Care
You walked back into the living room.
The bandages you had put on your thighs to soak up the blood felt nice. It eased your anxiety about it all.
You had also changed sweats — same color, same brand, in hopes that Tony wouldn’t notice anything. You wanted anything than that.
You took your place back on the couch, holding the blanket you had taken with you by your side.
Your stomach churned at the sight of Tony eyeing the sweats. Eyeing your thighs. Openly.
And he smiled. So sickeningly soft.
You cleared your throat again. If you couldn’t harm your thighs, you’d find another way to soothe yourself through pain — picking at the cuticles of your thumb. An anxiety habit you picked up along the way.
Tony stayed eerily quiet, the silence turning louder than his voice could ever be.
You tore the skin, relishing in the stinging pain it offered. It was satisfying. You kept your eyes downcast, avoiding Tony and his sealed lips.
But suddenly — abruptly — out of the blue — Tony was next to you, putting a hand on yours to gently take hold of it, no longer allowing you to tear the skin.
You look at him, he stayed silent still, looking down at both your hands. His thumb gently caressed your knuckles.
Your stomach flip-flopped, the pace of your breath speeding up like usual when somebody dared be caring.
What was he doing? Why was he doing this?
Your eyes stung with tears at the pure gentleness.