Bad Boys Do Cry

56: I Fought First

He's leaving. Again.

"Are you sure you have to go back there?"

"Haze, you won't be able to convince me, I have to go," He cuts me off before I can speak again, "And no, you're not coming with me."

He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in my room.

This should be normal, it used to be. I've been alone in this room before, but now it feels eerily empty. I look to the couch that's become more of a closet than a bed these last couple of days. He keeps 'falling asleep during the movie' as he likes to say. I let out a sigh and sit down on my bed. The clock marked 12:30 am and I couldn't help but feel a tightness in my chest remembering the time I went with him.

"Don't do anything stupid, Oliver," I whisper out into the universe.

Three hours later he comes back. He tries to hide his face from me and only grunts out responses. He moves farther away from me each step I take. There's slight winces of pain that escape his lips, but he tries to cover them up. I can tell there's something bothering him, a blind man could.

"Oliver, at least let me clean you up."

He stops moving, turning to look at me. His cheek is busted open and I know that if I lift his shirt, his back will be filled with bruises. He shakes his head but walks to the bathroom anyway, jumping up on the counter. He slides his shirt off, a hiss of pain as he does so.

I walk up to him with some cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, and a damp towel. I start with his cheek, slowly brushing away the dried blood. I focus on his cheek, not wanting to have to see the bruises splattered everywhere. This is worse than ever.

"Did you fight back?"

He shakes his head, "Please don't fight," He tells me the words I once told him long ago.

I stay silent, not wanting to push him into telling me anything.

"I fought first."

My eyes snap to his and I stop working on cleaning up his wounds. He looks at me completely emotionless, a determined look in his eye is the only thing I can pick up. I want to ask why, but does he need a reason after everything he's gone through?

"Oliver," I shake my head, deciding not to speak my mind.

"Say it," His hand goes to my waist, trying to comfort me.

"I hate it when you fight."

"I had to."

"Had to? No, you didn't Oliver, maybe you could've made it out without having to confront him, without hurting yourself. I'm always so scared when you go and for you to come back like this, I can't take it. Why, Oliver, why did you fight him?"

There's a loud silence between us. My outburst took him and even me by surprise. Usually I'm good at keeping myself in check, trying to control myself for the sake of others. But seeing Oliver like this, hurt and more purple than tan, it made me snap.

Oliver just stares at me, his calculated eyes taking in my appearance. If he was shocked, he's not showing it anymore. He's silent, and the hand that was on my waist is no longer rubbing calming circles.

Say something, Oliver, I silently beg him. I feel embarrassed on top of guilty for my outburst.

"Your dad, he's back. And he's not leaving without a fight."

I stumble backwards like the words had actually hit me in the face. I drop the towel that was now more red than white. My eyes are locked on Oliver, who's sitting still looking at me with intensity. He's frozen, unsure of what to do.