Fix You ~Completed~

Act Ten

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm trying to cuddle you." I burrowed deeper inside of Kyla's side, my hand gently caressing the tough patch of skin that swirled around beneath his pectoral. It was the result of a moment caught too close to a bonfire on the Fourth of July our freshman year of high school. I wasn't there at the party when it happened, but I did my best to nurse him back to health afterwards. As much as he complained about my babying of him, I honestly think he enjoyed all the attention.

"Jesus." He shrugged me off, making a move to get out of bed.

I pouted, collecting the sheets and drawing them up to my chest to make up for the warmth I lost when he left me. "We did what you wanted to do. Why can't we do something I want, Kyla?"

"Because you want stupid shit," he huffed, sliding his fingers through his greasy hair. He was bent over the edge of the bed and reaching for a cigarette. "Sex is good for your health, you know that?"

"Cuddling is too," I muttered. I didn't know if what Kyla or I said was true, but I had a feeling his statement had some basis in reality. Mine was a childish attempt to get him to give in to me for once. I just wanted him to hold me, even if it was for five measly minutes.

We never cuddled. Was it truly too much to ask for?

The lighter kissed the tip of his cigarette gently, in the exact opposite fashion Kyla would have brought his lips against mine. Is it bad I often was jealous of those stupid cancer sticks? Kyla treated them better than he treated me.

"Oh, sure," he breathed out, watching a puff of grey roll from between those lips of his. I pressed my head deeper into my pillow, admiring how attractive he looked when he did that. The smoking was absolutely disgusting, but there was an art to the way he did his business. Everything Kyla did was an art. "Next you'll tell me that the Moon Landing was staged by the same Lizard People who killed JFK."

I brought the sheets up to my chin, suppressing the desire to cry. "I just want to be close to you," I whispered, still staring at him.

"Damn it, you're so emotional. When was the last time you cut? Maybe you need to spend some time alone in the bathroom with your favorite razor. It'd be therapeutic," Kyla hummed, tapping the neck of his cigarette against his Las Vegas tray on the nightstand.

It had been weeks since I purposely made myself sting. The desire hadn't popped up in a very long while and I was trying my best not to do it. After that day in the car with Eddie, when he saw me, I couldn't let myself. If the thought even occurred to me, I'd squash it.

Eddie didn't like my scars like Kyla did. Eddie thought they were bad.

I didn't want to add anything more to me that would make Eddie frown the way he did. I wanted him to smile. I liked him and Gale best when they were smiling.

"I don't wanna cut anymore," I told Kyla, nudging the edge of my eye to keep the tears from falling.

"Why? I thought you loved it."

No, I never loved hurting myself. For the longest time, though, I thought I needed it. Kyla told me it'd make me feel okay. He said he was sick of me being such a downer all the time, so he brought me into his downstairs bathroom and showed me how to make longitude lines along my wrists. While I let myself burn and moisten my favorite t-shirt, Kyla explained never to cut latitude lines. "Always west to east, never north to south, or else you're a goner," he huffed, eyeing my torn up arm. I whimpered, staring up at him pleadingly. I wanted him to hug me and tell me it was okay. He wouldn't. "Doubt you'll be able to follow that. Idiotic of me to show you this. Knowing you, I'll find you dead in a week."

I sniffed, sitting up so that I could actually meet Kyla's eyes properly. As he leaned to tap his cigarette again, I shook my head. "I hate it," I admitted quietly. "I wish you never had showed me it."

"It made you feel better. You weren't so weepy all the time."

Hesitantly, I scooted across the bed and laid my head on his shoulder. Kyla didn't shove me back for once. "Do you still like my scars?" I asked him, shutting my eyes. A whiff of smoke attacked my nose and I had to snap back, clutching my face to keep the awful stench away.

"Your scars are as ugly as the rest of you, Clem. Honestly, you ask the stupidest questions sometimes," he scoffed, sliding off the bed and shuffling across the room to throw open the window. "Please, just let me finish my cigarette in peace."

Ugly as the rest of me?

"Y-you think I'm ugly?" I stammered, staring numbly down at my body. Was it because I was so thin, or because I was so pale? Did he dislike my dirty blonde hair or blue eyes? Maybe he hated my stretched face and hollow cheeks, or my awkward frame...

I never thought Kyla was that impressed with my physical appearance, but I would have never imagined he thought I was ugly... and he always told me he loved my scars. He'd kiss them and stroke them and occasionally ask me to make more so he'd have more to kiss.

"Duh," he responded without a thought, throwing me an irritable scowl. "Jesus, I can't get five seconds of silence with you!"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, collecting the blankets and stumbling into the bathroom to be alone. I needed to be entirely alone when I did this. I needed to be just me and my thoughts. Me and my beautifully hateful, destructive thoughts.