Fighting Thrasher Jones

{7} Every Time the Rain Comes Down

Making good on her word, Sabrina returned twenty minutes later with a handful of clothes for me to pick through. I selected a hoodie at random along with a pair of sweatpants, leaving the nicer, more fitted shirts and pants alone. Those types of clothes didn't suit a girl whose lips were constantly tipped down in a frown or whose pained eyes were always a pale green.

"I didn't know what else you'd need," Sabrina had said sheepishly as she rifled through the stuffed plastic bag, "So I brought some shampoo, conditioner, a razor, lotion, a new toothbrush, and other...feminine things."

I'd thanked her as an unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest, and gratefully accepted the enormous bag that had begun to rip due to the strenuous weight inside of it.

I locked myself in the bathroom, refusing to look at my reflection in the foggy mirror above the cracked porcelain sink. Stripping out of my worn clothes, I forced my eyes away from my naked body for the bones jutting out beneath my thin skin made my stomach queasy. The insufficient meals at Jackson's had taken their toll, and it was no secret that I was malnourished; I just chose to hide my body under the baggy clothing I wore.

The truly sickening part of my body that I kept hidden were the bruises. Some were old, tinted a yellow-green, but others were a fresh, dark blue that bled to a deep purple. Nevertheless, they were physical indications of Jackson's severe mistreatment and abuse of which I'd been utterly powerless against.

Pulling back the curtain of the shower, I reached a hand in to test the water. I hissed through clenched teeth, instantly yanking my arm back when the water scolded the pale skin on the top of my hand. Without adjusting the temperature, I stepped inside the shower, allowing the water to burn its trails over my body.

I was beaten and bruised, my heart; torn and battered, and I was hanging by a thread frayed on one end. I was no different than the defenseless punching bags that my brother had released his pent up anger on.

That was the one thing that I remembered the most about Leo; his anger and frustration. It had been the sole driving force behind his newfound interest in boxing which had spurned around the same time of our parents' deaths. He never once turned a fist on me, but it was obvious that he had been hurting just as much as I had been.

I'd put a lot of pressure on him back then. He was five years older than me and I was devastated about the loss of my parents. My brother, although already eighteen, was compelled to grow up fast. Not a single tear was shed in my presence, yet I'd always chosen to dismiss the way his eyes became cloudy and distant when he thought I wasn't looking.

I knew better now. Leo had been beating himself up while not allowing himself to show any signs of pain in front of me. The realization sent a pang through my heart and I found myself wishing that I could go back in time to console my brother as he had done for me.

Fiery tendrils continued with their descent down my body, but I welcomed the pain as I used the shampoo Sabrina had lent to me. My fingers caught in the thick knots tangled in the uneven, choppy hair I'd had to slice off when Jackson's hands had been clamped around the longer strands, forbidding my escape just over one week ago.

With a shuddering breath, I rinsed the shampoo and grabbed the three-bladed razor from the plastic bag hanging on a hook by the shower. Shakily clutching the razor in my hand, I held it above the fleshy scars that jaggedly scoured my wrist, suddenly feeling the need to apologize to Leo for all the pressure I had placed on his vulnerable shoulders. I needed to be with him once again.