Sandpaper

nine

Liam's known Charlie for a long time, long enough to know how she used to be, all loud laughs and stolen glances, wild nights and just plain happy. The way she was around him. The boy with the blonde hair and the broken smile whose eyes always seemed to whisper I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry when looking at Liam's sister, and then screamed I love you, I love you, I love you whenever he looked at Charlie. Long enough to remember the way Charlie screamed back letting her words trap themselves in the empty bottles of alcohol.

And her therapist isn't really sure which part makes it harder for him to breathe. The way she's looking at him all sinful smiles and dark eyelashes, or the way the bruises are pounded into her skin, Batman shirt hanging off her shoulder to reveal protruding collarbones. She's got that same dark colored nail polish on that she always chips at and she's got this one loose piece of hair hanging in her face that Liam really wants to tuck behind her ears because fuck he hasn't had a good night's sleep since Niall called him Saturday night in a panic.

And she's just staring at him impassively, fingers playing with a frayed patch of Niall's jeans, and the boy who smells like lemons has a heart that's bruising his ribs from pounding so damn hard. Because he thinks she's beautiful and, Liam can't breathe but, Charlie doesn't fucking care because, the pain vibrating through the strings of her tangled veins is deafening. Her bones ache, and it hurts to breathe and she loves it.

It's like that feeling you get when running in the cold, when your muscles ache, and your lungs feel like they're on fire and no matter how many times you inhale you can't get enough air. And every pump of your arms pushes your body one step closer to freedom. That was what it felt like for her. That was what she craved. And it didn't matter how many bruised ribs she woke up with or swollen lips or cracked knuckles. At the end of the night, all that mattered to her was that she didn't feel so empty anymore, that she got to feel the adrenaline rush every time her fists swung blindly, that she felt the fear of death lingering when some drunken douchebag kicked her in the side while she was curled up on the ground shouting at him to kick her harder.

And Liam wants to say something, but Charlie can't fucking hear anything besides the pain, beating against her veins until it paints her black and blue and purple. His mouth is parted, but in walks Emily all wide eyed and mouth falling open when she sees Charlie. The seven year old makes a point of sitting in the chair furthest away from the beat up girl, knees pulled tight to her chest protectively. And it's rather unfortunate, she thinks, that the beat up girl is wearing a Batman shirt because, like, Batman is definitely Emily's favorite superhero. But the girl who yells a lot and makes Dr. Payne pull his hair kind of scares Emily, like a lot, so it's rather unfortunate that she just happens to like Batman too.

Everyone is walking on broken eggshells and all it takes is a hiss slipping past Charlie's mouth and an "Are you alright?" from Zayn.

She spits out an "'M fine," but he's really not, and Zayn looks uncomfortably at the people watching their encounter, opens his mouth, closes it and grabs at the back of his neck. Liam inhales sharply and Emily covers her ears, bracing herself and the little old man named George is extremely confused because he forgot to put in his hearing aids this morning.

"Y'know you don't have to put up a front like that. Not here." His voice is quiet and Charlie almost wants to lean in, get lost in the comfort, drown in it, but there's fire in her eyes and anger in her belly, so she presses her side letting the pain consume her.

She's shaking her head before the words leave her mouth, and Zayn can see her backing herself into a corner. "Don't act like you fucking know me Zayn."

He doesn't like it. Doesn't like the way she spits his name out in disgust, the way she's staring at him, shadowed eyes searing into his skin. Doesn't like the way everyone is gaping at them, especially Niall, the way she's sitting so close to him with her head nestled into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Doesn't like that he can't help but gravitate towards her, fingers aching to brush over her scraped skin, tongue too tangled to tell her that he does know her. Knows her more than he knows himself.