Page 52 of Wicked Little Game
Samuel comes down sometimes, reheating the leftover pizza under my watch, but at least I’m close enough to intervene in case he starts another fire. We don’t talk much and after he’s done eating, he trots back up to his room.
Two episodes later, I decide to continue watching from the comfort of my bed. Another two episodes later, my stomach starts growling. I still haven’t eaten anything and apart from that, there are still two glasses and a plate I need to carry down to the kitchen.
In case Samuel comes back to my room, I catch myself thinking.Since when do I clean up because of a man? Something is really off with me.
Deep in my thoughts, I put on my slippers and grab the dishes before I make my way downstairs. Mentally, I’m already preparing my dinner, and maybe that’s the reason I miss a step.
“Ouch!” I yelp as I tumble down the remaining flight of stairs. Thankfully, I was almost all the way down, doesn’t make it any less embarrassing though. Shards are scattered everywhere and just when I thank God that Samuel is asleep, he storms out of his room.
“Can’t leave you unsupervised,” he says as he rushes to me. I wonder if he’s worried about me and a warm feeling spreads in my stomach at the thought.
I want to get up, but a sharp pain shoots through my palm.
Samuel kicks one of my slippers out of his way as he crouches down in front of me.
“That’s it, you’re getting grippy socks.”
“No,” I protest, still refusing to look at my hand that pulses with pain.
“You’re such a fucking moron, you could have killed yourself,” he says, trying to collect the biggest pieces of ceramic and glass.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure.”
He looks me over, his eyes widening for a second as he reaches for my right hand. Carefully, he grabs it, bowing over it as if he wants to shield it from my view.
“Shit,” he mumbles, as I look the other way.
“Is it bad? Oh God, Samuel, say something. Is it bad?”
I start to freak out, panic rising behind my chest and now I’m grateful I haven’t had my dinner so far because I’m pretty sure it would have been back out by now.
“Maybe we should drive to the ER,” he says,and I finally find the courage to look at my hand. A big glass shard is stuck in my palm, not right in the middle but closer to my thumb, and it hurts like hell.
“I don’t want to go to the ER, fuck. Pull it out, put a fucking bandaid over it or something, but please get it out.”
“That’s not a bandaid situation.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I whisper in a shaky voice.
“I can take care of it,” he says after what feels like an eternity. I breathe out in relief, but then he continues to speak. “But it’s going to hurt.Reallyhurt. I need to stitch that.”
I cry out as he touches my palm, and he gets up, looking for his jacket.
“ER, now.”
“No, please, I promise I can take it. Just, I don’t know, choke me unconscious first? A nice, well-placed blow to the temple? Anything, just no ER, please.”
I don’t want to risk anyone in the hospital calling my father, causing him to come back, and I also don’t like sleeping anywhere else, especially not in small hospital beds.
I remember sleeping cuddled against my mom in one of those things when I was around eight. She had split her eyebrow; fainted, and hit her head.
At least that’s what my father told me, and back then, I still believed him. Couldn’t understand why my mom glared at him, flinching when he softly touched her arm as we waited for the doctor to arrive. Maybe that’s why I don’t like hospitals.
I wasn’t a naïve kid, but maybe I just didn’t want to see it like it was. I thought adult relationships were supposed to be like this.
Complicated, with a lot of silence between the parties. Interrupted by brief moments of affection, which were followed by mostly one-sided screaming until everyone acted like all was well again.
