Perfect Flaws

32. To Trust or To Not Trust

Elijah

It's been forty minutes. Forty fucking minutes, and she still isn't out of the bathroom.

I understand that she doesn't want to spend time with me, or even near me, but sometime tonight she has to get some sleep.

Impatience runs me over, I let my impulse guide me around the creaky bed, and to the bathroom door.

Inhaling shakily, I lift my hand, knocking three times as I wait for her response. I hear her sigh inside, before the doorknob twists, and I see a streak of her face in the crack.

"Yeah?"

I stare at her for a moment, not really sure why I'm knocking.

Just above her head, I see the mirror, reflecting toilet paper soaked in blood.

"What are you doing?" I ask, still staring at her blood.

Her face scrunches, obviously irritated, "it's none of your business, go to bed." I sigh, nodding to the mess behind her, "is it your wound?"

She scoffs, "the one you created? Yeah."

I push the door open, walking past her.

"What the hell? I'm not even dressed," she exclaims, using a towel to cover her chest.

"I've already seen every inch of you."

She glares at me, clearly unimpressed.

"I did it, so I should fix it," I state, leaving no room for an argument."I don't have time for whatever guilt you're suddenly feeling, alright?" A pause. "Just go."

I shake my head, sitting on the toilet seat, "then, I'm paying you back for treating my wounds last time."

She cocks her head, "I didn't expect anything back."

"You should."

She huffs, pointing at me,"fine, only because I'm exhausted and you're the one who did this to me."

I nod.

I watch her turn around, as she shows me her exposed back, a thin band covering very little. Trickles of dried and fresh blood coat her skin, drenching the fabric of her bra.

I look at the counter, crumples of toilet paper with blood soaked into it are scattered about. The closure strips I put on her earlier are bloody and discarded. Her shirt sits in the sink, coated in crimson.

My fingers connect with her shoulder, unhooking her strap as it falls down her arm.

She gasps, jerking forward, "your hands are cold!"

I smile, amused in her tone, "then warm them up."

She scoffs, "just hurry up."

I comply, washing my hands, as I look for a wash cloth. I find a small wooden bin next to the shower, holding a few pristine towels and hand towels.

I take the smallest cloth and soak it in warm water. Squeezing the excess out, I begin patting the cloth onto her wound.

Rhea takes a sharp inhale in as she leans her head back.

"Is there a kit here?" I ask, still dabbing the cloth onto her skin.

"No, I couldn't find one," she mumbles. I sigh, "okay, give me a few minutes, alright?"

"What? Why?"

I shuffle past her, shutting the bathroom door, as I leave our room.

The floorboards creak under my footsteps, as I walk down the old hallways with dim lights.