As The World Falls Down

By your side

Robbe had wordlessly taken his arm and brought him to the kitchen, sat him down on the chair. He went to find a bag of ice, a couple of clean towels, some tylenol, bandaids, ran tap water into a bowl. Sander was sitting quietly, watching him. Milan was standing by the counter, looking worried. He brought everything to the table and dragged a chair opposite him. Then he dipped one towel in the water, tilted Sander's chin and started to clean the bit of blood at the tore skin on one side of his mouth and the gash on his temple. Sander flinched at the contact. The gash was not very deep, he placed a bandage on it. When he had finished, he wrapped the ice with the other towel and gave it to him. Sander took it and pressed it on his bruise.

Robbe stared at him, and tried to speak calmly, "Was it those guys from your old school again? Or was it another debt?"

"No, it wasn't." Sander glanced at Milan.

Milan took the hint, he said, "Ehm, I'll leave you guys to talk." He walked out of the kitchen; they heard the sound of door closed.

Robbe moved closer and lifted his shirt before Sander could stop him. There was a sharp intake, which he realised was him. One side of Sander's body, down his ribs was an island of bluish-crimson.

"It's not broken, I'll be fine." Sander said in a soothing way.

That he seemed to care more about his distress made him wanted to cry. "Who did this to you?"

Sander took a breath, grimaced from the pain. He glanced away and spoke quietly, "It's my dad."

Robbe stared in speechless horror. He had thought how terrible it was to have a father who didn't seem to love you, who saw you as handicapped, but to also have him being abusive was beyond horrible. He thought back to the cool way Sander had taken the beating from those guys of his old school, as though he was used to it. How long has this been going on? What kind of life he has in his fucking home?

"Just keep the ice on." Robbe said and went to the fridge for another bag.

He dragged his chair closer, lifted his shirt again, and placed the bag on the bruise as gently as he could; Sander hissed softly. Robbe glanced at his hands, there was no graze or any kind of cut.

He looked up at him, "You didn't fight back, did you?"

Sander gave him a wistful smile, half-covered by the bag on his mouth, "Violence breeds violence. There is no end. I, of all people know that." He moved the bag from his bruise, saying softly, "Almost half of my life is filled with violence. I don't want it anymore."

He raised the bag back to the bruise. "Beside, he's my father. I am not going to beat him. I stir away, just get out from the house."

Robbe thought about this, taking the information in. They didn't say anything for a while, keeping the ice on the bruises, Robbe bent his head to hide his expression. He breathed in and out inconspicuously, calming himself. He had to be calm or Sander would clam shut again.

After some time, he looked up and asked, "How often is this? Where is your mom? Does he also—?"

Sander glanced away. "It just me and my dad."

"It's bad Sander.." He resumed uncertainly, "Shouldn't you report him?"

Sander looked back at him and said in a noncompromising tone, "He's my father."

Robbe was silent. He didn't know what he would do in the same position.

"It's not usually like this. Sometime maybe a black eye, some bruises, like that time I got, the one you asked me about. Mostly it's not my face. This time just a bit far, it's my fault, bad timing. He was in a bad mood, something with his job, and I brought up college, he just lost it. I blocked some blows and got out when I could."