charcoal and scars

chapter 15

His vice-like grip kept my arm pressed against the rusty wall. There must have been a screw or some other sharp metal object, because I felt something stab through my skin, slicing it and prompting blood to drip in spirals down my wrist.

A small gasp escaped my lips, but he didn't even flinch as his hands started getting slippery with blood.

"You know what today is, squirt?"

I bolt upright, knocking Gamzee off the side of the couch. I ignore his indignant hiss and wipe the ice-cold sweat from my face. What the fuck had brought on that memory?

My eyes catch sight of a gauze pad on the floor by the couch, and I immediately look to my arm.

"Fuck." Fresh blood is welling up through my shirtsleeve. I leap off the couch and take the stairs four at a time, nearly faceplanting whilst sliding into the bathroom.

I fumble for the extra gauze pads and the painkillers. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It takes me forever to finally get the gauze box open. It's stinging like fuck now, the stale, chilly air nipping the wound relentlessly.

I quickly stop the blood and redress my arm before taking my dose of two painkillers. God, I hate swallowing these, but they work quickly, and I can only feel a dull throbbing, more like a headache rather than a migraine.

I let out the breath I realize I was holding and grip the edges of the sink. My frantic heart still hasn't calmed down, and the adrenaline in the painkillers isn't helping.

Slowly, carefully, I remove my shirt and start rinsing the sleeve under the cold water. Luckily the stains are fresh, so they come out fairly rapidly.

I slip back into my room and search for another shirt, shivering. Why the fuck is it so cold?

Once I've successfully located a clean shirt, I hop back down the stairs and check the thermostat. Huh, that's weird. The heating must be broken, because it says it should be seventy-five degrees, but it can't be more than fifty, so I turn it up to eighty.

I notice the medium-sized package resting against the front door first, then the fancy, intricate handwriting used to write the label. I have it snatched up and half-open before my phone starts ringing in the living room.

The ringing is defining; I don't remember turning the volume up that high. I finally manage to find it and open it, and I swear Nanda is about to lose it.

"Finally!" She exclaims, causing more pain to my ears. God, why is everything so loud? "Took you long enough!"

"Pleasedon'tyell." My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. When the fuck did that happen?

"Kat, are you alright?" I try clearing my throat, but at the disapproving protest of Nanda when I speak again tells me it didn't help.

I stand there helplessly for a second, only to be greeted by laughter from the other end of the phone, adding salt to the wound that is my pride.

"Whatthefuck,Nanda?" Now I sound like a crow choking on a frog. Fucking brilliant.

"I'll be home in ten minutes to take your temperature, okay? Don't go to sleep." Without waiting for an answer, she hangs up.

I don't move, realization hitting me. I have a fucking cold. I swear to god, every time I've gotten sick, its come so out of the blue, I'll literally be fine, and then bam, I could be dying.

I don't think I've quite reached that point yet, but its only a matter of time.

I shut my phone and sit back on the couch then, shivering, curl up in the blanket I don't remember putting there. I snuggle into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket over my head completely.