A Lesson Never Learned [✔]

f o u r

Alex made me sit on the side of the street, my back against the alley wall and my feet in front of me. He kneeled in front of me and wrapped my arm tightly with my sweatshirt, so I was sitting there on the edge of the sidewalk in a fucking tank top. 

Alex questioned me the whole time I sobbed, holding my arm closer to my chest. He looked like he was going to comfort me and tell me to stop crying, but he just continuously asked me questions. 

"Who were they?" 

"I-I don't know!" 

"Did you get a profile on them?" 

"I-it was d-dark." 

"If you saw them again, would you know who they were?" Alex was fucking relentless. I cried harder and I heard footsteps walking up to where Alex made me sit. I felt a hand on my face and I screamed, wrenching away. 

"Get off me you fucking bastard! I'm gonna kill you, I swear to fucking God!" I snarled, my eyes still shut. Images flashed behind my closed lids of the man touching my face being Cameron, or Jack, or maybe one of the men from last night: the one who beat me up first.

"Lily," a quiet voice sighed. I wanted to open my eyes, but they still refused to part. I kept pulling away each time the hand would fall on my face. Eventually, the hand gripped my face, cupping my jaw tightly making me gasp in pain. His fingers dug into my flesh and I whimpered, finally stilling from the threats of new pain. "Open your eyes. It's me." 

I felt my eyes cooperate with me, wrenching open, the light from the midday sun temporarily blinding me. 

Oliver was crouching in front of me, taking Alex's place. His grip didn't loosen when my eyes opened and I whimpered again, this time relieved and still in pain. "I thought I told you to stay out of trouble." His vice-like grip tightened still and I whined in the back of my throat, my hand reaching up and pinching his wrist with my nails. Immediately, Oli dropped my face with a look of shock. 

We both never liked to admit it, but growing up, our father believed in tough love. A lot of the times, I didn't have to go through with the beatings, seeing how my mother always defended me. But since Oli was practically raised to be in the gang, he didn't get any mercy from mother or father. Neither did Tom, but he rarely got hit, seeing how he stayed out of trouble. He was the perfect child. He was hit maybe once in his short lifetime. Oliver always got the worst of it, or he always asked to take Tom's beatings as well. But that made him tough, and Oli was grateful. Me, on the other hand, I got hit maybe eight times in my childhood and I still held that against my father. 

The point is, whenever I was beaten, Oli was there too, getting it dished out twice as bad. When our father would stop for a moment to grab a beer, or some gauze, or just to wash his hands of the spit, snot, tears, and blood, Oliver would always ask me if I was okay. I could never answer because I was crying so hard, so he came up with a code. Pinching on the wrist meant whatever was happening hurt like hell. Tugging the earlobe meant you couldn't take it anymore. Wiping your mouth and the underside of your nose from middle finger to elbow with your left arm meant that you were ready to catch the abuser's attention to give the other a break, and doing the same action with your right arm meant that you were going to pass out and you needed to get help immediately because he went too far.

Oliver gave me a look of worry as he gently touched my face. "I'm sorry." He whispered, carefully wiping my tears from my face. "What happened?"

"What happened to Jared?" I said shakily. "I want to know everything. Please tell me, Oli." 

Oliver looked around, his hazel eyes weary as he bit his lip carefully. "Do you want the truth?" Oliver asked as if he didn't know the answer. 

"Of course." I snapped, brushing his hand from my cheeks.