Every Little Thing

42

|| Evelyn ||

I sit, watching the clock hands tick slowly by, creeping from one number to the next in an excruciatingly slow fashion. It feels like days have passed, but in reality, it's fifteen minutes until six and I've only been home alone for roughly twelve hours. I've done nothing but slept, unable to bring myself to take yet another shower.

The last fifteen minutes arrive in a crawl, as if someone has decided to stick the clock into a tub of molasses. But, eventually, I hear Reed pulling into the driveway, gravel crunching under Sharon's sturdy tires. I practically leap from my seat, rushing to the door and flinging it open.

Reed spots me from the driver's seat and smiles, waving a weak hand. I wait, arms wrapped around myself as he slides out of the car and makes his way to meet me.

"Hey, there," he says, pulling me in for a hug. I practically melt into it; I'd forgotten how good his hugs feel. "Did you do okay without me?"

I nod, and he shows off a broad grin.

"I got a job," he says, and I smile as widely as I can, trying to convey my excitement at the news.

Where? I want to ask, but before I can write it down or anything, he ushers me inside and closes the door behind us.

"It's at a pet store," he laughs, running a hand through his hair, "They're paying me a little over minimum wage to feed and clean all the animals; isn't that great?"

I nod as enthusiastically as possible, ignoring the ache in my muscles as I do so. Besides the fact that this is good news for the both of us, my heart sinks a little at the prospect. This means Reed will be gone pretty much all the time, and although I know I agreed to it, I can't ignore the little knot of dread that has formed in the pit of my stomach. It was hard enough to survive one day without him—now I'll have to endure every day.

I smile anyways. What Reed doesn't know can't hurt him.

Still talking about the job, he moves to the counter and picks up The Breakfast Club, smiling fondly at its faded, cardboard cover. Lifting it in the air, he raises his brows.

"You still up for this?"

I give him a thumbs-up, and even though I'm exhausted and sad and confused about everything that's going on, his smile makes every second of it worthwhile.

________

"John Bender," Reed tells me, pointing a finger towards the leather-clad guy with the long hair, "Is one of the most underrated characters in all of movie history."

I watch as the character himself crosses the library, beginning to speak about his home life and family situation and so on as Reed talks over him.

"Look at this, Evelyn. Watch this scene, and I swear to God, it will change you."

So I watch it. I watch John Bender pantomime his father and mother, spewing insults at himself and then imitating his father's punches to the gut and face. When challenged about the validity of the act, he stomps over to the nearest table and shows off a cigarette burn on the inside of his arm.

I swallow hard, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. An uncomfortable heat begins to make its way to my neck, flooding my cheeks. It's unfair. It's so unfair that someone can just beat another human being like that. That some people have the actual heartlessness to hurt others, to punch them, to put out their cigarettes on them, to choke them—

Reed realizes I'm crying even before I do. He curses under his breath and pauses the move, turning to me with that panicked look that I can hardly stand.

"Hey. Hey, I'm sorry, I—I wasn't thinking. That's my fault; I should have realized it might have triggered something, and I—"

I shake my head no, reaching for my notebook and scrawling in its pages,

It's okay. I'm fine. It's just hard to watch.

"Yeah," he breathes, placing a hand to his forehead. "Evelyn, if you want to watch something else—"

I write so quickly my wrist nearly snaps out of place.

No. I want to finish it.

He sighs softly through his nose and moves to resume the movie, but before he does, he meets my eye.

"It's hard for me to watch, too," he says, placing a hand over mine. "It really is."

I look down at his hand clasped over mine and see something I'd never noticed before. A scar, long and thin, runs from the inside of Reed's wrist all the way up to his elbow. Without thinking, I trace it with my finger, unable to process how it may have gotten there ore what he might have done to receive it. Reed flinches and pulls away gently, but firmly enough that I know not to ask.

My stomach is uneasy for the rest of the movie, even in the funny parts that make Reed chuckle ever-so-slightly. The more I look at him, the more I see them—scars on his wrists, his arms, a small one right below his left ear. He can't have done them to himself; there are a few places that are practically unreachable—his ankle, the thin layer of skin beside his eye, a sliver of pink trailing across his jawline.

They're small and hardly noticeable, but they're still there.

It's to that thought that I sink into his side, tracing circles along the edge of the cushion with two fingers, going around and around and around until I fall asleep.

________

Greg's hands are at my throat, and I am trying to scream.

My mind is running like a freight train. Stopstopstopstopstop.

His fingers are imprinting themselves into the skin of my throat, and I can't do it, I can't stop him, I'm not strong enough.

I am going to die. That is the only explanation, as I dangle here, propped up by Greg's hands and being forced to look into his hungry, feral eyes. I want to claw them out so that no one will ever have to look at them ever again. I want to scream. I want to kill him. I want to run.

I can't. I can't. I can't.

I struggle against his weight as tears sting my eyes. Fear is in my blood and the world is its kerosene, lighting me on fire until every single molecule of my being is burning, burning, burning.

I want to die already. I want this to be over with.

I just want to die.