Happy Endings

Number Eight; The Broken

"Jesus, Alicia." Nathan carried me in his house that I couldn't focus on.

A smear of blue.

A blue house.

My body was limp as he carried me through his house, which seemed to be never ending, but not huge.

Did that even make sense?

You're dying.

"Alicia, can you hear me?" His voice was muted, a muffled sound next to me, but I shakily nodded, and he sighed.

Setting me down on a sink, I realized we were in the bathroom, and his cheeks were slightly pink.

"W-what is it?" I asked, rain dropping of my nose and hair, making a puddle on the floor.

"Well...your clothes are soaking wet, and you...you um...." He turned pinker, crawling down his neck and ringing his ears.

My clothes?

I realized he had turned on the shower, and steam was rising from the water, and it finally clicked.

I need to take off my clothes.

"Oh." I breathed, and he nodded, coughing uncomfortably.

The worst part about this, is that I was stiff, my limbs frozen.

I couldn't take them off alone.

Shit.

I trembled, my breath growing rapid.

All my scars, my abused skin. He'll see it all.

"It's okay if you don't want to, I mean, this is the best way I know of you getting warm the fastest." He excused, pointing toward the door with his thumb .

"I-I can go-"

"No," I swallowed, gripping the hem of my shirt with frozen fingers.

"I...I need your help." I whispered hoarsely, and his eyes nearly bugged from his head, mouth opening and closing.

"Okay." His voice turned husky as I slowly nodded to him and slid off my shirt, it sticking on my skin.

"I..." I coughed, my body shaking, "I can't move my legs." I admitted.

It was true. My pants were frozen to my legs, sticking hard and refusing to let me move.

"Oh, yeah." He came closer, seeming calmer then five seconds ago, and his hands came close, brushing against my pudgy stomach, making me flinch away.

He was standing in between my legs, and I was very aware of the warmth radiating off him, as he unbuttoned my pants, and began tugging my jeans down.

I hissed in pain, forgetting the scars on my thigh until my jeans were half way down my legs, and his body stiffened, eyes gazing and going over my legs.

"Please, d-don't stare." I whispered, knowing he didn't mean too.

He snapped out of it, slipping my jeans off my feet with a few tugs, and threw them off the floor.

Struggling, I stood from the sink, putting my body on full show, as he stood there, a quick step away, staring.

Staring at my bruised ribs, and scarred, abused thighs. Staring at the bruise on my forehead, and the faint hand mark on the side of my neck.

I felt exposed, vulnerable under his stare, and in one part of me, I wanted him to stop, to turn around and leave. The other wanted him to stay, and see every inch of my skin, and let his fingers run over the scars.