✔︎ | Part of Me (Trilogy)

35 | what did you do?

35 | what did you do?

"I shouldn't have come here."

My mind wanders too much when I try to read. I try to go to sleep at 10:30 but mind treks further and further, and thoughts creep into my head, ideas, images of Tanner and I, and I see him, I see him making me do things I don't want to and it scares me so much I have to crawl out of bed and wander downstairs to watch TV.

It helps a little, but the only thing I can handle is Family Guy. I'm barely awake when a shrilling ring sends my body into shock and I hop to my feet. It takes me a few rings to realize it's the doorbell.

"Who the fuck...?" I mutter to myself, tugging on my sweater and wandering to the door.

I open it hesitantly, thinking it's probably Tanner again, unable to stay away from me, or Axel, here to talk to Will because I was too self-conscious to give Will his number. I tug the door forward, the night air swarming through the opening, and jump back in horror. "Axel?" My breath hitches in my throat, and my hand finds it's way over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

Tears are falling from his black eyes. He's sobbing. His face is beaten, worse than I've ever seen anyone's face beaten — even worse than Uncle Jack's. His shirt is torn too, the dark spots stained with blood almost blending in with the grey colour of it. Blood drips from his nose over his lips and down his chin, the other wounds on his forehead dark and wet, tears slipping down his cheeks, and he brushes them away with his torn up fists.

"Will?" He breathes. "Will said he'd be home!"

My heart breaks. "No, he," I gasp, "I, he's not home till tomorrow. They stayed another day. He lost his phone."

"Fuck!" He hollers into his hands.

I reach out to take him by the shoulders. "Do you want me to drive you to the ER?"

He shakes his head violently. "God no," he whispers.

"Then come inside," I beg, trying to move his shivering body, trying to comfort him somehow, but he backs away, out of my grip. I don't know what to do. I need Will. I need my parents.

"I can't," he turns to trample down the steps, "I can't do this to you."

I grab his sore hand and he groans in pain, but God knows what else he'll get himself into if I don't make him come inside. He doesn't fight me either, just walks lazily behind me into the house, hunched over in agony. I slam the door quickly, sitting him down at the bench in the hallway, and take off his shoes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have come here."

I shake my head, picking up his hand and kissing his palm. "Don't apologize," I whisper, "I'm here for you. I mean, I kind of owe you."

He chuckles between his sobs when he leans back and closes his eyes, squeezing them shut so tightly like it'll make him fall asleep and escape his reality. I have to keep myself from crying too. Watching him like this is painful. It hurts so much. But I can't cave in right now. He's weak, and I don't want to imagine what might happen to him if I don't help him.

"Come on," I whisper, sliding my arm around his waist, lifting his around my shoulders to hoist him up. He growls low in his throat when he stands, and I quickly ask, "can you walk up the stairs? My parents have a First Aid Kit in their washroom. You're gonna need a lot of bandages."

"I can walk," he whispers, but when we reach the stairs, he gazes at them like they're an obstacle course.

I bring him to our back washroom instead and have him sit on the toilet seat. "Wait right here," I hold his shoulders, thinking he might stand up and walk back out. I sprint up the stairs and grab a couple washcloths and the First Aid Kit, and a pair of pyjamas I find in Will's drawers, a bag of weed hiding underneath them. Geez, Will.

Axel hasn't moved. He sits there in a daze, gazing straight ahead, drool and blood dripping from his mouth. I wet a cloth and touch it against his face, wiping away the blood. He barely breathes; his shoulders are so tense. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing," I murmur softly, dousing cotton balls in peroxide and dabbing them against his cuts. "My uncle's a boxer," I continue, thinking he might be more comfortable when I'm not so silent; maybe he thinks I'm judging him. "He got really fucked up during a street fight and I helped my dad bandage him up. Dad wasn't too keen on me being there," I chuckle and add, "Uncle Jack is Mom's brother. But he insisted because he knows I want to be a nurse. He's also certain I'm going to date a boxer. Dad doesn't like that either."

Axel sighs, but doesn't say anything. He's too tired to speak.

"Does anything feel broken?" I ask. "Anything feel punctured?"

He shakes his head.

I sigh. "You're gonna need stitches."

Axel groans. "I don't want them."

I smooth over his hair and hand him a washcloth. "Bite down on this." He whines, but he takes it nevertheless, and I try not to psych myself out when I thread the needle and push it through his skin. He bellows, his agony muffled by the washcloth. I guess I could have found some sort of painkillers beforehand, but the sooner I get this done, the better. I'm starting to feel nauseous. The smell of blood, mixed with smoke and alcohol, is sickening.

"Hey, all done," I whisper, "that was the only one."

He lets the cloth fall from his mouth and I take a deep breath before telling him, "okay. Lift up your arms."

He glances at me, confused. I clutch the hem of his shirt and nod, pulling it over his head and throwing it onto the bathroom floor. "Damn," he mumbles, the corner of lip twitching into a smirk, "if you wanted to get me out of my clothes, you could have just told me."

I roll my eyes. "Shut up," I mutter, unable to hide a chuckle, and warm the washcloth, wiping it over his ears, down the back of his neck, my hand gently holding his arm. He tenses again. I wipe over his shoulders, cleaning away most of the blood, running my fingers over his tattoo I remember checking out in the guys change room like a month ago. "Nice tatt," I mutter, trying too hard to be cool. It's of a lion; one of my favourite animals. They symbolize protectiveness, courage and strength, and I understand what that means to him. "Did it hurt?"

He chuckles. "You're asking me about pain right now?"

I bite my lip and disinfect his knuckles, bandaging them like my dad taught me, covering them in a healing salve to stop the scarring.

"Thank you," he whispers when I pull a cozy pyjama shirt over his head, helping his arms through the holes. "I don't deserve this."

I fold my arms around the back of his neck and let his face fall into my stomach. "You deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for, Axel. I wish you could see that. You're not a bad person. You take care of your mom. And your little sister." And you're actually nice and I like you even though you pretend to be a fucking asshole. "Are Jem and your mom okay?"

"They're gonna be fine," he whispers into my sweater. "He's never going to hurt them again."

Terror pulses through my veins.

Oh Axel, what did you do?