by CJ Lyons
I nodded, stepping back to let him in, my voice still fighting past the initial shock of seeing him.
He stumbled in, tripping over the doorjamb and brushing past me. At his touch, my voice won its battle and I spoke, “What happened?” I asked, guiding him to the chair beside the closet.
He was silent, then, “I can’t say.”
This was almost as unnerving as his appearance. Who could have done this to him that could scare him so much that he wouldn’t reveal their identity? I bit my lip, steadying him on the chair, and he spoke again.
“But you said you wanted to be a nursing aid, right…?” His huge eyes drilled into mine, “Would you… help me?”
I’m not sure why but that made me want to cry.
We managed to get to the bathroom (thank goodness there’s one on the first floor). I set him down on the toilet, shuffling to close the lid beforehand. Knelt down in front of him, examining the cuts on his hands and forearms.
He still had the bandages from last week around his hand.
Something about a few of the cuts was troubling. A few of the shallower ones were angled differently, and had already healed partially. I suspected these ones were self-inflicted.
Reeled at this, why would he hurt himself if…?
There was too much dried blood, dirt, and general grime to get a good look at the larger cuts, but it was easy enough to define them as defensive wounds.
Guess the cuts on his neck and chest would be from the gap in his defence. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all, judging from how close a couple of them are to his arteries.
“Noah…” I said softly, trying out his name, “Who attacked you?”
He shook his head, looking away, tears burning in his eyes.
“You have to tell me.” I took his hands in my own.
He shook his head again, squeezing my hands as if her were trying to communicate to me through them. This contact coaxed a few tears to my eyes, damn my sensitivity.
“How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong?” This applied less to his physical wounds and more the apparent mental trauma he was battling, it seemed.
Kept shaking his head, closing his eyes tightly. A choked sob broke from his lips; he bowed his head and trembled.
I swear, a part of my heart shattered upon seeing that.
“Okay,” I managed, “Okay, Noah, you don’t have to tell me. Let’s just… get you cleaned up, okay?”
He nodded, sniffed, and squeezed my hands again.
“You should take a shower, and wash yourself off.”
Another silent nod.
Retrieved a towel from under the sink, placing it on the rim of the sink and motioned to the shower before leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind me.
As the door clicked shut, tears fell from my eyes, completely unrestrained. It must be my overly sensitive empathy. A couple of my mother’s fortuneteller friends deemed it to be both my blessing and curse.
My empathy, to feel exactly what any person who has skin contact with me feels. It happens more strongly for me whenever the person I’m touching is feeling particularly strong emotions.
For Noah, it was pain. Unbearable pain that only seemed to be assuaged by crying my heart out. I leaned against the door, listening to the new sound of water hitting the bottom of the bathtub.
Occurred to me that it would not be appropriate for him to redress in his dirty clothes, so I hurried to the laundry room, which was across the hallway. Luckily, the dryer had finished a little while ago, so I selected one of my big cotton t-shirts and flannel pajama bottoms. As an afterthought, I also grabbed a clean pair of boxers, absentmindedly wiping my eyes on the stack of clothes as I returned to the bathroom. Knocked on the door, “Noah, I brought you a change of clothes.”
No response.
“Noah?” I knocked again, louder this time.
There was nothing but silence on the other side of the door, save for the spattering of water.
Opened the door slowly, not wanting to disturb him or startle him (or come off as a pervert). Looked around, noticing his pants on the floor. I stepped into the room, keeping my eyes away from the bathtub, where I supposed he was.
“I’m just gonna put these here.” I said aloud, placing the clothes on the toilet seat. “Okay?”
More silence.
Now I was worried. I looked over at the bathtub, all I could see of Noah was the top of his head over the side of the tub through the transparent shower curtain. He was lying down in the shower I guess. Or…
“Noah?” I approached the bathtub. “Are you okay?”
His constant silence was getting steadily more worrying. I stood beside the tub, looking down at him. He was still wearing his shirt and boxers, slumped down in the bottom of the tub with the water falling on him like lukewarm rain.
His eyes were shut and his lips were parted slightly, water droplets bouncing off them. Might have been sleeping peacefully if not for the horrible wounds all over his face. I bent down, and touched the back of his neck gently, a new feeling rushing into me.
I was safe, secure.
At peace.
That must be what he was feeling, and I picked up on it. I smiled, in spite of the situation, and shook him a little, making him open his eyes blearily and turn to me.
“You fell asleep.” I explained in response to his curious look.
“Oh…” he said shortly, scooting a little higher. He began to pull his shirt up, picking up from where he left off before going to sleep, I would assume.
He was struggling, I could tell. Not surprising, considering the depth and severity of some of his wounds.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
He surveyed me for a few seconds, his eyebrow tweaking in a way I recognised as his ‘thinking face’. After a few seconds, he nodded, so I reached forward, tugging the bottom of his once-white shirt up.
“Arms up.” I requested, to which he complied instantly. My eyes took in every detail of his torso as I pulled his shirt off. In retrospect, this was fairly intimate, seeing as I had only really talked to him once.
More bruises, of course, stamped into his skin. He was skinny, unhealthily so, with his ribs jutting out of his bizarrely pale skin. The bruising pounded a trail of tenderness down his front and sides, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers and continuing down his legs. More damage was done to his left leg, his kneecap was amassed with purples and reds, and his ankle was pink and swollen.
He watched me as I looked him over, with an odd expression on his face, almost apologetic.
Shook my head to focus, grabbing a smaller towel and placing it over him. He got the hint immediately, arranging the towel over himself and sliding out of his boxers as I busied myself with grabbing the shampoo.
He exhaled deeply as I returned to his side, a tiny smile flickering on his face. His arms lay limply at his sides as I began washing his hair. As I did so, I felt a bizarre sense of comfort and security; he really transmits strong emotions. I raked my hand through his hair, untangling the thick black strands and rinsing away the dirt and blood. I cleared some of the dirt and blood from his face, revealing pale white skin. Like erasing a marked paper.
Pleasure. He’s radiating it.
(I would like to take this moment to praise whoever invented the showerheads that can detach from the wall and be directed wherever you want. They are AMAZING.)
I rinsed out the last of the shampoo, sitting him up and retrieving a washcloth. I ran over his back with the cloth, gently massaging any areas that weren’t bruised. I did the same for his front, taking extra care around his cuts. Following this, I did a quick check of his legs, making sure there were no cuts before washing them and his feet.
Now I think most people in this situation might think, “Well, wow, I met this guy once, and he’s naked in my bathtub. That’s crazy!” or “How awkward, I’m washing another dude.” Not me. Honestly, after working in the hospital and just generally being alive, people’s bo
dies don’t bother me. Yeah, I’m aware of his anatomy.
It’s pretty fantastic, in my opinion (heh), but nothing to feel weird or awkward about. I mean, it’s not like I have no clue what’s under his towel.
His eyes were closed, he trusted me totally.
Folded the cloth, using the corner to clear the last of the blood and grime from his face. After I cleaned the dried blood from his eyes, he opened them and looked at me; there was pure gratitude sparkling in the icy blue.
I nodded, wiping his forehead with the cloth, propping him up with my arm. I was kind of wet now too, but I didn’t really mind.
Allowed the water to fall on us for a couple more minutes, before turning off the shower and draping the huge turquoise towel over him.
He held on to it like a blanket, getting to his feet slowly, with much support from me.
And then there he stood, in my bathroom, covered only by my towel, smiling up at me. Even covered in bruises and cuts… he looked beautiful. It was almost like I wasn’t even seeing the injuries, but I was looking at just him. Beautiful. I’ve never been more attracted to anyone before.
Maybe I’m a little too romantic.
Retrieved another towel, and indicated the stack of fresh clothing, picking up his dirty clothes and the extra towel and making my exit.
After I finished starting a new load of laundry, I heard the bathroom door open.
Noah limped out, with a towel on his head. He yawned, taking the towel off his head and handing it to me.
“Thank you.” he said quietly, “You’re very kind.” Slowly, his eyelids fell, and his head nodded, the resulting movement jerking him awake.
I smiled, “Come on, I’ll take you to the guest room.”
He nodded, yawning, “Thank you.”
Got him settled in the guest room, you know, folding down the blankets and turning on the lamp, etc.
He moved very deliberately, like he thought his actions out completely before following through with them. With those same measured movements, he sat down on the bed, and shifted his legs under the covers. Made a note of this because his slow carefulness seemed noteworthy. It was interesting.
His hands shook as he gathered the blankets around him; he was shivering. Realised he was shaking because of the pain. All those bruises and cuts, of course he was in pain.
Hastily, I ran to the bathroom, and grabbed the first-aid kit and a bottle of acetaminophen from the cupboard. When I returned, he was lying extremely still, flat on his back. It seemed he was holding his breath.
Leaned down beside the bed, touching his arm gently. “Noah…”
He looked at me, his eyes barely open.
“You’re in pain, do you want to go to the hospital?” I looked at some of the cuts, aware of the tiny beads of blood collecting in the deep gashes, “We probably should… some of these could use stitches.”
He shook his head, “Questions… too many questions.”
“They’re important questions, though. If someone has hurt you, they should answer for it. This is… assault. It’s illegal.”
At this, his eyes opened a little wider. The way he looked at me, I could see the desolation in his eyes.
“They won’t believe it even if I told them.” He said, his tone lowered in utter defeat. “They didn’t.”
I leaned closer, “I would believe you.”
His eyes slid shut, “I doubt it.”
Didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing, instead busying myself with opening the first-aid kit and taking out several gauze pads, butterfly bandages, and a roll of dressings.
Took his forearm in my hand gently, supporting it with my fingers spread out to disperse weight. He watched in silence as I placed one side of the butterfly bandage down, and pulled the gaping wounds shut one by one.
Then, to keep him from jostling the open cuts too much, I placed pads of gauze over each cut, and wrapped his arms up with the dressing.
Moving to his chest and neck was more difficult; I used the butterfly bandages, and taped gauze over them. Mostly because the weird angles of the cuts prevented me from wrapping them properly.
Or maybe I just need more practice with this sort of thing.
Realised he was falling asleep without taking an acetaminophen. Shaking him, I handed him two of the pills, and sat him up, hurrying to the washroom to get a glass of water.
Gave him the glass of water, which he emptied oddly quickly. After finishing it, he slid further down into the bed, nuzzling his face into the pillow. Pulled the blankets over his shoulder, smoothing it down his sides.
He was whispering something, I leaned closer to hear.
“…thank you, thank you, thank you…”
Turned off the lamp, standing in the darkness beside him. “You’re welcome.”
So I’ve known him personally for about two weeks. Impersonally, (like when I dream) I’ve known him for years. Since I was about twelve I think.
Still find it hard to believe he’s just in the next room. I plan to sleep in the living room so I can be closer to him overnight, just in case.
Terra is working the later shift at the hospital tonight, so I wanted to be nearby, if she, for whatever reason, looked in at the guest room.
This was all part of my clever plan to ensure that Noah has the best, most undisturbed sleep of his life, you see.
Terra should be home momentarily, I noted, reading the digital display on the microwave.
11:21 pm
A few minutes later, as expected, I heard Terra come in, followed by the familiar thunk of her purse/backpack hit the floor and the lock turn.
She stepped deliberately down the hallway, keeping quiet until she rounded the corner and saw me busying myself with filling the kettle.
“Good evening, Terra!” I turned around after setting the kettle up, “Your customary cup of tea is on its way!”
She smiled feebly, obviously worn out, “Ah, Aerian, what would I do without you?”
“You’d go to bed without tea, have dirty clothes, live in squalor, and would eat take-out every night.”
She chuckled, rubbing her forehead. “Ahh, true. So, why is there a bed made up in the living room, anyway?”
The kettle burbled behind me, “Oh, I have a guest, so I’m staying in the living room in case he gets up.”
She arched her eyebrows, “Who?”
“Noah Talon.”
Her expression of surprise morphed into a frown, “Talon? Like the businessman’s son? Of the absurdly rich Talon family? Doesn’t he have some huge estate he can stay at? Why’s he here? Little rich kid taking advantage of you, Aerian?” Apparently, she had met the patriarch of the family on her first day at the new hospital, and he rubbed her the wrong way. That dislike for the patriarch evidently extended to his family as well.
“Terra, please! He’s my friend.”
She gave me a disbelieving look, her distaste for the Talon name all too obvious. I turned back to the counter, preparing her tea; two sugars, stir it up.
I bit my lip, “And… he needed my help.”
“Couldn’t he hire a servant?”
“Terra!” I scolded, setting her tea down, and sitting down across from her, “You don’t have to instantly hate him just because of his surname! He’s really sweet, and he needed my help!”
“What did he need?”
Thought about my response for a few seconds while Terra sipped at her tea, finally coming up with an adequate response.
“Sanctuary.” I said eventually.
“Sanctuary? From what?”
“I don’t know. He… couldn’t tell me.”
“Well, where is he? The spare room? I’ll go ask him. Probably nothing.” She got up decisively, and, ignoring my protests, crossed the hall and opened the door to the spare room.
Before I could get in the door, she had turned on the light and was at his bedside.
She was just standing there, looking at him. I followed her gaze to the wounds on his neck,
his face. Morbidly captivated.
He was lying on his back, his left arm on top of the blankets. The slight rise and fall of his chest was the only assurance he wasn’t dead, it seemed. He looked even worse now. She reached forward slowly, touching the swollen bruises beneath his left eye, her expression softening.
Knew what she was thinking… “It’s nothing.”
His breath hitched at her touch, he shifted in his sleep, wincing.
Terra looked down, following the trail of wounds down his pale face to his neck. A couple of the wounds were seeping tiny drops of blood onto my t-shirt, the collar almost saturated. She pulled the blankets further down, revealing the rest of the damage.
A particularly deep wound on his right forearm was bleeding steadily through the bandages, soaking into the sheets beside him.
She swallowed, then looked to his face again, studying the tiny flickers of pain that altered his expression.
“Aerian. Why didn’t you take him to the hospital? He needs medical attention.”
Felt a hot blush rise in my face, “I- I… he wouldn’t…” I stammered, realising how incredibly stupid I was being. “I thought…”
“Go start the car.” She said in what I knew to be her ‘nurse’ voice.
Numbly hurried to the car, my mind swirling. I just let him go to sleep like that, bleeding all over the bed.
Thank… whatever for making Terra so brash. If she hadn’t wondered, he would have…
I swallowed, started the car, and ran full pelt back to the house.
Terra had woken Noah up, and was now leading him down the hallway with one of the blankets wrapped around him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he repeated, leaning heavily into Terra’s hold. “Aerie, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey. Come on.” Terra said softly, urging him along.
“I don’t want to go back. I escaped, but I don’t want to go back.” He faltered, slumping down further, “I’ll die if I go back there.”
166 Days, 14 September, Sunday
Today, I’m writing in the hospital. We took Noah here last night, and I slept in the uncomfortable chair at his bedside. Terra went home, but I insisted on staying with him until he woke up. More than one person has commented on how exhausted I look. Maybe I’ll skip school tomorrow and sleep.