Subdue-X

Your False Support

My eyes were glazed over, staring back at me through the mirror. My skin shimmered from the beading sweat, and I was slouched over in a white sports bra, trying to cool off. The cold water running over my hands offered little comfort, but I didn't stop. My elbows rested on the counter as I studied the red marks around my neck, already beginning to bruise. The pulse in my head pounded in time with my heart as I smeared concealer over the bruises, each stroke feeling like a bandage on a wound that wouldn't heal.

The sound of his voice made me drop the bottle into the sink. "I didn't know you were hurt," he said, trying to sound sincere. But just hearing him hurt more than the bruises ever could.

"It was dark," I replied, my expression taut. I was exhausted, too tired to fight. I handed him excuses, hoping he'd take them and go.

"I should've looked closer," he admitted, his voice soft but heavy with regret.

"You should've done a lot," I said, bowing my head back over the sink. The emotions swirling inside me were a painful reminder of how concussed I felt. His feet shuffled slightly behind me, indecision radiating from him. He couldn't decide whether to stay or leave.

"It's alright now though, isn't it?" My voice was dead, as if all the life had been drained from it. "The package was delivered." I tried to stand up taller, but my back wouldn't quit stooping.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the air through his teeth as he crossed his arms. He seemed lost, failing over and over again to say or do anything that might ease the tension between us. It was crushing to watch him so uncomfortable, knowing it was because of me-because of what he had done.

"Because that's what you wanted," I continued, wheezing through the tightness in my throat, carefully avoiding the words that would make my voice crack.

Finally, he left, retreating hastily. I scoffed numbly, staring at the spot where he had stood. I wanted to regret saving his life, seeing how agonizing it was to be with him but not to have him. But I couldn't regret it. I'd never forgive myself if I did, and I'd be lost without him.

I shrugged on a navy blue long-sleeve cotton shirt and slipped on my shoes. When I stepped into the hallway, I saw Chris and the others waiting for the elevator. They were chatting quietly, as if nothing had happened. I took the stairwell, not wanting to join their conversation but knowing I had to. When I met up with them outside, Chris reached for my hand. I tried to twist out of his grip, but he squeezed harder, forcing me to stay close as he waved to the man with the bag.

We lowered ourselves into the rented car, and I leaned against the window, closing my eyes. Chris glanced over at the bandage on my temple. "How did your face-"

"I hit a wall," I cut him off, my voice dull. I could predict his silent nod, the way he would accept my words without questioning them.

Just as I was about to slip into sleep, his voice shattered the silence. "I don't do apologies."

I lifted my head, dazed. It felt like I was hungover, everything blurry and distant. "What?"

"But I am sorry," he said, his voice so quiet I almost didn't hear him. But the words hit me harder than any bullet could.

Chris wasn't good at apologizing, and I was usually good at forgiving. But this-this was different. This was the hardest thing I'd ever faced. I pressed a hand to the side of my head, trying to stay upright.

"Do you mean it, or are we going to return to where we were?" I asked, my voice steady, though my heart was anything but.

He furrowed his brow, confused. "Where were we?"

I gave him a look that was all ice. "You couldn't have just tapped on the gas?" My voice broke as the memories flooded back-the van, the headlights reflecting in the mirror, the bullets. My pinky started to tremble uncontrollably.