Blood Stained Sweaters

Dax

You shouldn't look at her, Dax. Stalker isn't really your forte. Okay, seriously man, stop. Or don't listen to the smart part of you and keep staring at her. She's bound to notice and get scared at some point throughout the day. She'll be thrilled by the time seventh period comes. She looks at me, her eyes filled with, curiosity maybe? I want to turn, but I don't. I can't. She's looking at me as if she's solving a puzzle. This piece here, that one there. I smile, but I feel it come out as more of a smirk. Shit... I chew on my lip ring without realizing it until I feel the cold metal against my tongue. I see her face turn a pinkish red shade, but our eyes don't waver from each other's. I'm not sure how long we sit like that. Just looking at each other. I'm about to look away, break the awkward tension, when I see it. She cringes. Her body rushes inwards slightly, muscles tightening. She shakes a little, and I see her eyes as they dart away, brimmed with tears. She takes a few deep breaths and stands up, seemingly composed, making her way to the teachers desk. I see the falter in her step. I pick up on her fingers tapping on her thigh nervously. I can almost hear her ragged and strained breathing. There are soft murmurs from the teacher's desk, and he hands her a slip of paper.
"Take your stuff, the bell will ring soon anyway." He says and her eyes dart up to the clock. She has ten minutes until the bell rings. I have ten minutes to wait and find out what's wrong. She grabs her stuff and walks out of the room, her footsteps making small taps on the floor. They last a few seconds after she gets out the door, then I don't hear them anymore. That's it. She stopped. Something's wrong. I look back at the teacher, but he's too engrossed in his crossword puzzle to notice. I, in one swift motion, grab my stuff and run out of the room. Some students look at me, but they don't say anything, not that I care if they do. As I step into the hall, I see Molly crying and trying to breathe. Her breaths are short and fast, and she has her eyes clenched tightly shut. She leans against one of the lockers and slides down, unaware of my presence, still crying. As she messily discards her stuff, I sit directly in front of her. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my lap, stroking her hair and making small circles down her spine with tip of my index finger. I hug her tighter, forcing her closer to my chest and nestle my face into her neck, gently blowing air on it to calm her down. Finally, after a while, she's breathing relatively well, sucking in large amounts of air at a time. She continues to cry, but she doesn't make a sound. The only sound she's made the whole time was struggling to breathe. I know my hoodie must be wet now, but I could not care less. She raises her head slowly, and when she sees my face, she widens her eyes and covers mine. I take one of my hands from around her waist and pry her pointer and middle finger apart. I smile at her. Then she starts to close them again.
"Don't." I say quietly, minding my tone. I grab her wrist gently, thinking of the incident with Kyle, and take it away from my face, then take her hand in mine, and I see a faint rosy color run through her cheeks.
"Are you going to make me tell you why...that happened?" She asks shakily.
"Only if you want to." I smile warmly. I mean it too. I'm not going to force her into telling me.
"One day, Dax, one day I will." I look into her bright blue eyes and know she's telling the truth. I help her pick up her binder and other stuff, and I pick up mine. Then we go off to our lockers.
After school for the next three weeks, I head straight home after school because Molly has softball practice. I miss driving her home, but I get to see her every morning, so it's a lot better. Today I got to see her before I left, so I have a silly grin on my face as I walk through the door. It's the first time I've been happy in a while. That is, until I hear his voice.
"Dax, long time no see. We have some catching up to do." My father strides up to the front door. He grabs me by the shirt and roughly throws me to the ground. "Been avoiding me, ain't you, boy?" He spits on me and kicks me in the stomach repeatedly. I'm bleeding from the impact of being thrown. A brutal kick to my face gives him a satisfying crack from my nose, which starts bleeding, and I feel dizzy. I'm starting to lose consciousness. I. Can't. Pass. Out. I weakly try to lift myself off of the ground, but my attempts earn me a kick in the side. He grabs me and jerks me up by my shirt collar. "That ought to teach you, you can't run from me. You can't hide from me. And you most certainly cannot avoid me." He throws me back down and walks out of the room, grabbing the half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting on a small table. I lay there for a few minutes, trying to gain the strength to get up. Images flash through my head of all the other times this has happened. At first, I wondered where my mom was. Why didn't she help me? Then, as it kept happening, I realized that she just didn't care. She sat, watched it happen, and turned away. He'd break my arms and nose, crack my ribs, and leave bruises from head to toe. Sometimes she'd look a little sad, and then she would just move on. Make dinner, suck up to him, get him whatever he wanted, and then ignore me. The only time she acknowledges me is when he's still at the bar. Once I've rested as much as I dare, I get up. My movements are robotic and uncoordinated, much like that of my drunken father. The only time his actions aren't wobbly is when he's beating me. I limp my way to the stairs, clutching my burning side. I grab the railings on both sides and take one step up, almost screaming in pain. I take the next step, and a few tears leak out of my eye. The next few steps result in whimpers, and the last four have me sobbing. I collapse at the top, unable to walk anymore. Why? Why today? It was so good. I should've stayed to watch softball practice like she offered. I grab the post at the top of the staircase and pull myself up. I slowly stumble down the hall and into the bathroom. I turn the hot water on and look in the mirror above the sink. Blood pours down my face, and my nose is turned in a very horrific direction. I take a deep breath in, grab it between my palms, and quickly jerk my hands to the right so my bones will realign correctly, as I've done so many times before. I grab a black wash rag and wet it before pressing it against my face, removing some blood. When I've gotten as much off as possible, I wring out the rag and repeat the process. When my face is clean and I have enough toilet paper shoved in my nose to stop the bleeding, I tend to the wound on the side of my head. The area surrounding it is soaked in blood and the cut itself is letting the blood trickle out quickly. I sigh and bandage it up. Wonderful. I'll have a bunch of bruises tomorrow. Woo hoo, bad boy Dax reputation here I come. What did I ever do? With ragged breaths, I hobble to my room and lay down on my bed, groaning in pain as I move my muscles and joints. With no effort, I fall asleep.
"Dax, dinner!" I hear my mom's voice. I sit up, but remember my wounds as I gasp in pain. I stand on wobbly legs and slowly walk towards the stairs. As I pass the mirror on my door, I see the purple and green bruises forming on my face. I slowly and painfully reach the bottom of the stairs and as I turn around, Mom is staring at me with one hand over her mouth and tears welled in her eyes.
"Not again, please tell me it wasn't..."
"Who else would it be, mom?" My voice is dry and crackles.
"You won't...report him, will you?" She asks, a horrified look on her face. Of course, that's all she's worried about.
"When have I ever? I have to keep your precious husband around, right? Because we love him so dearly, and he loves both of us just as much." I hiss, not caring if it hurts her. She looks shocked.
"Dax, I...you know..."
"Don't. I've suddenly lost my appetite." She moves forward, but stops as a voice calls from the kitchen.
"Marilyn, I need more beer!" He calls and she retreats to the kitchen, not giving me a second glance.
"Yes, dear." She coos. I go back up the stairs, tears pouring down my face. My mom, my own mother, chose her abusive husband over her own son. It's been so long, I nearly forgot. She's always done this. As I get to the door of my room, I look in the mirror. I don't see me. I see the worthless kid I am. I see the scars left from the beatings in the past, hidden from years of healing. I see the scars on my heart, the worst of them all, cutting through everything. And I realize, I do see me. This is me. I'm the worthless kid that would be traded for a shot of liquor. I'm the one who gets all of HIS wrath, so that Mom won't feel it. I'm the one who doesn't turn HIM in, for the sake of my mothers happiness. I'm the one who's alone in the world. I grab the bottom of my shirt and sweatshirt, whimpering in pain as I remove them. I go to the box on my bedside table, crying. As I open it, I see my old friend, just as cold and shiny as last time. I take it out, staring at the dull silver color of the blade. I would hide it better, but they don't come in my room anyway, unless HE wants to. Thinking about him brings out more sobs, causing pain as I clench the muscles in my stomach. I need this, I need to escape. I bring the blade to my wrist and slash across, making a deep cut. I repeatedly do it down my arm, all the way to my elbow. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty...
I continue opening up the skin, blood dripping onto the hardwood flooring. I need to escape. Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four...
I welcome the burn that comes with the blood leaving my body. I enjoy the feeling of it cooling as it runs down my arm. There's a small puddle on the floor now. Forty-nine..fifty. I place the blade on the side table, watching my blood flow for a few moments. I go slowly to the bathroom down the hall, dripping blood along the way, and clean up, sucking air in through my teeth as the water runs through them all. I wrap my arm in an ace bandage and go back to my room with a towel, leaving the blood in the hall for my mother to find. She'll think it was from the beating, anyway. I must look a mess, shirtless, bruised, ace bandage on my arm, blood soaked bandage on my head, wobbling as I walk.
"What happened, Dax?" They'll ask tomorrow.
"Oh you know, just a skateboarding accident." Yep, that's my story. Last time, I think it was 'I fell down the stairs. Clumsy me.' How does no one see? It's nine. I'm about to go to sleep when I hear a ding from my computer. I get up to go check it and hear another ding.
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