World War Four

Chapter Nine: Crazy

I awoke to a buzzing pain in my hand and glanced down. Dry blood coated my knuckles, the skin under it starting to turn bluish purple. Now that I wasn't drunk on my overwhelming memories of the facilities, I realized that punching a wall may not have been one of my smartest ideas. I held my hand limp on the bed as I rolled over, staring at the comb textured ceiling. Eventually I decided to get up, glancing quickly at the digital clock next to the bed.

7:04 pm.

I groaned, my throbbing knuckles laying face down on the bed. I stood up and opened the door, welcoming the flickering light of the television with squinted eyes. Xavier sat with a bored expression, biting on his bottom lip. The changing images on the TV cast moments of brightness on his face, and seconds of shadow over his sharp features. His brown hair was curlier than usual and fell all over his face, evidence of his recent shower. His feet were bare and drawstring sweats were the only items covering his body. Glancing quickly at his stomach, I saw the faint outline of a six pack beginning to form.

Bitterly, I remembered all those times I was forced to look, forced to feel their skin. Nausea began to sting the back of my throat and I pressed my bruised hand against the cool wall next to me. I squeezed my eyes tightly and swallowed once against the building acidic bile. I opened them again only after I felt that the nausea had retreated, and saw that Xavier was looking at me funny, like I was clown- that was dressed up as a hotdog.

"What?" My voice cracked under the weight of my disgust towards men.

Xavier opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it and began again. "What's wrong with your hand?" He nodded his head towards my hand, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Nothing." I ripped my palm away from the wall and clenched my fingers into a tight fist. My cracked knuckles opened again, and small drops of blood began to trickle down the spaces between my closed fingers.

Xavier sighed and stood up from his spot on the couch. "We must have different definitions for 'nothing.' Come here, let me see." Xavier took hold of my hand and pressed on my knuckles. I winced and yanked my hand back, glaring at Xavier. He grabbed my hand again without warning and looked at it. "What did you do, punch a wall?" He looked over my hand, and ran a finger over the broken skin.

"Just a little..."

Xavier sighed. "You're a lot of work, you know that?"

"Yeah, sort of," I croaked as Xavier pulled me to a stool set in front of the half-wall that divided the living room from the kitchen. I sat looking at the tattoo that was engraved into my skin back in Maine. I ran a nail over the ripped edges of the beautiful petals, traced the edges of the rotten thorns. My finger followed the trail of the stem, which wrapped halfway up around my forearm. It's solid green color spoke of secure warmth, long lasting strength.

When I looked back up I saw that Xavier was looking at my arm also, but his face had an unreadable expression. I glanced down at his hands and saw that they were digging through a first aid kit. He first brought out rubbing alcohol and with a thick ball of cotton, wiped off the crusted blood from my hand and scraped knuckles. The alcohol stung, and I bit the inside of my lip to keep from crying out in pain. He tossed the red cotton aside and brought out a brown bottle that closely resembled the bottle of rubbing alcohol, but instead was labeled "Hydrogen Peroxide Topical Solution." Xavier lightly soaked another ball of cotton with the liquid and ran it over my knuckles, pressing it down just a bit.

I gasped at the pain of his pressure on my bruised knuckles and yanked my hand away. Xavier just simply pulled it back and finished off the solution, and waited or it to dry. He then wrapped some gauze around my hand, expertly maneuvering it around my thumb and added a secure layer around my wrist and palm.