The Scars Within [boyxboy]

The Scars Within {14}

                “Lionel! Lionel!” my mom called loudly. “Lionel!” “Dude, shut that bitch up,” Andy Cali grumbled from the air mattress on the ground. “You do it,” I mumbled and pulled my pillow over my head. I heard my mom coming upstairs and mentally sighed. Fuck that; I was trying to sleep.

                My bedroom door opened and then she was shaking me. “Lionel! Someone’s here to see you,” she said. “Send them up,” I groaned. “But it’s-” “I don’t care if it’s Jesus. Send them up,” I snapped, not wanting to be awake. I was so not a morning person.

                Mom left my room and a few seconds later, someone else entered. “Where’s my knife?” EJ’s voice demanded. I pulled the pillow off my head, glanced at him, and groaned in annoyance.

                “Brah, when I said to get your knife back, I didn’t mean this early in the morning,” I grumbled, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

                I pulled a T-shirt on and reached under my bed to retrieve his knife from my hiding place. I grabbed it with my bad hand and began to hold it out to EJ. It slipped out of my grasp and I sighed in annoyance.

                “Son of three whores,” I grumbled and reached for it. I tried to pick it up, but just couldn’t. I grabbed it with my good hand and held it out steadily.

                But EJ was staring at my bad hand. “The fuck is up with your fingers? They don’t work right,” he said in confusion. I shrugged and looked down at them.

                EJ stepped around the air mattress and grabbed my bad hand. He examined my fingers and I mentally sighed. I hated when people did this to me. Why, oh why, did I try to pick the knife up with my bad hand? I was such an idiot sometimes.

                “Your fingers are sewn on,” he said in shock. I nodded. “All my fingers except for my thumb,” I said, trying to wiggle them. They responded weakly, twisted into odd positions. My mom called it a disability, but it really wasn’t.

                “Why?” EJ asked, suddenly looking fascinated as he stared at the scars where my fingers had been sewn on. “Because they got cut off,” I said in a “duh” voice. “Derp.” He rolled his eyes, but then went back to looking fascinated. “How?”

                “I pissed off Michael Myers,” I said with a smirk. “I’m serious. How did your fingers get cut off?” he asked. Not even demanded. He seemed too fascinated to do that right now.

                “Why do you wear a bandana?” He snapped out of his fascination and glared at me. I smirked and laughed. “I’ll tell you how my fingers got cut off when you tell me why you wear a bandana. In the meantime, here’s your fucking knife.”

                He took it from me and glanced at my hand again before turning to leave my room. He hesitated. “Thanks for giving it back,” he grumbled before slamming my bedroom door.

                “He doesn’t know about your hand?” Andy Cali asked, rolling over and sitting up on the air mattress. I shrugged. “He doesn’t have to. It’s not important. I can still fight with one hand,” I said and laughed, looking down at my bad hand. It was practically useless.

                “By the way, you’re starting to like that fucker. I can tell by the look in your eyes,” Andy Cali said with a shrug as he pulled his shirt on. “Nope, I actually don’t like him,” I said, throwing the covers off myself.

                “I said starting to. I give it a week.” I rolled my eyes but looked down at my bad hand, remembering the pain of when my fingers had been cut off. I had never been in so much agony before and I honestly don’t think I ever would be again.