The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Eight

The bathroom door was ajar, I had no idea he was in there. 
I wandered in, clean towels and mats over an arm, humming softly.
He was just pulling his shirt over his head, undressing to take a shower.
I don't think he heard me come in. His back was to me, he folded his top neatly and placed it over the radiator.
That's when I saw them. Thick, jagged, ugly scars diagonal across his back. Seven of them, maybe more. They were raised and red almost like they were still fresh.
A belt must've made those marks.
I couldn't stop the gasp of horror which escaped my lips. Without thinking I stepped forward, my hand reaching out to touch his warm skin. I traced my fingers over the welts, almost afraid to hurt him.
He shuddered under my fingertips, closing his eyes tight as if to block out something only he could see. Involuntarily a whimper whispered through him. His shoulders shook with uncontrollable fear.
Just as quickly as they began, his tremors stopped. He turned suddenly, angrily, whipping his body away, out of sight.
"Can't I get any privacy?!" He snapped, but I could see the tears glistening in his dark eyes.
"I'm sorry," I murmured, still in shock, not wanting to provoke him further. And I scurried away to leave him in peace.