You All Over Me [BxB]

Eight

Theodore's recovery progresses after a few days of much-needed bed rest. The swelling on his face has noticeably subsided, and his muscles and bruises are less inflamed. Although he still staggers when he walks, his overall stability has improved.

Unfortunately, recovery comes with a set of challenges. He's been ordering takeouts, which is less than ideal because he's used to cooking for himself. Even taking a shower has become a struggle.

Every spot the water touches stings.

Despite numerous calls and text messages from his fraternity brothers, Theodore chooses to ignore them all. The traumatic events of that fateful night continue to haunt him, causing his appetite to wither away. With every replayed image of those men kicking and spitting on him, he seethes with anger.

How could they suggest moving forward to the next stage?

And what is the next stage—permanent disability?

Death?

The more he dwells on it, the angrier he becomes at them, and at himself for ever considering joining

And the more he gets embarrassed for dismissing Jacob's advice.

He probably thinks I'm pathetic, Theodore tells himself. Or more pathetic now, since he might have already thought that before everything came crashing down.

Adding to his turmoil, his father has been calling, likely to persuade him to save face. He's tried to ignore him, too. Unfortunately, while scrolling through his newsfeed, he accidentally hits the answer button, startled by the sudden ring.

"Theodore." His Dad's voice is thick with frustration. "Why haven't you been picking up? What's going on with you?"

Theodore pulls himself upright and leans against the bed frame. "Dad. Hello." He gulps. "I've been recovering."

"How are you?"

"Better than that night."

Silence.

"That's just the first step."

"I know," Theodore answers, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger. "But I'm not moving forward."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's exactly what I said," he mutters, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I'm not joining."

"You—!" His Dad stops short, catching himself. Theodore grips his pillow, his breath hitching.

"It's just part of the process, okay? After the hazing, it's done. You won't have to do it again," he follows up in a much calmer tone, though still laced with disappointment.

Theodore lets out a dry chuckle.

"What is it, Theodore? I thought this was something you wanted."

"I thought so too."

"Are you going to let your efforts go to waste?"

He looks down at his arms, his legs. They're still healing, still covered in fading bruises.

It's true. If he backs out, every single injury, every ounce of pain, would have been for nothing.

But even so, he feels nothing but revulsion toward the whole process. He cannot imagine inflicting the same harm to another person.

"It's not for me, Dad," he whispers, pleading. Hoping he would stop. The fraternity is harassing him—he doesn't need his own father pressuring him, too.

His father takes a sharp breath on the other end of the line. "Get better."

He hangs up.

Theodore drops his phone onto the bed and curls his knees to his chest with a wince.