In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Seventeen

When you come back, you're curled in a ball in the middle of the floor, alone. Your hands are still shaking. You feet are still kicking. Dona's hands are gone.

It takes all the effort you have in you to push yourself up, your arms shaking under the weight of your body. Once you're up, you're still for a few moments, just watching your trembling hands and trying to place yourself. The room is dark. When you glance over at the window, the only light is the sickly yellow oozing in from the apartment hallway.

The room is silent but for your heavy, unsteady breathing, and the sound of your own voice makes you jump when you tentatively call out, "Dona?"

Nothing. Maybe he can't hear you?

You steady yourself and call out for him again.

The doorknob twists one way, then the other, then the door opens. He had to lock you in?

When he enters, his steps are slow. Not afraid, exactly, but wary. He keeps his head angled just to the left, and in one hand is a water bottle and in the other a small plate of three crackers.

"I didn't know if you'd want to attempt to eat," he says softly. He sits down near to you, but not close, not like he has been. He slides the plate and the water over, and when you touch his fingers, not just his hand but his whole body curls in on itself.

"What did I do?" The question is sharp and bitter in your throat.

He looks up at you. His eyes are hooded, exhausted. He hasn't gotten any sleep this whole time, either.

It takes your eyes a few moments to catch it in the shadowy room. His left eye is swollen, black and blue and purple, down into his cheek and over onto his nose.

"What happened?" you ask. Your voice is small and you flinch away when Dona gently rests his hand on yours.

"You're not to blame," he starts softly.

"What did I do?" Your words are quick, rushed, terrified, oh god, oh god, did you do this?

"You were experiencing some kind of fit," he says gently. "You were flailing around and I attempted to grab your wrists. I knew it was unwise, but I was afraid you would injure yourself. I should have let you go when you tried to pull away, and in hindsight, I probably made it worse while I was trying to help."

You raise your hands to touch his cheeks, but when he flinches away, you drop them, trembling.

"I —" you start, and then you can't, because Dona is sweet and gentle and beautiful and perfect, and you struck him hard enough to give him a black eye. It doesn't matter why you did it, or that it was an accident, it happened, and it's unforgivable. You cup your hand over your mouth, then bite down hard on your finger. He gently rests his fingers on yours, drawing them away from your face, but you flex your knuckles to shrug them away.

"Pascal," he says, and the way his mouth wraps around your name is so warm, so comforting. "Pascal, this was not your fault. This was no more your fault than if you had accidentally closed a door on my fingers. You didn't realize I was trying to help you and you were trying to protect yourself. I don't think you even realized I was there."

You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut. Your breath is erratic, sharp, hissing through your teeth as you try to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

"Pascal." As Dona speaks, he puts his hand on your shoulder. You shrug it away.

"Please don't," you whisper. "You shouldn't even be anywhere near me."