Before The Sunrise

tenderness

Tears are still leaking into my pillow when the first shades of gray start coloring the sky. It's been months since I missed a sunrise, but I can't summon the energy to move, let alone exercise, so I close my eyes.

I guess I fall asleep for a bit because my 7 a.m. alarm wakes me up. As soon as I open my eyes, I'm greeted with a raging headache and searing pain in my ribs. I finally take the opportunity to check out the bruising, and it's this dark red blotch on my side as big as my palm.

I'm tempted to go back to sleep and bail on school altogether, but as soon as I roll over to close my eyes again, my mind starts racing in directions I don't want it going in.

It's not like I haven't gone to school feeling like shit before. I do it every day.

Not that it's easy. Just getting out of bed hurts so badly that I bite my tongue and taste blood. After about three minutes in the shower, in which I can't even lift my arms up to put shampoo in my hair, I have to get out and lay down on the cold tile for way too long to stop the world from spinning at the exertion of being vertical. I don't even bother trying to cover up the ugly bruise on my cheek, halfheartedly trying to think up excuses for why I look like I got punched in the face and spent the entire night crying afterwards.

Everything just feels off. It's like losing Rafa has thrown off my equilibrium.

I'm digging through my drawers for clothes when a random wave of panic hits. I kneel on the floor, gasping for air through my agony, until I make three short, even cuts in my leg. I feel better after that, so I make a few in my arm, too. Who's going to stop me?

I've already accepted that I'll be late to school when I walk downstairs at 7:30 and see Dad in the kitchen.

He sees me and walks toward me, and I flinch backwards instinctively.

"Can we not do this today?" I say, my voice swollen and hoarse. "I'm already late, and I feel like shit right now, so if you could just not make it any worse for once, I would really appreciate it."

Dad comes closer, and if I had any doubts about feeling sort of off, they all are dismissed when I see my dad's hand coming way too late to dodge.

I'm bracing for impact, but it never comes. Instead, his hand rests on my cheek, thumb brushing across the bruise that he put there.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Not as bad as this one," I say, lifting up my shirt so he can see the mass of blood red bruising on my torso.

He reaches out to touch it, and I instinctively slap his hand away.

Dad flinches, drawing his hand back. "I'm sorry," he says, almost sounding sincere.

I don't really know what to say. This is the closest I've gotten to a genuine apology from him since...

Don't think about August.

Instead of responding, forgiving, like I feel obligated to, I meet his eyes, fleetingly wondering if they've always looked this much like mine. When we make eye contact, I search his gaze, wondering if he'll see the pain written all over my face.

Slowly, Dad reaches his hand back up to my face. I have to hold back every possible human instinct in my body, but I let him touch me without complaint. He unexpectedly presses the back of his hand to my forehead, his palm to my cheek.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks. "I think you have a fever."

No, I'm not feeling okay. My ribs hurt, everything hurts. There's this chill in my blood that I can't shake. Just standing here makes me want to pass out. A fever feels like the least of my concerns.