I watched him come closer along the dimly lit walkway of the train tunnel, his eyes large emeralds in the dark.
'Don't come near me!' I screeched, wrapping my arms around myself, my broken nails mindlessly scraping before piecing my forearms as I fought for feeling. I felt the pain and sighed in relief, sagging against the concrete wall behind me. Blood dripped down my arms, falling like crimson coloured tear drops, a stark contrast against my pale complexion.
Breathing in, I struggled to get past the hitch in my throat. I didn't want to breathe anyway. It was always safer not breathing. Safer to blackout and hope someone wiser and better at life would lend a hand.
He knelt opposite me, careful not to touch me.
I knew what he was staring at.
At my scarred forearms, the jagged lines of off white tire tracks along my skin. He was a bookshop boy, surrounded by worlds that would never hurt him. What if he knew the horror story on the shelf was right in front of him? The long sleeves no longer hid it, the jacket was thrown off. I was exposed, my shame naked in front of him.
'Clara,' He said softly, eyes wild, 'How long...'
'Don't,' I hissed, salty tears joining crimson, 'Do-don't touch me.'
'Clara,' He whispered again, gently unlatching my hands from my elbows, pulling the claws from my flesh. His touch was hot on my pale skin, his hands careful as he pressed mine in his. He bent his head to breathe warm air between our fingers. The small movement cracked something inside me, a small splinter in my being flung off into nothingness.
'I don't know how to help,' He murmured softly, 'I'm a nerd saving up for college. But,' He breathed between our hands again. It felt as though he was breathing for me, blowing air into my lungs, with every rush of warm air on my fingers I breathed a little better.
'I'm here, that's all I really know how to do.'
He wasn't promising me anything huge. No confessions of ridiculous short-term love, or never ending protection. He was promising me something I had never really had.
Understanding.
Understanding that I needed someone. He wasn’t telling me what to do, or that "he had been there," because he hadn't, and hopefully he never would. But he was willing to be there. Which for a girl trying to get it all out – couldn't be more needed.
There was nothing more precious. To be listened to meant the world and then some.
He sat crossed legged on the dusty ground, the ceiling light showing me the compassion etched in his face.
'Now,' He said, running a gentle finger along the scar where I had run a fork down my arm.
'Tell me your story.'
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