Mess You Made

58.

Miguel.

The thought of even having her near Harlem makes me sick. She's not going near that house. Near any of it. My bed's her bed, my home her home, I don't give a fuck.

It's quiet when I park up, and I look over to her in the drivers seat. She's been sluggish ever since the hospital and I don't know if it's because of the IV or if she's just too tired, flitting between conscious and unconscious. Asleep again.

A physical forensic exam was offered but Malibu hadn't wanted it— at all, and so they gave us these papers about STI testing that made us both feel sick to the stomach and they're in the backseat of my car and I never want to look at them again.

Once the hospital discharged her, I folded her up into my arms and took her to my car. There was a certain amount of time she had to stay monitored after being sedated but once the hospital discharged her, I folded her up into my arms. Took her to my car.

My brothers waited. They stayed the whole night. Cristian's driving back to the apartment with Luca; his Camaro has a spare baby seat in the back now ever since Elijah was born if he needs to drive them around, so it works for Marci.

I do the same again— gather her into my arms when I round to her side and walk us like that into the complex and up the elevator to my floor. Press my face into her hair whenever she starts to stir so she knows she isn't alone, and when I get to the apartment, the rest of them haven't arrived yet. I'm quiet as I walk us through the dark and towards my room, about to gently lay her on my bed.

She clings, her arms sliding around my shoulders. Shadows dance over her face in the dark but I can still make out every feature anyways. I memorised them all long ago. She shakes her head tiredly, "I want to shower."

"It's late." I kiss her temple, "And you're sleepy, maybe we just—"

"Please." She breathes into my neck, and I can't say no.

I nod and lift her back up into my arms in the quiet dark. Flick on the bathroom switch and run a bath instead. She won't be able to hold herself up for a shower. I can help her better if she's sat in a bath instead.

Once she's set on her feet, she keeps most of her body weight leant against mine. She's in another shirt of mine, a spare one I had in the backseat that covers enough and I try not to see the one that was torn at her shoulders. Try to cast it out of my mind but I don't know that it'll ever be.

Her cheek remains plastered to my chest, and I ask whether I can undress her. She nods tiredly and I lift the shirt. She raises her arms, lets me take it off her— and then she presses a hand over my eyes.

I tense at the abruptness of it, but let her do it anyways. Whisper to her, "We okay, baby?"

"I don't want you to see."

I nod, swallow the knot in my throat but it does nothing, the knot's suddenly so suffocating.

Her hand loosens a bit, her voice softens, "The blood. I want you to see me, but I don't want you to see the blood."

I melt against her hand, "Whatever you want—" And she drops her hand but I keep my eyes shut. Before she slips into the bath, I take a hold of her hand and make sure she knows, "Nothing— nothing could make me change how I see you. Ever. You need to know that."