A World of our Own | K.TH *COMPLETED*

To be Wanted

"You'll need some ice for that bruise," I hurry back and forth around his house, surprised to find that he had more medical supplies than a pharmacy. Then I wonder if his father comes and abuses him often, and my face flushes red with fury.

When I show him the brace, he gives me nothing but a single glance. Then he proceeds to stare off into space, different shades of emotions flickering across his face as I guide his fingers gingerly to the right holes.

"Your thumb goes here," I say instinctively, even though he probably knows what a brace is and how to use it. Possibly he knew it better than me. "And the velcro needs to be tight, or it won't be as effective."

"Yes."

His skin is warm against my cool ones, even though mine soon turn warm with heat as well. It'd been so long since I'd last touched a person willingly, and a boy at that. I'd almost forgotten how it felt like.

While I apply the ointment on other nasty cuts on his body, the silence becomes too unnerving for me to take. Even my voice sounds hesitant as I attempt to make small talk.

"How old are you? I'm, uh, seventeen."

Seventeen and abandoned already, I think. The corners of my eyes begin to sting violently, warning me to tone myself down. If I show him my tears, he would probably— he will think I'm disgusting. He will hate me, and I don't want that to happen.

Deep breaths. Blink.

Get that smile back on your face— and I don't care how hard the process is.

When he doesn't reply to my question, I stop talking at all. I'd spent my daily— or yearly— dose of courage today, and I didn't have an ounce left in me to try something else. And even though that was cowardly, it was probably the best course of action, anyways.

When I start on another of the countless wounds he has, his thoughtful expression shifts to one of determination.

"Eighteen."

Huh?

Then I realize it's the reply to my question before. He was only eighteen? I'd thought that he was at least in his twenties, judging by how mature he seemed. Besides, he lived alone— by the way that his father wasn't here last time, it had definitely seemed that way.

As I finish up, I realize I've been breathing through my mouth the entire time. The mess of shattered glass and with blood still in the air, it was impossible to breathe through your nose and not flinch.

When I bend down to close my fingers around a large glass piece, he grips my wrist firmly. The unexpected contact nearly makes me drop the piece, but I keep my hold steady as I look over to him in surprise.

"Leave it."

"I'm good at cleaning, don't worry."

His lips purse, and his fingers grow tighter around my wrist. "Leave it." He repeats, his voice somehow managing to sound threatening and appealing at the same time.

Then he stands, his features twisting into a faint wince as he strides back into his room. I'm still trying to figure out how he could move with such elegance after he'd been wounded so badly when he appears with that disgusting man slung over his shoulder.

"Go home," he tells me as he walks past me and out the door.

"Wait— who is he? Where are you taking him?" When I ask, the look he gives me is so murderous I nearly trip backwards on the floor.