Page 142 of Ruin Me Gently

“The fuck if I know,” I scoffed.

I startled as I crossed the threshold into my bedroom. She was just standing there. Silent. My gaze trailed over her. The gash on her temple was still swollen, still stitched, the skin around it a deep, ugly purple. Black eyes, bruised and still not healing.

“Not healing so quickly this time, huh?”

She didn’t answer.

“Have you taken your pills today?”

No response. Why was I even trying?

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, wincing. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

She didn’t answer.

“Fine. Don’t talk. Whatever. I’ll grab a washcloth. One sec, wait there.”

I headed to the bathroom and turned the faucet on, letting the water run over a washcloth I grabbed from beside the sink, watching as the fabric darkened, heavy and dripping.

Wayne must have really done a number on her this time. She didn’t talk to me much anyway, but this—this was odd.

She was too quiet.

Even at her worst, she always had something to say, always had some bitter remark to toss over her shoulder. But now—nothing.

Water seeped through my fingers as I squeezed the cloth.

She wasn’t dressed right, either. No obnoxiously bright colours, no ridiculous patterns that made my eyes hurt. No gaudy neon nails, chipped and clawing at cigarette filters.

I swallowed, shaking it off. It wasn’t my problem. What she did wasn’t my business.

I turned and made my way back to her, washcloth in hand.

She madeher way towards me, meeting me, face-to-face, eyes levelled.

Huh.Her hair was braided. Tight woven strands, neat and unfamiliar, so unlike her.

“You should braid your hair more often. They look pretty on you.” I gave her a small smile. She smiled back. I didn’t even know she was capable of that anymore. For half a second, she looked just like she used to. Before the bruises, before the sharp words and the cigarette smoke and the constant tension that filled every room she walked into. For a moment, I could almost pretend.Almost.

“I’m just going to give you a wipe down, okay?”

She didn’t answer.

I reached forward, damp washcloth in hand, ready to press it against her forehead, but the second I met her skin, something stopped me. Something cool. Hard.

I flinched back.

What the fuck?

My pulse stuttered. I hesitated, then reached forward again, slower this time, my fingers brushing against—

Smooth. Too cold. Too perfect.

It was slick, untouched, like my skin wasn’t actually meeting skin at all but something else entirely. It was solid, with the slightest hint of a chill beneath my fingertips.

Rage bubbled up underneath my skin, sharp and immediate. A fire that had no warning—just heat and anger searing through my veins, curling around my ribs, tightening like a fist around my throat.

I ripped my hand back, the washcloth slipping from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a wet smack.

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