Whispered Prayers of a Girl

“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t,” I demand. “It felt good, incredibly good, you just deserve better.”

Her hands, which were clutching my back, now come to rest on my sides. I feel tingles where my nerve endings are supposed to be damaged.

“You deserve more too,” she says quietly.

I give her a half smile and lean down and peck her lips before pulling back. “Thank you.”

Her smile lights up her face and it makes my chest tighten. I push up from her chest and roll to the side, my feelings for her getting to be too much. I need to back away before it swallows me whole.

I catch the hurt look on her face as I sit up in bed and swing my legs to the floor, but I don’t stop. I sit on the side and hunch my shoulders. My eyes land on the scars on my arm and hand. I flex the hand, watching as the skin tightens and turns white. Gwen has never paid attention to my scars, and I’ve never really cared what others have felt about them, but they still make me feel inadequate when it comes to her. I’m not only fucked-up on the inside, but the outside as well. It’s a constant reminder of how I failed in my duty as protector. It’s not fair of me to expect or even want her to settle for someone like me, even though I know she would.

I feel her hands rest on my back, and I grimace, glad she can’t see my face. Her lips touch the back of my neck, and my fucking body responds. I silently curse my inability to tamp down the need coursing through my body.

“Are you okay?” she asks, rubbing her hands up and down my back, unknowingly tormenting me further.

I nod, unable to speak at the moment. My eyes slide to the partially open drawer. I just barely make out the images that are inside. The picture I had with me under the bridge feels heavy in my pocket now that reality has made its way back home. I’m a bastard for letting things go as far as they did. I should have never touched Gwen, knowing that I can’t give her what she rightly needs.

I get up from the bed, and without looking back at her, mutter, “Shower.”

I know I’m being an asshole, and I’ve probably hurt her, but I can’t turn back. She needs to know that I’m not the man for her.

I force my legs forward. I don’t dare to look back because I’m scared of the look I’ll see on her face. Once the door is securely closed behind me, I hunch my body against the sink and pull in a deep breath. This whole thing was a huge fucking mistake. I can’t regret having them in my house during the snowstorm because they would have frozen if they’d stayed out there, but I should have worked harder at keeping them at a distance. I should have put up more shields at the first sign of affection I felt toward them. My only excuse is they bombarded me without me even knowing it. It’s too late now to push those feelings away, but I can work at ensuring they don’t become stronger.

I slip out of my clothes, then turn and face the mirror, needing a reminder of why it can’t work between Gwen and me. My jaw hardens as I stare at my fucked-up face and body. The skin puckers and looks warped in some spots. Where my beard should cover the bottom half of my face, the scars prevent it. The doctors say I was lucky because the burns on my face weren’t near as bad as the other areas of my body. They’re still bad enough. When the door to the car was ripped open, the fire had just reached my face and the rain helped keep it from spreading too fast, and gave the guy enough time to pour more water on the fire and douse the flames. Had I been in the car for a couple more minutes, the flames would have completely engulfed me. There are still times I wish it had.

I close my eyes, remembering the pain and smell of my flesh burning. I remember hearing the crunch of metal as the door was yanked open. My body screamed in pain but my eyes stayed pinned on Clara. Even in the dark interior of the car, I could still see her lifeless eyes open, as if they were glowing, accusing me. Judging me for not saving Rayne. My eyes stayed connected with her dead ones every second I was in that car.

It wasn’t until they started pulling me out that I searched the back seat where my little girl was. It was too dark, and I couldn’t fucking find her. It was just an empty black abyss. I was weak from the pain but I still fought to get free. I needed to get to Rayne. After only seconds, my strength gave out and the fiery pain took over.

Days later, I overheard the doctors tell my parents that they were amazed the pain from the burns didn’t leave me incoherent, that I shouldn’t have been able to focus on searching for Rayne when I was being pulled out. What they don’t understand is that the pain of losing them, of being right fucking there and being unable to do a damn thing was more painful than anything else I could imagine. I’d take being burned a thousand times over going through that pain again.

Remembering that day usually makes me feel one of two things, immense pain or unrestricted anger. My expression turns into a twisted scowl, indicating the anger has won out. All at once, my hand balls into a fist, and before I know it, I swing out and punch the mirror. Shards of glass rain down on the sink and floor. I bring my hand to my face and watch as blood drips from the knuckles. Lifting my eyes back to the ruined mirror, I’m satisfied when most of the glass is gone, only leaving a few pieces behind and obscuring my reflection.

“Alexander!” Gwen calls through the door, sounding frantic.

“I’m fine,” I call gruffly.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

I feel bad for the scared tone in her voice, but it’s better for her to know now that I’m not completely levelheaded.

“Yes. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

It wouldn’t surprise me if she were gone when I’m done. It would serve me right and be better for her. But a small part of me wishes she wouldn’t be. I need to push her away, but I selfishly don’t want to let her go.

I turn from the shattered mirror and turn the shower on. Not waiting for it to warm up, I walk underneath the cold spray. The freezing blast of water steals my breath, but I force my body to remain still. I prop my hands on the shower wall and hang my head, letting the cold water cool off my hot temper. I may feel safe to lose it behind closed doors, but I never want Gwen to witness it.

I stay under the water for several minutes, breathing through my nose and out through my mouth before I roughly wash my body. I pick the few splinters of glass out of my hand and set them on the shelf in the shower, then scrub the cuts with soap.

Avoiding the glass on the floor, I step out of the shower and grab a towel. By the time I’m done drying myself, blood is dripping down my hand and onto the floor. I rinse the cuts again, smother them with ointment, then wrap a piece of gauze around my hand. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I pull open the door, unsure of what I’ll find or what I want to find.

My heart drops when I find the room silent and empty.

What did you expect, Alexander? my subconscious asks. For her to stick around and get rejected by you again?

I shake my head, willing the thought away, and grab some jeans from the closet. I pull on a shirt and socks and go out to the living room, preparing to walk to the bridge for my truck. The thought of going back there so soon has my fists clenching at my sides. My reluctance to be around people isn’t the only reason I don’t like going to town. That bridge is a part of it too. If I could, I’d avoid the damn thing. Unfortunately, the only way around it to town tacks on three hours.

I come to a stop, surprised, when I find Gwen in my kitchen, her back to me as she stands in front of the stove cooking something. When she hears my approach, she turns. The wary look she gives me makes me want to hit something. Myself mainly, because I’m the source of the look.