In Love With My Mobster Best Friend (mxmxm)

SEVEN: AWARE

Media: Take Me As I Am – David Cook

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Coe's POV

The doctor had been by last night after I had about twenty minutes to try to wrap my mind around what Jared had said. I was completely zombie-like when the doctor put my dislocated ankle into a cast. I don't remember much of last night, but I do remember swallowing the painkillers before Jared carried me once more into the guest room on the first floor.

I had been awake for a good thirty minutes, still wide eyed and processing Jared's words, until the painkillers seemed to start to make my brain shut down. That, and all the excitement and beating that I got that day was finally kicking in after the adrenaline wore off in my body.

It didn't put me to sleep for long though. I was up and awake at five in the morning again, plagued by nightmares of what had happened last night and some of my memories from my childhood. I woke up having my parent's faces vividly etched into my mind.

I laid in the guest bed, feeling disoriented in a room that I had never slept in in the years that I have lived in his house. I spent the next hour and a half thinking about Jared, his words, his face, his actions. Everything. I would convince myself that Jared would forgive me, perhaps he already did. And I would feel mostly light-hearted, but then I would remember that Jared was someone who hated lies, and he was someone that held a grudge for a long time. Then I would turn slightly depressed.

I considered skipping breakfast and pretending that I was still asleep from the pills that I had taken, but I knew that he would just come in and wake me. He always hated when I skipped my meals, especially breakfast. I'm sure being half crippled and almost beaten to death would change nothing.

I wondered if he would avoid me this morning as I forced myself to get out of my bed. I don't know how I would take it if he did. Just imagining him pretending that I didn't exist in the same house as him sent stabs of sharp pain in my chest. It wasn't from my injuries, that much I was clear about.

I stared at the crutches that the doctor had left me last night, hating that it would make me feel even more pathetic than I already felt, so I decided that I could do without. I tested my balance and the pain in my ankle gently, and found that I could tolerate the pain if I limp around. It was tiring, but it was better than using a crutch.

I waddled to the bathroom, wincing as I took in my appearance. I was purple and black in my eyes and cheek, they were swollen, and there were two cuts on my lip. My eyes looked sunken and the rest of my face looked deathly pale in contrast to my injuries. I looked horrible.

I barely brushed my teeth at all when I realized that I could barely open my mouth. So I chose instead to use a mouth rinse. It was good enough, for now. I wash my face by splashing it with water and not using soap to clean it out. It stung slightly from the open cuts, but it was tolerable. I didn't bother to pat my face dry, not wanting to test how painful those bruises felt.

I hobbled out of the guest room as slowly as I could, my chest, stomach and sides aching from the beating, and I wished Jared would come and lug me around again. I made it towards the living and kitchen area, and I stopped when I saw Jared already at the counter.

He was sipping his coffee, reading from his tablet, and I wondered if it was going to be alright for me to join him at the table. His words from last night echoed in my head and I swallowed nervously, hobbling on my toes on my injured foot. Jared's head turned to me when he heard my footsteps and he frowned at me instantly, "Where are your crutches?" He asked, setting his tablet down and shuffling towards me quickly with his arms stretched out.