Obsidian Hearts: I

Twenty Four: Enebler

— Sable Rae

"Are you upset with me?"

"No." Paris mumbled walking into his bathroom. I didn't believe him but I didn't push the issue either. I figured I had done enough for tonight.

Climbing into his big bed I pulled the laptop into my lap and exited the previous movie playing to find another. When I'm finally putting on Ice Age Paris comes back and I spot the first aid kit in his hand. "Did you hurt yourself?"

My mediocre medical instincts activate, ready to patch him up if so. I couldn't do stab wounds but anything else I had no problem assessing.

Paris came and sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my legs into his lap. I furrowed my eyebrows as he began to pull the socks from my feet. I flinched back but he grabbed my legs holding me captive. "Stop."

His voice halted my refusing instincts, stopping me from stopping him. I never showed anyone my scars except Cleo. My mother knows but she'd rather not see the damage done so I keep it covered. My father has only seen it once and since that time it's only gotten worse. I heard my heart beating in my ears from the nervousness of his stoic expression. Each sock came off and then slowly he unwrapped the handy work of my gauze.

It was no surprise to see the bruised and scabbed skin. I couldn't even muster the slightest hint of disgust seeing as this has become normal for me. When you look at something after so long it begins to no longer bother you.

It doesn't make the pain go away though.

What was surprising is the fact that Paris didn't show any signs of discomfort. He didn't become Squeamish like Clotilde. He didn't make a face as one would expect from looking at such a sight.

I looked at the big red bag with the white cross plastered on front. It was larger than my own; the ones I keep at my house were carry sized. His wasn't but I guess that's because he probably got hurt more often than me. Paris unzipped the medical bag revealing its contents. It was the usual, antiseptic wipes, instant cold compresses, roller bandages, band aids, alcohol, et cetera. There were also bottles of pills, some labeled others not.

Paris grabbed gauze pads, alcohol, and betadine.

He dabbed the gauze in the alcohol before his eyes slowly traveled to my own. "This is going to hurt."

I chewed at my lip and shook my head. "I'm used to it." My response didn't seem to make him too happy but he proceeded nonetheless. "Is that really your mom you have locked up in the attic?"

The man looks as if he's not paying me any attention, his gaze solely on what he's doing. I know he is when he finally answers me after seconds of silence. "That is what she told you."

"She's really beautiful." I admit. "You don't look like her though." Paris doesn't say anything else but that doesn't make me shut up— which it probably should have. "How long is she going to be up there?— I'm sure it's been days if she's become desperate enough to beg me, a complete stranger to let her go. She almost convinced me too. I felt bad but then she told me I had Stockholm syndrome. I don't have Stockholm syndrome, do I?"

Throwing away bloody gauze, he goes in for a second round of disinfecting. "I'm not holding you hostage. You don't have Stockholm syndrome."