A whir of bicycles wheels past us and makes him jump. His entire body tenses and lurches as if he feels the need to find shelter away from the noise and the people. He rubs his arms, trying to hide the tremble within them, but I recognize that panic. It’s a face I’ve seen before.
I feel bad for suggesting this in the first place. He’s so uncomfortable.
“Let’s go back.” I gesture toward the parking lot.
Kevin drops his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry. I just really want to go home.”
“It’s okay.”
We turn around and walk back toward the car. Every step I take rubs my cuts, reminding me of my own discomfort. He drinks to stop his pain, and I cut to feel mine.
We get back to the car, and he turns up the heat, trying to calm his shivering. I pull the sweater off and hand it to him.
He pushes it away. “That won’t help.”
I rest the sweater on my lap and buckle my seatbelt. My pale arms are nearly translucent in the bright spring sun. I trace my fingers along the aging bruises. They’ve faded, but their ache remains long after my skin absorbs the color.
“You look better,” Kevin says, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I play with the sweater on my lap. “I wish I felt better.”
“Me too.”
We drive by a large apartment complex on the left. Kevin looks out the window, leaning to look at the parking lot.
“What are you looking at?”
Kevin straightens his posture and brings his eyes back to the road. “Just seeing if someone I know is home.”
“We can stop there if you’d like.”
“No!” Kevin snaps. He takes a quick breath, swerving slightly.
Is that who he’s stalking? Does she live there?
We drive in silence again until the car turns in at our parking lot. I walk past the dead bushes planted along the sidewalk and follow him inside. He closes the door, heads into the kitchen, and begins to pour a drink with shaking hands.
“You know, if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen,” I say.
“If I told you any of it, you’d leave.” He fills the glass with brown liquor.
“You might be surprised. I have my fair share of damage too.”
Kevin ignores me. He makes a sandwich, tossing half on a plate and handing it to me. A pang of hunger jolts through my stomach, and I take the sandwich. He watches me with every bite, ensuring I eat. Once the last bite enters my mouth, he heads into the living room with his drink in hand.
I go to the bedroom, grab some clothes, and slip into the bathroom. I strip off the sweatpants and they fall to the floor. Healing bruises stare up at me from my thighs. My eyes continue up until they land on the angry red cuts etched into my hip.
For years, I tried to space them out to avoid running over the scarred tissue of others, but I ran out of space. I need to stop doing this. If these wounds become infected, it would be a bitch and a half to explain. This shit will get me tossed back into an institution before I could even say, “It was an accident.”
I pull my shirt off. My ribs protrude slightly less, and I pinch the tight skin between my fingers. It’s less elastic than it was before. I’m gaining weight here, and I hate it. I’m aware that I need to gain weight, but it doesn’t keep me from looking twice at the disappearing bones.
The bruises on my stomach are nearly healed as well, leaving pale skin in their place. My arms are a different story; they always took the brunt of the beatings. I roll my shoulder, feeling residual pain from all the times I fixed a dislocated shoulder myself instead of seeking medical attention. I’m not a doctor, but I can play one if I have to.
I look at the broken mess I call my body—half the shit caused by my own shitty decisions—and wonder what stories can be told once the bruises are gone.