Old Wounds: Little Battles Part 6

Although she took in a sharp breath, Wallace's face was impa.s.sive. "How many men have you slept with, Sophie?"

"Men or boys?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm like hers. I wondered if it made a difference to her how many people over the age of eighteen had done me, and whether or not it mattered if they'd known I was underage, because most of them couldn't have cared less. "And do you actually mean 'sleep,' because we don't."

"No," she said seriously. "No, sleeping next to someone without s.e.xual contact would be a challenge for you. It would be a deeply intimate act."

My whole body bristled, but I said nothing.

"When's the last time someone hugged you?"

I shrugged.

"When was the last time you let someone touch you in a manner that wasn't s.e.xual and did not lead to, or stem from, s.e.x?"

I thought about Elliott, but it had been uncomfortable and I didn't let it last long.

She looked at me hard. "Just because in the past people might not have shown you affection in the form of hugging or holding your hand doesn't mean you're not worthy of those small acts of love, Sophie."

I hated her words, and I hated that she thought she knew anything about me. Despite my internal vow to remain silent, my mouth said, "They make me nervous."

"Yet sleeping with men you barely know is something you do with ease."

Screw her. "You don't know what I do. How the f.u.c.k do you think you know how easy or hard something is for me, or that I f.u.c.k anyone I don't know?"

She ignored my question. "Perhaps you should refrain from s.e.xual activity in order to better understand intimacy. You might find that simple things like a touch or a smile are actually much more rewarding than s.e.x with people who most likely don't even care for you at all."

"Perhaps you should mind your own f.u.c.king business," I spouted off immediately without really thinking about it.

"Do you worry that your father will take advantage of you?"

My breath caught. "What?" I stood up, my chest feeling tight, as if I couldn't breathe. b.i.t.c.h was suffocating me, drawing the f.u.c.king air out of my lungs to watch me flop around like a fish out of water. "I'm done with this s.h.i.t. Screw you. Don't ask me s.h.i.t about Tom. Ask him."

"Sophie, please sit down."

I didn't want to sit. I wanted to leave the room, but my body did as she asked.

"Why do you call him Tom?"

"It's his name," I answered tensely.

"Do you wish to distance yourself from him? Calling him by his first name prohibits you from acknowledging the familial bond you share with him."

"He distanced himself from me."

Wallace c.o.c.ked her head and jotted something on her legal pad. "Perhaps one day the two of you can sit down and talk about that. Your feelings are valid, Sophie, but you should also give him the opportunity to share his with you."

Again, I said nothing. She could have her little moments of counselor clarity, but I wasn't going to be involved with them.

"Are you upset that he didn't save you?"

I bit my lip as I tensed up.

"Shut up." I had meant it as a forceful command, but it came out a whispered plea. "You don't know anything."

"Do you think he should have stopped your mother from hurting you?"

My lip slipped from between my teeth and my jaw clenched. My teeth hurt from the pressure. She didn't know anything. I never told her about what my mother did, but of course he could have, and should have, stopped my mother from hurting me, but he didn't quite care enough to figure that s.h.i.t out.

If he would have just asked me a question about how I got one of hundreds of scars, or why it was that I was so bruised when I arrived every June, I would have told him the truth. But he never asked, and by the time I came to Damascus the summer after sixth grade, I didn't want to be in the same room with him. Plus, being alone in a house with a big man I barely knew, no matter if I called him Dad, Daddy, Father, or Tom, would never be comfortable again.

Then the f.u.c.king voice had to make an appearance, reminding me that no one ever did ask any questions, and no one ever saved me.

Shhhh! Quiet, Sophie. Don't wake your mother.

Wallace didn't need to know all that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Group therapy was about as annoying as it could have been, and as I reached Elliott's bedroom, with him following closely behind, I felt wiped.

I flopped down onto his couch, thanking the universe that such a wonderful place as his room even existed. Wallace had me thinking, and I wished I was high because I hated thinking about all the things that people like her wanted me to think about.

I had told Elliott about the fork and the day Helen decided she'd had enough of taking care of me, which was not to be confused with the day that Helen decided she didn't like me or whatever. I couldn't remember a time when she wasn't just outright mean.

I'd seen those melodramas on TV where the big bad mother/father/husband/whatever beat his or her loved one up and then the next day was all like, "Hey, I'm sorry, here's a gold necklace to make up for it." Helen wasn't like that. She never apologized. She never gave me anything.

Except scars and bruises.

I wished I was high. Why the h.e.l.l couldn't Elliott be a burner? I could be high right now.

I wanted to be high.

"S-S-SSSophie?"

I blinked as he said my name and I felt myself come back to the here and now just long enough to remember again that I was in Elliott's room and that just last week, I'd danced with him, and it was the best I'd ever felt for just a split second. His hands were perfect for that short time. The smell of him was just so...d.a.m.n! I didn't know what it was, but I liked it!

It was too much. He was way too much.

He didn't even know it.

It was like he was burning me, but from inside myself. That didn't even make sense.

I had broken that contact as quickly as I could, but I ached for him when I was across the room and no longer in his arms.

How could he f.u.c.king want me?

How could he do what he did to me? I wasn't capable of these feelings.

How could he make me want him when I didn't want any f.u.c.king one?

Why the h.e.l.l wasn't I high? I still had one pill left, but I was going to save it for tomorrow morning. I wasn't sure about being on morphine with Tom around.

"S-Sophie?"

I took a deep breath and looked up at him.

"What's up, Elliott?" I whispered, taking in his furrowed brow and nervous posture as he sat on his bed, and I gave him a small smile.

Although he didn't respond, his expression told me that he was worried about me.

His eyes burned into me; they breathed into me.

It made me hurt.

"A-a-ar-are you o-okay?"

I breathed out a near silent, "Yeah."

Shhhh!

I breathed in and forced myself to look away from him. "I'm fine."

Quiet, Sophie. Don't wake your mother.

I let a long moment go by before saying, "You don't look like you own that bed, you know?"

When I could finally allow myself to look over at him, I saw him scooting back, looking more comfortable like I'd taught him to do, and I smiled. That was better.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"If it sssssnows, w-w-w-we c-can-"

"We can play in it," I finished for him, not because I was impatient, but because the idea was sort of exciting. "Then I'll make you chili."

I liked making food for him. It was like the one thing I could do to give him the comfort he silently gave me. The thought of playing in the snow with Elliott made me think of being innocent with him; of being childlike and just losing ourselves in each other.

Now that there was such a creature as Elliott in my life, I hoped for snow. I wanted that childlike innocence back.

Sat.u.r.day morning came too soon. Tom was already up when my tired eyes finally cracked open. I could hear the TV downstairs, and smelled the coffee growing stale and burning to the bottom of the pot. Apparently it was a day off for him. I guess he didn't have to go to the firehouse or his paramedic gig. Grumbling because yet again I didn't get much sleep, I rolled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floorboards.

I shivered and went to retrieve my socks. It was probably eighty degrees right now in Tampa, but as I glanced out of my window, I found that the weatherman had been accurate. An early snow had settled upon Damascus, making everything outside blindingly white and everything inside much colder than I'd experienced in a long time. Tom mentioned the other night that snow would be a welcomed change from all of the ice this part of Maryland experienced.

I wasn't excited about the ice or the cold.

I stumbled out of my room and down the stairs, fully intending to go straight for the coffee pot, but was stopped short by the sight of Elliott sitting across from Tom at the kitchen table.

We'd made plans, but not until the afternoon.

I looked at the clock.

Oh.

Oh s.h.i.t. It was already twelve-thirty. Elliott had probably been here for a half-hour at least.

"Uh, hey."

Both of them looked up at me. Elliott smiled. I probably looked utterly horrible and yet he still smiled at me like I was fresh water to a parched throat.

"Tried waking you up, but guess you didn't hear me knock." My father sounded worried.

Well, s.h.i.t.

There I was in my sweatpants and t-shirt, both of which were clearly too big for me. I could either be incredibly embarra.s.sed that I'd slept too late and looked so bad, or I could own it.

Screw it.

I went over to the coffee pot. "Sorry for making you wait, Elliott."

"I-i-it's o-o-o-o," he paused, took a deep breath and then continued, "...o-okay." He must have been nervous because of Tom. "I-I-I b-b-b-b-b," he tried, but finally gave up. I went over to the table and he thrust a bottle toward me. "Hhhhere."

He'd brought me pomegranate juice and I couldn't help but smile.

I sat down and took it from him, my fingers brushing his just barely, and I shivered, but not from the cold air. "Thanks."

He pointed at my chest and I looked down, wondering if my b.o.o.b was hanging out or something.

"What?"

"Fffffavorite ssssssshirt?"

I smiled again, but then remembered Tom was in the room. My brow creased. "Yeah," I said as I turned to see Tom's eyes narrow as he studied the shirt.

I thought he was going to say something about it, but all he did was stand up, grab his coffee and newspaper, and mumble something that sounded like "Take your blood sugar and have fun," as he left the kitchen.

I felt bad that I had made Elliott wait with Tom.

"I'm really sorry."

He shook his head. "N-no, it's o-okay."

He sounded pained and slightly out of breath. I really looked at him. My scrutiny must have been too much, because he turned away.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head again, his eyes fixed on the table. "I-it ssssssnowed."

I smiled, even though I knew some s.h.i.t was wrong with him. "It did. October seems early, but whatever."

Elliott's body tensed up as he tried to speak, but all that came out were a few stuttered syllables. I didn't know what I was supposed to do when he got like that. It always seemed to help when I touched him, especially when I ran my hands through his hair, but before I could, he sat back in the chair, his hands disappearing into his pockets.

In a flash he was gripping some brown fabric and shoving it toward me, and again I really looked at the musician's hands that had Megan Simons all riled up. They were nice, but as I had before, I noticed the small white raised skin and the curved indentations next to them that marred his otherwise perfect skin. I wondered what happened to create those scars.