Our Tainted Dream

Twenty One: A Broken Child

Calm before the storm

I wake up with pain at my throat, everything hazy and my body heavy from not moving for too long. A drip attached to my wrist, pumping blood as a beeping noise echoes throughout the room.

A man sits next to the bed, his knees on the floor as he dozes off with his head on the sheets. His hand gently wrapped around mine, holding it close as he snoozes. The dark circles underneath his eyes getting worse by the days, band aids plastered over his face. For a moment, he looks peaceful.

He looks hurt.

He looks broken.

When I blink, it's like a flash of memory flying against my brain. I can still feel the blade against my flesh, the static in my brain, the coldness of the floor, the chains, the blood, the belt, the needles the nails.

Everything is like a dream tainted and burnt to ashes. How only a few days ago we were smiling with joy, laughing in pure bliss, and only a few days ago he kneeled for my life, took a beating for my sake.

Gray told me so much. The scars on his wrists, the dullness of his eyes. Everything is so vividly clear now. Everything make sense.

But if I were to know he would hurt himself for me, for Gray. I shouldn't have let her help. But that would lead to his death, to his mother.

It's like a beautiful song ended with errors and misplaced notes. At the end of the day, everyone's hurt.

But I don't mind.

I lift my arms slowly, releasing myself from his gentle grasp. The needle sting against my veins, but I am too dazed to even wince.

Everything is slow, everything is quiet. I rest my hand on his head before running it across his white hair; no more tints of brown or shades of grey.

It's surprisingly soft. Very soft despite the fact that he only gets to shower once every few days. Or barely even wash his face, it remains smooth. Damn we spent three weeks in that hell hole.

I call his name, and it muffles in my ventilator. His white shirt is replaced with a minty coloured one; the scars, new and old scattered across his exposed wrists. Three or four purple bruise decorate his neck; finger marks.

He doesn't make a sound when he opens his eyes¸ staring at the sheets for a long minute before looking at me.

The way his eyelids cover half of his eyes, the bruise like circles underneath it, his chapped lips almost bleeding. But worst of all are his eyes. The glint and sparks of it now vacant, unreadable, broken. His face blank with no emotions but sorrow and pain.

His eyes are worse than before.

And the grogginess in his voice when he calls my name, the low vibrations, barely more than a husky whisper. The way he exhales his shaky breaths, the way his violently trembling hand grips at the fabric on his chest. And his smile. His empty, taunting, haunting smile.

"You're awake." He says, voice croaky. His head is tilted to one side; a habit of his when he observes someone, showing more of the bruises on his neck. How deep did his father's fingers dig in? How did he not wince?

I nod, because talking hurts too much. I try to sit up but he pushes me back down. He sways when he stands, walking towards the small table in the corner of the room.

His smile quickly drops as he picks at the copper coloured bottle, along with a metal spoon resting atop of it. But his smile quickly returns as he heads back, setting it to the nightstand next to the bed.