Bruised Knuckles and Empty Lies

Chapter 13

Author's note: sorry for the confusion!!! i accidentally uploaded the same chapter twice, so there's the ACTUAL chapter 13 :) thanks for letting me know guys!

Alex's POV

Derek unlocked the door and let it swing open, taking a step back so I could enter first. I numbly made my way inside and scanned his apartment. Everything looked normal. He must've lived alone because I didn't see any pictures of anyone on his walls. My observations were cut short at the sound of the door suddenly closing, causing me to jump. I slipped off my shoes, revealing my mismatched socks.

"Can I get you anything? Maybe something to drink?" Derek offered, but I felt sick to my stomach, so I shook my head. "Okay. Come on, let's get you fixed up." I had forgotten about my bleeding palms until now. They started to sting as the memory of what happened came back to me. He passed me and started walking down a short hall, before glancing over his shoulder as he turned into the bathroom. I took that as an invitation, so I dropped my bag on the ground next to the kitchen table and followed him in.

Derek was rummaging through the drawers below the sink, taking out a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors, setting them down next to the sink. He turned on the tap, letting a steady stream of cold water flow through before stepping back. Oh god, this was about to hurt like a bitch, wasn't it? I glanced up at him before shutting my eyes and putting my palms under the stream of water. As I winced from the intense sting, Derek put his hand on my back, rubbing small circles in an attempt to offer some comfort. It didn't really help, but I knew the longer I let the water do its thing, the longer my palms would feel like they're getting sawed off, so as quickly as humanly possible, I used my fingertips to scrape off the dried blood around my wounds. When my palms were as clean as they were going to get, Derek turned off the water and grabbed the towel next to the sink.

Taking one of my hands in his, then the other, he dried off my cuts, causing minimal stinging. He tossed the towel into the hamper next to the sink before partially unrolling the bandages. I'll give him props, he was as gentle as he could have possibly been, but as soon as the bandage made contact with my palms, I winced and felt the stinging come back.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but we gotta get these taken care of," he told me. I didn't trust myself to say anything, so I just nodded and tried to think of anything else but the stinging. My mind started to wander back to the events in the church, so I shook that out of my head and focused back in on the pain. Even though Derek bandaging my hands stung like hell, his large, warm hands were comforting, in a way. God, I was so touchstarved.

As soon as Derek was done wrapping my hands, he snipped the excess bandages and secured each of them with a metal bandage clip so they wouldn't move around too much. The second he broke contact with my skin, I wished he had stayed a little longer. Not in a weird way, but it had just been so long since someone touched me and I didn't need to flinch away.

Neither of us said anything else for a few seconds, making me start to get nervous again. I glanced up at him, immediately noticing his tired expression. Derek looked like he was trying, and failing, to find the right words to say. I tried to figure out what he was thinking. Was he mad? Disappointed maybe? All I knew was that I couldn't look him in the eye without feeling guilty.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. I should've never let him get caught up in my mess. No matter what I do, I always screw everything up. Maybe it would have been better if we had never even met.

"Babygirl," Derek sighed, "I'm not mad. Worried? Yes, but not mad." I didn't reply. I didn't know how. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Breakfast," I shrugged, earning another sigh.

"Alex, sweetheart, you gotta take better care of yourself." I just rolled my eyes. "Is there something I don't know?"

"I didn't exactly have a choice," I mumbled, glancing up at him. He rubbed his hand against his head in frustration.

"Okay," Derek finally said. "Let's get you something to eat."

I pulled myself up on the counter to sit as Derek rummaged around his cabinets, looking for something to cook. On the way to the kitchen, I had grabbed my phone and held it. For some reason, I always felt better when I was holding something than when I was empty-handed.

"Sweetheart," Derek started after he put some pasta into a pot of boiling water. "Talk to me. What's going through that genius head of yours?" I just shrugged, keeping my head down. "What happens in conversion therapy?" My head snapped up at the sudden, personal question. I met his eyes, and sadness was evident on his face.

"I don't wanna talk about it," I admitted.

"Nah, that's not gonna happen this time. You come out of there and have a full-blown panic attack. We're gonna talk about this." I felt too drained to argue, but I made sure to leave out the really bad stuff.

"I sit in this really uncomfortable wooden chair as he makes me memorize Bible verses. I recite them until he thinks I got the message."

"How long does that usually take?" Derek asked, crossing his arms. He was in full interrogation mode now.

"I don't know. Sometimes it's ten minutes. Other times, it's an hour."

"What else?"

I scoffed. "I've seen enough homophobic propoganda films to last me a lifetime. I personally think he gets off on them, but that's just me," I joked.

"Has there ever been another person in there with you?"

"No, one of the main points of conversion therapy is isolation. His job is to make you feel like you're all alone."

"Does it work?" Derek asked bluntly, before moving on to making the sauce. I cleared my throat and ignored his question.

"There's a lot of punishments that Jesus Boy uses, some are worse than others. Like once," I sat up straighter, smirking at the memory, "I had to kneel on the ground with three Bibles on my head and two in my arms, and if I dropped them-" I stopped myself short and cleared my throat before going on. "That was an early one, though, when I first started going. Dude, I made his life hell. I'd call him out on everything, making everything he made me do into a joke. That's probably why he hates me."

"What happened if you dropped the books?" Derek stared me down, waiting for my reply.

"Oh, I'd usually drop the rest and make a crude joke," I side-stepped.

"Alex." Tears pricked my eyes, but not enough to make them spill. I chuckled nervously, pulling on the hair on the back of my neck.

"He'd, um," I began to say, furrowing my brow at the memory. "He'd line up a few things. You know, a belt, a paddle, a Bible, stuff like that. And I, um, he made me choose."

"Alex," Derek said in almost a whisper, putting his hand on my arm.

"It's fine, I don't even care," I lied, hoping the conversation would end there, and it did, temporarily at least. Derek finished up putting the pasta together and divided it between two bowls. Thankfully, he had one bigger bowl for him and a smaller one for me. He carried them, along with two forks, to the kitchen table. I hopped off the counter and, like the dumbass I was, used my hands to push myself off. I clenched my teeth so no noise would come out.

By the time I made it to the table, Derek was already sitting down, so I sat in the seat across from him. We both started eating in silence. Every now and then, I would look up at him, watching the wheels in his head turn. I looked up at him again, and this time, his eyes were trained on mine, like he had the intent to protect me at all costs. In that moment, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

"You can't tell anyone what I've told you. You know that, right?" I said, pushing around my pasta. Derek cooks really well, but he gave me a ton of food.

"Babygirl, I know people who could bust him-"

"If I don't follow through with this, Maribeth'll send me to a conversion camp. I'd take Father Limp-Dick over that anyday."

"Babygirl-"

"I can handle it," I argued. As if on cue, my cell phone started ringing.