How Did I Miss Your Tears? [ Edited ]

5. What Did I Miss With You?

How Did I Miss Your Tears?

What Did I Miss With You? [ Edited ]

Trigger warning: slightly graphic descriptions of violence/aftermath of violence(injuries), implied  child abuse

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KARMA—

    Three whole days have slid by before I can even catch my breath, my mind too occupied with thoughts of a certain bluenette; said boy has not shown his face once, since the day in the restroom. My dreams are haunted by the canvas painted on his pale legs that day, the blues and black staining his fragile body with so much pain. I wonder how bad it is now.

    I am not an idiot. I know his mother has something to do with his disappearance, and I am surprised by the heavy weight of guilt dragging my movements and leaving me sluggish with the void inside of me growing larger by the day.

    I also know that it is my fault; I forced him into that outfit, and his mother probably saw and- and... Nagisa, like any other human, has a shattering point. This is clear; after all, he cried that day. I can assume that the mocking had both hurt and strengthened the male, and he stood up to her. I can only imagine how she would react.

    That is why I tell myself it is not my fault.

x x x

    Not my fault, not my fault, I chant to myself as I stumble half-dead into homeroom. It's Day 4 Without Nagisa, and I feel like my actual life force is being sucked out. Who knew he had such a heavy effect on me?

    I deposit my books onto my desk, my eyes downcast as I move across the room. A clap on my shoulder has me looking up to meet Terasaka's cocky grin. He jerks his chin in the direction of the front of the room, and I follow his gaze to...

    My breathing falters as I spot him. He is sitting hunched in his desk with his bangs falling over his face. As if he can sense my eyes on him, he turns his face towards me, and I inhale sharply as I see how... how damaged he looks. 

    One cerulean eye is swollen shut, just an accessorizing centerpiece in the masterful bruise curving down to his cheekbone and all the way up past his eyebrow. It looks as if he was purposefully hit in that one spot with something round, definitely not a fist. The opposing cheek is bloated and a pale shade of vermillion, his plump bottom lip split. A smear of red blood still dusts his lips. Even the pale column of his throat is not left unmarred, as thin, finger-shaped bruises decorates where his jawbone meets his throat.

    A glance to the rest of his body sees the way he grips the sleeves of his too-large hoodie in an attempt to hide his arms, and the hunch of his body gives away the fact he must have been struck in the ribs more than once; I know the sign of bruised ribs well, having experienced the excruciating pain myself. 

    Kayano's small voice jolts me from my study of his injuries, as the girl leans forward over Nagisa's desk, causing his eyes— eye— to shift their focus to her. "How many times have you fallen down the stairs, now?" Her voice is teasing, but the underlying tone of worry is obvious, and I feel a strange wave of jealousy at their intimacy.

    I grimace as I remind myself I dug my own grave; I pushed myself away from him, I hurt him, and now I must face these consequences.

    One more glance in his direction sends me reeling into a memory of when I first discovered that Nagisa's mother hurt— no, abused— him:

    I stood on the scratchy doormat of the Shiota household, one hand raised to knock on the door. I was a little crabby, as I invited Nagisa over to study with me that afternoon, and he had been a no-show. After two hours, I jumped into action, to confront(check on) him.