I wake up a few hours later and for a moment I have no clue where I'm at. At first I think I'm supposed to be in my room, then I remember that my dad told me to sleep outside. But then I remember Seaton and that I'm in his apartment, on his couch, cuddled up in his blanket.
Oh fuck. I shoot off the sofa and untangle myself from the cover, attempting to be quiet as I make my leave. I tip toe passed his kitchen and towards the door and when I get to the door, I see that there are locks on it. A lot of locks. I fumble with them, trying to unlock all of them, but just as I'm getting to the last one –
"Where do you think you're going?"
I tense but don't turn around because I know to whom the voice belongs. It's Seaton of course and he fucking caught me. He sighs deeply and encloses his hand around my wrist before spinning me around and looking at me straight in the eye. Those eyes boar into me, burning me. Why does it hurt to look at him? Why does it make my stomach seize?
"I'm the lightest fucking sleeper in the world, kid," He snarls. Is it natural for your hair to be that perfect when you wake up? "And trying to sneak away wasn't a good idea, because that showed me that you have something to hide, which means I was right."
"No, sir," I shake my head but he pulls me back over to the couch. He yanks the covers and pillow up, folds the covers neatly and walks over to the hallway where he puts them both in a closet neatly. Then he comes back over, puts his hand on my chest and pushes me backwards until I fall onto the couch. I wince; my chest hurts from that kick.
He sits on the far end of the couch and I'm thankful for the space it gives me. I shift uncomfortably as he stares.
"You're hurt," he points out, "Is it bad enough that it can't wait until I take you to the doctor this afternoon?"
I look up at him sharply, my head swinging up so fast I think I might get whiplash.
"Yes," He nods, "I'm taking to a doctor."
"No," He shake my head, "They'll – they'll contact authorities..."
He looks at me with that long, burning gaze and then looks away, nodding, "Right, and you wouldn't want to get out of there...At least you're not denying it..."
I blink, because he's right. Why aren't I denying it? I certainly don't want him to know.
"So who's doing it, exactly?" He asks, and he keeps eye contact with me until I look away first.
"No –"
"Tell me the truth," He snaps, "Look, I already know who's hurting you, I want to see if your answer coincides."
"I...I'm..." Is there anyway to get out of this? There isn't, is there? Don't answer that, it's a stupid question. How'd I get into this? It's all because of that girl Lauren. No –it's my fault, should have just told her and then I would be in my bed sleeping, or at school (what time is it?) and not here with him.
"How about a deal, kid?" He says, leaning back and tilting his chin upwards slightly so that his bangs fall out of his eyes. I do the opposite, so that my too-long bangs fall in front of my eyes and block me from seeing that face, "You tell me the truth and I won't go to the police. Lie, or don't answer my questions, and I call 911 right now."
Is that even a choice? Sounds like a trap to me. "Yes, sir."
"It's a deal then?"
"Yes, sir," I whisper softly.
"So, I'll ask again, who's doing this to you?"
"Alfred," I say stiffly, letting myself fade far away from this living room. It's useful for when you're in less than pleasant situations. This isn't exactly a party... It's like being outside your body and at the same time inside it still. Like you see everything and hear everything, and can talk, but you aren't really there. But then he shakes me roughly, his hand tightly gripping my shoulder and I'm yanked back to reality.
"Don't do that," he snaps. I narrow my eyes at him.
"How did you...?"
"Experience," He says shortly, "Now, Alfred... is that your dad?"
"Yes," biologically.
"I see," He nods curtly. Damn it. How did he know that? He couldn't have been abused as a kid right? He doesn't seem like it... but you never know. But I'm not getting that vibe from him... did he know someone? "How long has he hit you?"
"Since my mom died," I replied.
"And when was that?" He inquired, and even though my curtain of bangs, and can feel those dark eyes. Fuck. My heart is pounding against my chest like it wants to escape the prison that is my ribs.
"When I was born," I respond evenly.
"So, basically, ever since you can remember," He snorts, "Great. That's what, fourteen years?"
"I'm sixteen," I correct, "turning seventeen on February 17th."
"Of course," I can hear the smirk in his voice, "So sorry. What does he do to you, besides hit and kick?"
I shrug.
"Answer."
"He uses a belt... sometimes..." I say slowly, rubbing my thumbs together nervously. I can't believe this is happening. Why is this happening?
"How? Where?" He inquires, his voice laced with an emotion I can't place.
"On my back, and he just..." I clear my throat and hesitate, "and then he just takes off his belt, holds it be the end and... yeah."
I'm talking way too much. I wish everything would just stop.
"He hits you with the buckle?" He clarified, and I just nod. "And he's the one who broke your ankle, correct?"
I just bowed my head again in affirmation.
"Fine, that's all I'll ask," He says, standing. He goes down the hallway and into what I'm pretty sure is the bathroom. I can hear the small tapping of his feet against a tile floor.
So that's it? No embarrassing, life altering questions? No 'Sorry, I'm calling the police anyway' or more intimate queries? It doesn't seem like it's enough. Not like I want there to be more, but I was expecting something more dramatic. Maybe me having a flashback or fainting or maybe him asking something I wouldn't be able to answer and then he'd call the cops.
Nothing. Just 'how long?' and 'what else does he do?'. Nothing. What was I expecting? Everything, I suppose. Not this. Why isn't he prying? I thought he'd be nosy, like Mr. Spencer. Like Suki. Like Linda. Like everyone. But he isn't, he's just coming back into the room silently with a First Aid Kit.
Wait –no. No way.
"Shirt. Off," he grunts at me and I bite my lip.
"No, sir," I reply.
"Arguing? Not like you," He sneers.
How do you know what I'm like? You don't. You think because you know my dad smacks me around a bit, that you know what I'm like? No one fucking knows what I'm like, because I don't let them. I go around saying 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and 'sorry, sir', so that no one knows that I'm really like this. Seaton may know more than most, but he doesn't know the half of it. Fucking bastard.
"Take off the shirt," He repeats and I grab the tail of my shirt, pull it over my head, and throw it on the ground just to spite the apparent neat freak.
I smirk to myself and he can't see it because of my hair falling around my face as I duck my head. I look terrible. I know this. The scars, the wounds, the bruises, the way my ribs protrude from under my skin. It's ugly and frightening, and I hope he's fucking shocked. I hope he sneers with disgust and makes me leave, so I can just get away.
"Holy fuck," Seaton mutters under his breath. My smirk drops to a frown and I look to see his reaction. Repulsion. Repugnance. Nausea. Those are all expressions that I expect to find on those hard features.
But there's nothing.
If there's an emotion on that face, I can see it. He looks at me and says, "I'm going to work on those lashings. Lie down on your stomach."
So I do.
-
"Oh, Jayden, I'm so sorry about what happened," He cooed, entering my room and closing the door softly behind him. "He had no right to do that to you."
"I...I dunno..." I say, plopping down on my bed, "My wrist hurts."
"Here," he bends down and rips off a bit of his pant leg and wraps it around my wrist to hold it in place, "I don't think it's broken. Just sprained or something. Will you be alright?"
"Are you going to play pokey again?" I ask, blinking up at him.
"Poker, and yes," He nods. I bow my head. I don't was him to leave me... "Unless..."
I look up hopefully.
".... Unless you'd like me to stay..."
I beam up at him, and suddenly my wrist doesn't hurt so much.
"Oh, yes, sir!"
"Please, call me 'Charlie', Kiddo."
I just keep smiling.
I wake with a start and I'm lying on my stomach without a shirt on in Seaton's living room, which is more than a little disconcerting. I grab my shirt, which had mysteriously folded itself and was now sitting on the arm of the couch, and start to pull it on.
"Don't think about it," Seaton's voice snaps at me. I look over at him and he's just coming through the door with a bag of something. "The salve needs to sit and your shirt will rub it off."
"Oh, yes sir," I say, and curse myself. I must have fallen asleep while he was putting the balm on. It's not my fault, he's got really nice hands. Long, piano fingers and tough skin and it felt really good when he was spreading it on.... why the hell am I thinking about that?
I shove the thought from my mind and stand up. There's a clock on the wall right above the television. Almost noon. How long was I sleeping? And oh shit, I had that dream here? I hope I didn't sleep talk...
"Come in here and eat, brat," He said, and I blinked.
"I'm... not hungry," I reply.
"Did I ask if you were hungry?" He inquired, "I told you to come here and eat."
I sigh and walk to the kitchen and stand awkwardly in the doorway as he pulls out Chinese boxes from the bag I'd seen him with. Wait, he had time to go and get Chinese? Or did he just order it? Why does this even matter? He looks at me and shakes his head and his lips tug into a small smile. Smile. Whoa... that's... why can't I stop staring?
"Sit down," He points to the chair on the left. I slowly seat myself in it and he hands me a whole box of chicken fried rice and a pair of chopsticks.
I haven't ever used chopsticks before. I fumble with them, and about five minutes later, I have successfully manages to pick up a total about two grains of rice. I swear the little sticks are laughing at me. And when I look up, I see Seaton is too. Not laughing, per se, but his eyes are looking at me amusedly as he handles the pair of his own with ease and as much elegance as possible when using twigs to eat food.
I narrow my eyes at him. What are you? The chopstick king or something, you bastard?
"I'll get you a fork," He says, getting up and pulling open the drawer to the left of the sink. He pulls out a silver fork and hands it to me, and I can finally eat without making a fool out of myself.
We eat in silence for a while, and it's surprisingly... no, comfortable would be the wrong word. No. It's... almost content, although that's something I've never had. Okay, that's a lie, I've had it before, but it was false. It was a lie. This... this doesn't seem like a lie and I'm trusting him that it isn't. Trusting him.
Trusting him.
Trusting him.
Why?
He moved in two and a half months ago and he's been nothing more than a rude, heartless bastard ever since. He's rude and mean and coarse, but he's kind. He doesn't litter, he's an artist (I think) and he's smart... but he's a fucking bastard. But I suppose that's why I trust him.
Nice is bad. I think I've said that before and Seaton is enough of a mix of both that it he makes it possible for me to have faith in him. Not too mean, like Alfred. Not too nice, like Charlie. I think... I hope... this will work out. He's an asshole but... I like him.
I like him?
Huh.
I guess I do.