Nyctophilia

Chapter Six

As she hurries to Toby's loft in her car, above the Brew, she wonders when he became her safe place to go; when suddenly it was a better option to go to Toby than it was to go to Aria, Hanna, or Emily.

She realizes she doesn't even really know.

Her gaze blurs due to unshed tears collecting in her chocolates orbs, spilling down her cheeks spotted with bruises that she had no time to conceal.

She had traded Wren up for Toby, in sorts. She had replaced the spot he had in her life for somebody she had met only mere weeks ago. She ignored her boyfriend of two years for a certain blue eyed boy that had shown up weeks ago and never left.

She hadn't spent time with Wren.
Didn't she deserve it?
She brushed him off.
He needed her.
She forgot she deserved it.
She did.
She got what was coming for her.
She needed it.
Just like he needed her.

Tears fall as her mind comprehends her fatal mistake; what she had done wrong. She didn't pay attention to her boyfriend, and he had every right to have his way with her, he has every right to beat her the next time he sees her.
That's what he always did.
And it's normal, right?

No.

It's normal to /her./

She hadn't even realized she made it to the Brew. Maybe she shouldn't have driven; maybe she was too unstable to have gotten behind the wheel at all.

Here she is.

With a silent sigh to herself at the readings on the clock, 1 in the morning, she opens the door because she has nowhere to go and she's so afraid of the dark and being alone.

A rare vulnerability she never shows.

Yet here she is.

She drags an aching body up the stairs outside of the Brew.
She's exhausted.
She lifts a fist to the door and knocks.
Here goes nothing.
It's late.
She should leave.

She doesn't.

Footsteps approach from the other side.
Too late to turn back.

When the door finally swings open, his eyes connect to her own. His orbs scan her face, her /body./ She looks, for the first time, battered and exhausted; so unsure of herself. And that's when he knows.
He knows something is off.
He knows, he knows, he knows.
He ushers her inside without a word, arm resting on her lower back.
She flinches.
Her back was pushed into the wall, she acknowledges.

"Spencer." He mutters her name; quiet and soft and all she needs.
He follows the path of her tears.
Each drop a silent reminder that even the strongest people break.

"What happened?" His tone rings gentle, hand dropping to her own in order to squeeze it with reassurance before leading her towards his bedroom.

She hovers behind him as he turns into his closet and collects a long sleeve T-shirt, gaze finding hers once again when he turns to face her, passing the shirt to her.

She shrugs in response to his question.

"You cannot shrug this one off, Spencer. Your face.." He trails off, almost as if a realization has dawned on him that he doesn't want in his mind.

"Raise your shirt, Spencer." His tone is nothing but a whisper, but a certain firm quality laces each word.

Her shaky digits reach for the hem of her night shirt, pulling it up and over her head. She adverts her gaze to the ground, head hung in shame.

She deserved this.

An audible, horrified gasp falls from Toby's lips, oceanic orbs scanning her torso, arms, and back; analyzing scars and bruises; old and new. The shirt he handed to her is left forgotten on his bed, his hesitant fingers reaching forward and caressing a dark bruise on her ribcage. She sucks a breath in, gaze glued to the floor as if she found it far more interesting than the situation at hand. His free hand cups her chin, lifting her cranium until his teary eyes meet her own. "Who did this to you?" His voice is nothing but a broken whisper, slicing through the silence. "Sometimes I do stupid things that I'm not proud of," she begins, sucking a painful breath in as she pulls away and paces the floor. "And I do them despite knowing what consequences could sprout from it.. and Wren gets mad, sometimes. He doesn't like what I do, and I don't like what I do, and he has to remind me that it's wrong, that I shouldn't be this way." Built up frustration accompanies her voice, her aching body coming to a stop on the opposing side of his bed.

Toby's blue eyes color with a concealed rage at the explanation she supplies like it's a justified reason. He shakes his head, gaze remaining calm for her as it remains locked intimately in hers.

"That's not okay, Spencer, it isn't."

"He loves me Toby, in his own strange, twisted kind of way, he does," She begins, her gaze falling to the floor beneath her feet. "If he treats me this way, it's because I deserve it." Her voice is soft now, no longer taking a defensive stance but almost breaking all together.

"And I know that every time I look at a scar, that I have deserved a lot of things.. and I'll always deserve them."

His heart breaks at her every word; watching her as she watches the ground, a tear falling from her eyes that she wants to hide from him. How can she think that? How did Wren manage to break her, and put her back together the way he has: structured to believe this abuse is her fault? Like it's normal?

He slowly approaches, maybe as quiet as he has ever been. Lifting a gentle hand to her face; not one of anger that might strike her at any moment, but a gentle one that slowly cups her chin, dragging her eyes upward to meet his own. He wants her to look into his eyes when he says this. Dusting the tear off of her porcelain features with the pad of his thumb, his eyes an excessive blue due to the rush of emotions swimming inside of them.

"It is not normal for someone to call you worthless and every name in the book one minute, and say how wonderful you are the next. There is something wrong with them, not with you..." He whispers; his words a breath of fresh air across her face. Her eyes well up with tears; a sight in which he never thought he would see, and tears begin to spill over. She shrugs her slender shoulders helplessly; her gaze piercing directly back into his.

"But It's hard not to feel that way." She reminds, whispering her words just as fragile as he had.

Ducking away from his hold, desperate to hide her bruised body from Toby, she steps toward the mirror. She catches her lower lip between her teeth as it trembles, dull eyes scanning each scar, each bruise marking her skin in ways it should never be marked.

He follows her to the mirror, body an inch behind her own.

"Show me your scars." He breathes into her ear, voice as fragile as glass.

"Why, Toby?" Her tone is tired, she is tired.

"I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn't there." He whispers, tone resembling broken glass.

She's broken glass.

She's broken glass that was taped back together.

Stable.

But never the same.