Where The Light Doesn't Reach

11.

My fingers slide along the tiles as I pull myself back and away from the shower, having adjusted the temperature to a reasonable one for once.

Usually, I try to make the water scalding, hot enough to burn away any memories lying on my skin, obtaining just the right amount of heat to hurt and bring my mind away from other unpleasant things.

However today, as Gray instructed, I'm attempting something more "normal", which is different than my usual cleansing. A pleased hum escapes me as I feel the warm water run over my fingers, my arm outstretched so my clothes don't get wet.

Finally done stalling, I unzip my worn black hoodie and allow it to fall to the floor with a soft thump, sucking in a breath as the damp air hits my bare arms. I'm still wearing a T-shirt, but I never really get used to seeing exposed skin. I rarely take off any clothing unless I have to, my skin revealing marks and memories that I prefer hiding.

Hesitantly, I finally remove the rest of the outfit, leaving everything bunched up in a heap on the tiled floor, all of it slightly damp due to the humid steam filling the small bathroom.

When I mistakenly glance at myself in the mirror, I notice things still present from the other day—

Although faded from a week and a half of healing, there are bruises around my wrists and a couple on my elbows, not to mention the plethora of smaller ones in the shape of the man's fingertips placed on my hips. Much larger spots of discoloration shadow my knees, the joints having been swollen and incredibly painful at one point but now only ache when I have to bend them - which, unfortunately, is often.

Grimacing at the mirror - which is beginning to fog over too much to see much of anything - I shove down all  negative thoughts, focusing instead on what Gray was saying earlier—

—about how he's worried about me.

Me... Gray is worried about my well-being...

I honestly feel bad for worrying him, since it seems all I do is take advantage of his kindness and be a complete asshole. Just the idea that someone would care completely blows my mind, and a feeling of warmth spreads throughout my body, settling in the pit of my stomach.

For a moment, I even want to smile despite everything.

I mean it's obvious my parents were willing to just let me die alone in my room, nothing could make me believe any different. I know Gray tried to make me feel better by saying my mother looked affected by my breakdown, but it's clear that she isn't.

"Tell him to call me if he ever decides to cut the bullshit."

That's not something my mother would usually say to someone like Gray, but it is something she'd tell me when she's tired of dealing with my "behavior". She rarely cusses, but I had to get my vocabulary from somewhere—

She gets pretty awful when I act like this.

I already know that being kicked out of the house is a real possibility, especially since I'm 22 and can legally be thrown onto the streets without any remorse from either of my parents. My mom probably prefers that I die, even if she likes to put up a front where she pretends to care. I've always been aware that she doesn't, not really - I'm a reminder of a man she wants to forget, not to mention just incredibly high maintenance.

In the past, I even heard her tell Dad that she regrets my existence.

"I feel like such a horrible mother," she said that day, woefully, as though she felt guilty about it, "because sometimes I'm so overwhelmed and I don't know what to do with him. I almost wish he hadn't been born... am I a terrible person for thinking that?"