I find myself in this situation more times than I'd like. It's like a cycle I just can't break out of. Like watching a car crash unfold, the impact is awful, but you just have to wait for it to be over. Each of the times I've returned to Mitchel the damage has been more substantial, but I just can't stay away from him. Every time I've fled, he's found a way to pull me right back in.
I'm now back at the all too familiar place, his brother Clinton's doorstep. I know he feels immense guilt over everything that happens between Mitchel and I, as he set us up, but I don't hold any of it against him. I've been standing on his porch now for at least five minutes, unable to bring myself to ring the doorbell. My arms are wrapped tightly around my own torso, pulling the fabric of the sky blue sweater I'm wearing closer against me. It's Mitchel's hoodie, and it's covered in my own blood. I have not a clue what time it is, but it's pitch fucking black all around me, and I'm freezing.
Shadows dance over Clinton's white curtains, albeit there is only one, meaning he is (luckily) alone tonight. A low rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, signaling the impending storm is approaching rapidly. I take a deep breath through my stuffed up nose, and finally muster up the strength to ring the doorbell.
He peers out from behind the curtain in his main room, and I can see the sigh leave his body as he spots me. With a small shake of his head he leaves my line of sight, and only a few moments later he's opening the large, polished wood door towering over me. "Hey, come in." He doesn't sound alarm, but he shouldn't be. This is practically routine now. Every time his brother fucks up; he's the one left to clean up the mess.
The inside of the house embraces me with its scent, that of the various candles lit around the space. Soft color tones surround me, a nice change from the practical dungeon of Mitchel's place. "Holy shit," Clinton says, tearing me from my own thoughts. "Sorry, I just...hadn't seen you in the light before. You look fucking terrible...I mean," He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not your fault that you look like shit...it's...I'm gonna stop talking now." I can't help but let out a small laugh watching him trip and stumble over his own words. It's truly almost comical. Clinton has always been, and forever will be, the biggest dork on Earth. "You know where your stuff is upstairs. Give me a holler if you need help, yeah?" I nod, pulling the bloodied hoodie over my head and handing it to him with a physical cringe.
"I just...can't handle having that on any more." I try to explain to the best of my ability. "It's..."
"I get it," Clinton states. "Don't worry. Go get fixed up, if you need help yell. I'm gonna go put this sweater in the wash." He heads for the laundry room a few doors away, while I head for the staircase to my left.
Everything in Clinton's house is much more inviting than the environment I'm used to at Mitchel's. For brothers, they're complete opposites in almost every way. Clinton's much more welcoming, radiant, warm, vibrant than his counterpart. All the adjectives I could use to describe Clinton are positive. For Mitchel, that's not always the case, but he always draws me back in as he feels I'm getting too far away. Honestly, it's a mystery how he hasn't discovered where I run off to after he beats the shit out of me yet. My old hideout was revealed to him a few months back, so now I've been hiding literally right under his nose, in the one place he wouldn't even think to look.
Underneath the upstairs bathroom sink are my spare possessions. It's not much due to the fact that the cabinet space isn't large, but it's enough to last me a few days, and Clinton has enough clothes left here from random hookups to spot me if I ever run short. Having my belongings shoved in a dark, damp storage space isn't ideal, but if they were anywhere else, Mitchel could easily find them any time he visits. A few items here and there aren't conspicuous, but full sets of outfits and toiletries would be uncommon in the house of Clinton Cave, a longtime single man who doesn't let his hookups stay more than the night. Clinton could probably cover, saying one of his girls left it behind, but neither of us are willing to take the chance.
