The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Fourteen

I looked at him. His eyes wouldn't meet mine, he stared at his feet.
My hand was still closed around his forearm, and I shook the small box at him, the contents rattling.
"What is this?!" I demanded angrily. I wasn't afraid of him anymore, not since we bonded a little the other night. "Are you smoking now?!"

I finally felt like I might one day become myself again.

He looked ever so ashamed.

"You don't understand," he whispered, his voice as fragile as spiderwebs. "It's all I have...I can't manage without it..."

"Stop," I cut in. "There's no excuse."

His expression darkened and he glanced up at me, his eyebrows pulled down into a deep frown.
"Oh really?" He snapped angrily. He stood up abruptly and there was the fear again. I pulled away from him, trying not to cover my head in my hands. Instead he turned his back and pulled his T-shirt over his head.
"Is this excuse enough?" He asked, and I swallowed loudly.
Today the scars looked redder than ever, but for some reason the only thing I noticed is how they contrast against his tanned skin.
"Tell me," I said, because I didn't want to lose this opportunity to some small, pathetic need.
He inhaled sharply, lifting his shoulders and sending ripples down his muscular back. Something within me quickened, but I swallowed it down. This was not the time or place or maybe even person to be feeling this with.
We barely knew each other anymore.

The silence stretched and I realised he hadn't spoken,
"Well?" I asked.
He turned so quickly it's shocked me and I stepped backwards.
"What do you care?!" He snapped, and the childish way his face scrunched up made me almost laugh out loud. I was surprised at how unkind I felt.
"You know nothing about my life and what I have been through."
He stormed away, pulling his shirt back on and clutching it around him as if to protect himself.

He was vulnerable in that moment and he didn't like that feeling, afraid that maybe someone had finally begun to break down his walls.