Getting over Gabe

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R     13

A few hours later, the rabbit safely back in its owner’s hutch, I went back up to my room. It was around ten thirty, and I was just getting ready for bead, in my pajamas, when I heard an almighty thud, and a small crack in the wall appeared, some plaster crumbling onto the duvet.

‘Cam!’ I screamed. ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’

There was no answer. I sighed, brushed the plaster off the covers and sat down, opening a magazine. But then there was another thud, this time slightly quieter, but the crack grew a little longer.

‘Cam! If you don’t answer I swear to God I’m coming in there!’

There was no answer, just another thud, louder than the first, and some more plaster and dust landing on my bed.

‘Right, that’s it!’ I stood, and stormed out my room, expecting to find Cam sitting on the bed laughing at me. Instead when I opened the door I saw him standing, looking the other way, with two massive fist marks in the wall.

‘Cam!’ I shouted, still annoyed, not only at the thuds and the day before with his friends.

But then he turned, and I saw the tears in his eyes, and his hand, which was bloody, and his knuckles that looked like they had been put in a blender.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ I said, finding it hard not to look away.

‘Punched a wall.’ He said. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ I could see he was trying to act all obnoxious, or indifferent, but it wasn’t working, and I could see right through the façade. He was hurting, in more ways than one.

I sighed, still annoyed, but also worried.

‘That needs medical attention… God, how’d you do that to yourself? The wall isn’t even that hard!’

He shrugged.

‘Why did you do it to yourself?’ I looked up once again at his face, finding it hard to draw my eyes from his mashed up hand. ‘And don’t you dare put that thing in your mouth!’ I slapped a cigarette from his good hand.

‘I hadn’t even lit it!’ There was a pause. ‘Please? I need it. I… I’m stressed.’

I sighed again, and dragged him by the wrist to the bathroom opposite his room.

‘C’mon. Let’s get this cleaned up.’ There was a pause, where he just stood there, and then I said, ‘Sit.’

He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, and I opened the cabinet above the sink, took out the first aid kit. I unzipped the kit, and removed a roll of bandage cloth, some scissors, medical tape, and some antiseptic wipes.

‘I don’t need all that, it’s not that bad!’

‘Yeah, well, there aren’t any plasters big enough.’ I said coolly, trying to show him that I was still annoyed at him. I think he understood, because he went quiet, and concentrated on his hands, and what I was doing to the knuckles of his left one.

I took the wipes, and dabbed the grazes and cuts, trying not to rub or disturb the grated skin of his knuckles. Still, the antiseptic must have hurt, because he took in a sharp breath, and clenched a fist with his good hand.

‘Don’t be a baby!’ I snapped, though I felt guilty, and I could only guess how much it stung. ‘It’s your own fault.’

‘Yeah, I know it is.’ He said through gritted teeth. ‘But it fucking hurts!’

I didn’t respond, instead I finished cleaning it, and taking a few small pieces of paint and plaster out of the cuts. I then took the bandage and wrapped it as tightly as I could around his knuckles.