tylenol from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. You brought them back to Dallas in the bedroom where he was lighting a cigarette. You traded him the Tylenol and vodka for the cigarette; he popped the pills into his mouth and took a swig. Taking a hit, you watched his failure to react to the distasteful drink. The jazz record had finally finished, stopping the music suddenly.
"How's your head?" You sat back down next to him and returned the cigarette. Blood continued to slowly make its way down his forehead, dripping onto his dirtied white tank. His face held a blank stare, straight ahead, unmoving.
"Hurts like a bitch," he chuckled.
"I bet the other guys're smarting all over," you reassured him, taking your book from the nightstand to continue your reading. He leaned back onto the bed, closing his eyes. "Dal," he handed you the cigarette, "you're getting blood on my sheets." He sat up slowly and looked at the spot where his head lay.
"Shit," he said under his breath. "I'll get a rag."
"No, I got it," you placed your book down again, put the cigarette in the ashtray, and went to get a rag from the bathroom. You soaked it in cold water and brought it back to the bedroom. Dallas watched as you came toward him, as you gently moved his damp hair from his face and cleaned his wound.
"The bed," he began, but you ignored and continued to care for him.
He winced and his hands flew to your hips, something to grab hold of. A smirk grew on your lips, and his. "I think you ought to go to a hospital and get this looked at," you insisted, "for your safety." He didn't comment, allowing you to finish cleaning his head, along with his knuckles, until the rag was completely red. "I'll worry about the bed later," you thought aloud, tossing the rag in the bathroom sink.
"Don't say nothin' to Tim about me bein' here," Dallas said, laying back down.
"Only if you promise no more fights for the rest of the week."
"I can't help it if I-"
"No more fights for the rest of the week. You need to fix that head of yours."
"Ain't nothin' wrong with my head."
"You're still bleeding all over my sheets." Dallas silenced, knowing you had won that one.
