Page 39 of Forever We Fall

“When she said it, I couldn’t feel anything. I was hollow.”

“And I wasn’t here when you needed me.” Any excitement my body felt evaporated in the pits of my hell. It’s ash now.

“I’m not your responsibility,” Arlo grouses, gaining a hint of emotion in his voice.

“I’m your guy, Arlo. I told you.” I dig my finger into his hair and grab his neck. “You are mine. Mine to care for. Mine to protect.”

When I know he won’t say more, I release my hold on him. He does the same, bringing his arms to his sides. I lather a rag until it’s overflowing with suds, and then start at his neck and then move to his chest. There are scars everywhere. Some look like cigarette burns, others are small splits in the skin that have healed in jagged lines, while some look to be fucking cigar burns.

I vow to do the same to his uncle with each one I clean.

When I finish with each scar, I quietly pray ancient words of healing over his skin.

His back is much the same, but fewer. I skip over his perfectly fine ass and wash the backs of his legs, before scooting around to his front. The soapy rag hesitates over his fresh cuts.

I look at them and think about what he told me, about feeling nothing when hearing such horrific news about his friend. That’s when I understand. If he feels it, he’ll blame himself.

The cuts save him from emotional pain that will be too much to bear.

If he doesn’t fight through it now, this wound will fester. It will be worse than any cut on his beautiful skin.

I meet his gaze and slowly clean his wounds. A tear slips from the corner of his eye.

When I finish with his legs and feet, I stand. His gaze follows me up, and we’re nearly eye to eye.

“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”

The balls of muscles in his jaw flex. His lips quiver.

“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”

His nostrils flare, and his hands ball into fists.

“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”

“It is!” His shattered voice and heart clatter around the shower stall. He shoots his fists into the air above his head and shakes them so violently that the veins in his arms and chest bulge.

“Blakely’s death is not your fault.”

“I talked to her Sunday.” He bares his teeth.

“Did she say she was having trouble?” I hike a brow.

“No,” he snarls.

“Did she say she was taking drugs or thinking about ending her life?” I whisper.

“No.” His fists come tight toward his chest as though he’s trying to keep his heart inside.

“What did she say, Arlo?”

His tears come in earnest, mixing with the water raining down on him. He hunches and sobs.

I wrap my arms around him and welcome the onslaught. I will see him through anything, so long as he chooses to fight for this life he has.

“We had a normal talk about classes and extracurriculars. She sounded normal. She told me…” He hiccups and then nestles his face into my neck. “She said she loved me and that she was sorry. I asked her what for.”

He straightens but clings to my arms.

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