You Can't Hurt Me

Well butter me up and serve me on a fishstick

It was only 3:00 and there was nothing Race wanted more than to sit down and close his eyes. After he had arrived the nurse forced him to sit on a wooden bench, while she cleaned off the dried blood, and picked out every damn splinter no matter how far down Race had pushed it in his banging. Then she poured rubbing alcohol over it, and sent him off. There were tons of little indents covering all over his hands, worst of all though his hands ached from the pain. They were bruised, with cuts and splinter marks everywhere. It was agitating to say the least, especially when he signed all the paperwork they gave him.

The chairs were neon red plastic, with thin peeling blue cushions that may be uglier than the plastic color. The only thing worse than the general appearance was how much they made Race's butt hurt. He wiggled, pulled another chair over, sat criss cross, and at one put his legs over the side, but it remained a major inconvenience.

At this point he was seriously considering just sitting on the floor, however before he could test out his plan, Jack walked over looking nearly as tired.

"Hey Race, you're gonna come home with me, alright?" Jack croaked, it was raspy and not Jack at all.

"What happened to your voice?" Race asked, getting up with Jack to walk aside with him. Their pace matched, but while Jack took long slow strides, Race took a faster walk with less legs.

"Lost it yelling." Oh.

The yelling.

Race opted out to speak on that, instead counting the tiles, the faint outline of the marble connecting under his feet, it really was a nice tile. Maybe the reason the chairs were so ugly is because the marble was so expensive. Honestly Race probably would have paid someone to take those chairs off his hands, so maybe they needed the extra money.

The walk out of the station was quiet, the uncomfortable kind of quiet that itches under your skin, and leaves you thinking about conversation starters you know you aren't going to loose because no one wants to be the one who breaks it.

Though it seemed Jack didn't have the same thoughts about the quiet, (maybe it was a Race thing?) because he pointed to Race's hand.

"You okay? Looked pretty bloody."

How do you respond to that? He briefly considered telling Jack it wasn't his blood, which as funny as it would be, was kind of cruel so instead he just shrugged.

The silence Jack had broken filled up the walk again. Though it wasn't all silent, if Race looked up he was sure he could see people talking to each other, he heard them nonetheless. Fragments of conversations, people in another world, living a whole life other than him. Sometimes Race wondered if other people saw him, if he just was another nameless face to brush over.

A car pulled up and Race briefly stopped his floor gazing to see Davey run out and hug him.

Race didn't hug back, though he was normally a hugger. He wasn't angry, or anything, he was just sorta tired.

"I was so worried." He amended, squeezing tighter.

Then he let go, and Race realized he really wish he hugged back.

They got into the car, Davey never really allowing the silence to fill back up, Race liked the silence, he didn't get out much and the house was never truly silent and Race sorta hoped for it back.

Thankfully the car ride really wasn't that long, and he could easily go back to his building.

Jack held the door open for him, and they walked in together, Race was immediately comforted by the nasty smell of mold and beer, it wasn't an enjoyable smell, but it was more familiar than the clean station smell, but not a real clean... more of an artificial clean that gave Race a slight headache, almost as if they were faking it.