Fix You ~Completed~

Act Eighty-Five-Point-Five

"Your eye-"

"I know. Don't look at it." Kyla pushed his way into my house through the back door. I was sitting at table shoved in the corner of the room, gaping up at my ragged companion. I wanted to jump to my feet and cradle him, but I knew my concern would be met with cold indifference if not irritation. "I said don't look, Clem!"

Blue rimmed the bottom of his left eye. It reminded me of the blue at the bottom of the ocean. This nasty purple swelled above the blue, blocking any view of his muddy eyes. In my eighteen years on earth, I had never seen such a grotesque sight. With Kyla, black eyes weren't exactly uncommon, but this was worse than those other cases.

"How can I not look?" I whispered in broken shock. It was like my mouth had forgotten what volume was; my brain had been set on mute. "Did you get in another fight?"

Kyla slumped down in one of the chairs at the table across from me. Hesitantly, I leaned over and moved chairs, ignoring the soggy cereal I'd been making futile attempts at eating for the past twenty minutes.

My hand touched his cheek and Kyla twitched. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd hurt him. There wasn't any sign of injury on is cheeks, but I could never be sure the damage just wasn't invisible. Then I noticed his good eye was glossy. It wasn't me that was hurting him.

"You could say that," Kyla breathed out in response to my question. My offer to grab an ice pack went ignored, but I could tell he needed it. Kyla never cried. As soon as I sat back down, Kyla took the fabric pack from me. "Do you get along with your folks? I've never been able to tell one way or another. Can't remember the last time I saw you interacting."

I shrugged, considering this for the first time ever in my whole life. "We don't fight all the time, so I guess we get along fine."

That answer wasn't good enough. "Your dad ever raise 'em up at you?" he pressed. A week before, Kyla taught me what that expression- raise 'em up- meant. It had a few meanings, but I knew at that moment he wasn't referring to a toast. I told him no. "Your mom? She seems like she could get mean."

"Mom's against violence. She won't even watch action movies," I told Kyla.

"Lucky you. Two parents you don't fight with. One's even anti-violence! God, bet they never drink either," he whistled, the ice pack pressed to his impaired eye. I wanted to ask why any of this information mattered. So, what if my mom didn't like violence? So, what if neither of my parents ever hit me?

Instead of asking for answers I knew I'd never get, I just commented on his statement. "Dad sometimes drinks on the weekends. He'll go to the bar with some friends while Mom goes to the salon with hers."

"You guys can afford the salon?"

"No."

"Then why does she go?" Kyla grimaced, as though the thought physically nauseated him.

Sighing, I slid the bowl back over to me and picked up a spoonful of cereal. Somehow, I managed to force myself to swallow it. A whole spoonful. "She likes to feel good about herself, I guess," I murmured. Wasn't that while most people went to salons and spas? They wanted to feel better? "After the salon, she seems more confident. Dad never tells her she looks pretty except for after a trip to the salon."

My boyfriend lowered the ice pack. "Bet you'd look pretty after a trip to the salon," he said. My head snapped up. He was smiling sadly at me. It would have been perfect had he not of added at the last minute, "Too bad you can't afford it."

If I were more like him, I would have laughed. It just wasn't funny.

"Why does your dad do that? What could you possibly do to earn that kind of hurt?" I rushed out, gesturing to the purple lump with my thumb. Had I any promise Kyla wouldn't freak out, I would have added how much it killed me to see him like that. I wanted to protect him, I wanted to keep his loser dad from touching him. If it were up to me, no harm would ever befall him.