Page 37 of Unmasking You

Once I’m done, I walk to the kitchen and prepare two plates with some eggs and bread with butter.

We eat in silence, albeit an awkward one, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. He seems to read my mood correctly because he doesn’t even look at me. I’m acting like a bully, one moment acting as if I care about what happened to him, and the next ready to throw him out because I can’t stand him. I should know better.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my mind and body. I can live with him for another couple of weeks, then he’ll be well enough to go back to his own place, and he won’t be my problem any longer.

I ignore the tug on my heart at the thought and instead concentrate on the memories he left me with.

Even sitting this far from him, I get a sniff of body odour and the faint tang of hospital. Oh boy, he does smell. Before I can think better of it, my mouth does what it wants. “You really need a shower.”

He blushes, probably aware of how much he smells, and again I’m hit by guilt.

I should tell my mother off for raising me well enough that I take pity on the person who never stood up for me when I was in trouble, but actually, sometimes, led them forward.

Again, my rage fires up, but a vision of him with Queeny in his arms keeps my mouth shut.

“I’m dying to have one. But it’ll be difficult in this situation,” he says, pointing at his leg and then his wrist.

If it wasn’t for his shoulder, I would have covered the casts with plastic bags, but in this situation…

Fuck!I’ll have to wash him.

Panic settles in at the thought of touching him over and over while cleaning him. I don’t want to do it, but can I leave him like this?

“I don’t want to be a problem,” he says, when I keep looking at my empty plate, trying to bring myself back from the edge of a panic attack.

“Stay here,” I say while turning the TV on and placing the remote in his hand. “I’ll get rid of these plates and clean the kitchen, and then I’ll help you get washed up.”

The way to the bathroom was a long one, with me supporting most of his weight because, once again, he refused the wheelchair. But now, ten minutes later, Shane is sitting on a chair in the bathroom, the warmest room. I’ve also turned the heating on in here just to make sure he’s comfortable. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, I have a bowl filled with hot water, along with soap and a cloth. I have a towel on my shoulder so I can dry him as soon as I’ve washed him.

He’s not wearing a shirt, and I know I should be doing something, but my gaze is fixated on the bruises covering most of his torso and back. I look up, but he’s not looking at me, probably afraid of setting me off and being abandoned in here.

Fuck! I thought I was different from them. But here I am, using the power I have to make him feel bad.

“I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.” I pick up the cloth, wet it, and squeeze it out before using it to clean his back. I can’t face him right now.

He shivers at the first touch, his skin raising goose pimples as the hair on his arms stands on end. I watch, fascinated and horrified at the same time. His body is bigger and has filled out more than when we were adolescents, and every time he shifts, the definition of his muscles is like art… beautiful.

I stop when I encounter a bruise that covers most of his lower back and twists around to cover part of his abdomen. My stomach revolts at the thought of what could have happened. He could have died that day.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my body overflowing with remorse. My eyes fill with tears, and my touch becomes even gentler. I find my hand lingering in those spots where he’s suffering the most, just to move along as soon as what I’m doing becomes clear.

“I am sorry,” he says, and I shake my head. I’m not ready to have this conversation yet. He seems to understand because he doesn’t say more.

I move my hand away and throw the cloth into the bowl, then use the towel to dry his skin.

I move to the front, and I awkwardly stay there for a long moment, not sure of what to do. I take the cloth again, and once it’s ready, I go on my knees in between his legs, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I clean his neck first, sliding along his collarbone until I reach his shoulder, then back up, and do the same on the other side. I do this a couple of times, and then rinse the cloth out and move to his chest. His nipples are standing out, and I admire them for a moment, wondering how good they would taste if I leaned in to kiss them.

I catch myself immediately because it’s not good behaviour. He’s not an object I can take pleasure from.

We don’t talk. Shane’s breath hitches a few times, making me uncomfortable, almost as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. Feeling like a sick voyeur, I make quick work of cleaning him and drying his wet skin.

I help him put on one of my bigger zipped hoodies, keeping his cast arm inside. Then I help him get rid of his trousers and make quick work of cleaning his legs and feet.

“I’m stepping outside so you can finish cleaning yourself.” I’m not getting near his family jewels. “Here’s a pair of boxers; they should fit. If they don’t, just wear the shorts I left next to them. Call me if you have any problem. I’ll be just outside.”

“Thank you.”

Am I imagining things, or does his voice sound hoarse?

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