This Is Not a Tragedy

8 | Strength of the Broken

A little while after I got home, it started to drizzle. Now it's 6:30, and the rain is heavier. I listen to it patter against the house as I sit on the sofa with a book in my lap. I'm reminded of when my mother last left. Her hospital stay was extended since she refused to come home. I give it another week before she does her typical post-episode attitudinal 180 and returns.

The chime of the doorbell cuts in between the rain patter. It rings again before I can even put my book down. Again. And again. Who could possibly need me so urgently? I open the door and see Hitori on the doorstep, arm extended towards the bell.

Clear raindrops fall off his hair and clothes onto the concrete. I then realize several of those droplets are red. Before even processing what could have happened, I kneel and pull him into the genkan, closing the door with my foot.

"Natsu-senpai," he groans, letting all his weight fall against my chest.

His body is cold. "Mhm. I'm here," I assure him as I take off his shoes. I wipe some of the wet hair clinging to his pale face out of the way and turn his head towards the light. It's dirty like he fell on his way here. Water and blood run from his head into his eyes and down his cheek. "Can you walk?" I ask.

"Walk..." he mutters, then clings to me. "Natsu-senpai, I'm sorry."

I have no clue what he's apologizing for, but I guarantee it isn't warranted. "Don't be sorry," I tell him and put my arms underneath his body then lift him like a child to carry him to the bathroom. His body is light, as expected.

I stop at the bathroom sink, set him down on the floor, and grab a washcloth to clean his face. When the wet cloth touches the cuts on his cheek, he winces. His shoulder catches my eye where there's a gash in his shirt that's soaked with blood.

"Hey, I'm going to take off your shirt to see where you're hurt, okay?"

He doesn't say anything, so I take the hem of the wet shirt and peel it off his body and over his head. The sight sends a chill through my chest all the way to my fingers. Seeing blood and bruises isn't new to me. But for some reason, I'm not indifferent this time. I touch one of the black spots blooming across his white skin.

Hitori recoils, whimpering, "It hurts," then rocks dizzily.

I gently move my fingers through his hair, parting it here and there to check for wounds. "Did you hit your head?" I hope he doesn't have a concussion. There's a gash near his hairline, and I pat at it with the washcloth that quickly turns crimson.

"My eyes sting." He hasn't opened them since he came to my door and I now spot a cut above his eye. Pink tears are streaming from beneath his closed lids. His black eyelashes flutter. "Are my eyes bleeding?"

"They aren't bleeding. Blood ran into them. Keep crying it out."

"I'm not crying," he whispers.

Ignoring the lie, I pat at his face again. There's so much blood and dirt, this washcloth is pointless. I toss it into the sink then look down at his legs to check for wounds and find scrapes on his knees. "Hey, Hitori."

"Hm? Senpai, I'm sorry."

"Shh, don't apologize. I need to clean your wounds. It'll be easier if I put you in the shower."

"Eh?" He opens his eyes, blinking several times as he fidgets.

"Just take off your pants."

"Y-yes." He puts his hands on my shoulders as I help him take them off. Holding his torso, I observe how his skin overlays the curves of his ribs and collarbone. Maybe his father truly doesn't let him eat. And he's still cold. A warm shower is an excellent idea.