Page 14 of Running Feral

He explains a little about what he’s about to do. We go through the song and dance about the hospital one more time, with him assuring me that if I want to go and have an actual exam with evidence collection, nothing will be reported to the police unless I want it to be. But when I still refuse, it’s clear by his expression that he gets it.

Then he asks permission, and once I nod, he starts to touch me. He pulls gloves out of somewhere that I don’t see, so it’s all very clinical. It’s also all very gentle, with constant stopping and starting to make sure I’m okay and explaining what he’s looking at while he looks. He goes over all my cuts and bruises, listens to a bunch of seemingly random spots with a stethoscope—the works. Each little wound gets cleaned as we go: bandages applied, an ice pack put on my ankle, some painkillers handed to me. And I spend it all in a state of suspended panic and shame.

Then we get to the part I was hoping he wasn’t going to ask about. His questions regarding ‘sexual trauma’ make me freeze up so hard, I can hardly push the words through my lips.

I don’t want to talk about it.

It’s fine.

It’s no worse than anything I’ve had before.

Which is a lie and we both know it, but I’m not telling him the truth. Not him, not anyone. Ever.

“I know this sucks, but it would help if I could take a quick look. To make sure there’s no severe damage. I won’t touch you if that would help.”

Eventually, I nod. It takes us a minute to get adjusted, using the blanket on Gunnar’s bed like a drape over my body for the illusion of privacy. Then he asks me to take off my pants, roll onto my side, and bring my knees up to my chest. Micah looks, but he doesn’t say anything like he normally does, and the pattern of his breathing changes in a way that spikes my heart rate.

“What?” I straighten my legs.

Micah sighs. “What happened?”

Silence hangs between us, veiled and heavy.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tobias—”

“It’s fine!” I cut him off, because we are done with this conversation. I flail around until I find the sweatpants Gunnar lent me, tugging them back on under the blanket and dislodging the ice pack in the process. “Are we done? Can we be done? I’m not dying, right?”

Micah blows out a steady breath. “Okay. But I want you to keep an eye on things and let me know if anything gets worse.” He stands up and takes a big step back, so he’s not crowding over me, before saying, “I swear to god, no joke. If you start shitting and/or vomiting blood, you call me. Or go to the hospital. It is notfuck-around-and-find-outtime anymore if that happens. Y’hear?”

Until now, he’s been soft spoken, with a mild accent and an unmistakably ‘gay’ lilt to the way he talks. Pronounced, like he leans into it. But as soon as he gets a little heated, it’s like I can see the redneck coming out of him and it’s almost a little intimidating.

Like always, I try my best to hide the flashes of real fear that are running through me. Fear that I might genuinely be fucked up, and fear that Micah isn’t as nice as he seems and will run straight to Eamon after this to hand me over.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Micah rolls his eyes, but doesn’t seem offended. “Don’t be a bitch just because I’m fabulous. Try saying ‘thank you, Micah,’ instead.”

He’s gathering his stuff up, not waiting for a response. It almost catches him by surprise when the words “thank you” actually do slip out of my mouth.

Then I’m back to huddling into my oversized borrowed clothes and praying for this day to come to an end. Finally.

I try to get up when he opens the door, but he turns around totutat me.

“No. You stay. Be a good boy and ice your ankle. I’ll send Gunnar in to continue hisPrince Charmingshtick while I see myself out. Oh, and be prepared, I’m ordering you an at-home STD panel, and this one is not optional. I’ll put it under someone else’s name. Don’t worry.”

My mouth is hanging open, but I don’t have the chance to say anything before he disappears through the doorway.

I hear him murmur a few words to Gunnar, but not nearly long enough for him to be giving a rundown on everything he just saw. Thank fuck.

Eventually, the murmuring disappears and Gunnar peeks into the bedroom.

“You should sleep in here,” he says, hovering in the doorway. “I can take the couch. It’s late. Well, early now. Do you need anything else?”

There’s a ping-pong battle in my brain for a minute because I do need something, but asking and getting a ‘no’ might be that final humiliation that makes me crumble away into dust. WhenI think about it, though, he’s been falling over himself to help me ever since I got here. More generous than I expected, so maybe this whole vibe I’ve been feeling between us isn’t just a delusional fantasy, like I suspected.

“Will you…” I hesitate, almost stuttering at the words, which is embarrassing in and of itself. “Will you sleep with me?”

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