Little Battles (7 page)

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 sexual and did not lead to, or stem from, sex?”

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 fuck do you think you know how easy or hard something is for me, or that I fuck anyone I don’t know?”

She ignored my question. “Perhaps you should refrain from sexual 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 sex with people who most likely don’t even care for you at all.”

“Perhaps you should mind your own fucking 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. Bitch was suffocating me, drawing the fucking air out of my lungs to watch me flop around like a fish out of water. “I’m done with this shit. Screw you. Don’t ask me shit 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 cocked 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 shit 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 fucking 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 hell 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…damn! 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 fucking 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 fucking one?

Why the hell 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.

Saturday 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 shit. 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, shit.

There I was in my sweatpants and t-shirt, both of which were clearly too big for me. I could either be incredibly embarrassed 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 boob 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 shit 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.

“Hhhhere,” he said once more, quickly moving his hands away once the item was close to me.

A matching hat and gloves sat on the table and I looked back at him, quirking an eyebrow.

In answer to my silent question, he said, “I-i-it’s c-c-cold outssssside and I d-d-didn’t know if you hhhad a hhhat. I d-don’t w-w-want you to get sssssick.”

I didn’t know how to feel about Elliott buying me winter outerwear. On the one hand, it was considerate, and on the other, he was getting way too vested in me. I would probably end up ruining him, despite his claim that he was already ruined, and then after he was gone from my life I’d still have these stupid gloves and hat to remind me that he knew what my favorite color was.

But none of that was his fault.

“Thanks, Elliott.”

He finally looked up at me and smiled. After quickly returning it, I busied myself with my glucose monitor.

Damn, it was cold, but we were in the woods just outside my house. There were even a few of those little flowers sticking up out of the snow, and the stream had taken on a crystal look. The feel of the place had changed somewhat with the change in weather, but it was still the peaceful and calm spot Elliott had shown me.

“Now what?”

I looked up and was greeted by something cold and wet hitting my shoulder. “What the hell was that?”

When I finally found him, Elliott’s lips were curved in a sexy way. “Did you just throw snow at me?”

He shrugged and nibbled his lip a bit nervously. I wondered if he thought I was going to get mad at him or something. It was actually kind of cute the way he looked, I just wish his eyes weren’t trained on my boots. I didn’t want to drag out my reaction. He was obviously worried that I wouldn’t be happy with him. I’d never had a snowball fight in my entire life, but I wanted to try it out. I reached down quickly and scooped up some of the fluffy white stuff and packed it together.

I wasn’t a good aim and I ended up hitting him in the side of his face.

“Sorry, Elliott, I…”

I was cut off by another snowball grazing my left ear.

That was the beginning of my first snowball fight.

After I grew tired of getting hit by snowballs and having snow fall down into my coat and shirt, we made a snowman. He was kind of asymmetrical, had no face, and was crazily proportioned, but I guessed he fit in with the rest of us weirdos.

Afterward, I lay back in the snow and looked up at the gray sky. The woods behind us were quiet and the snow continued to fall down and tickle my face. I was aware that Elliott had lain down next to me.

“D-d-do you liiiike the ssssnow now?”

I smiled. “It’s all right.” It was simply awesome, but I couldn’t bring myself to show that much excitement in front of him. This unique feeling I had when I was around him felt wrong and strange.

My teeth started chattering involuntarily and I felt him take my gloved hand. He stood up, pulling me up with him and even though our hands were covered, I felt something pass between us.

It was a scary connection and instinctively, I pulled my hand away then wiped at my face with my fuzzy gloves.

“Y-you’re c-c-cold.”

I nodded. Without saying anything further, Elliott grabbed my hand again and started walking back to the house.

“That was fun.”

He smiled at me, his eyes brighter than I’d seen them before. “I-i-it’ll p-p-p-probably mmmelt tomorrow, b-but…”

“It was fun for today.”

I stirred the big silver pot on the stove, making Elliott chili as I’d promised, while he sat at the table, his hand wrapped around a coffee mug as he looked at the peanut butter and apple slices I’d set down before him.

“You’re not allergic, are you?” I asked. His brow furrowed and I gestured to the plate. “To nuts or whatever.”

He shook his head. “N-no,” then nodded toward the green, leafy balls on the counter that didn’t go with chili, but I didn’t care.

“W-why do you liiiike B-Brussels sprouts?”

Why did he need to know that? I mean, who asked why someone liked a certain vegetable?

I answered, “Because they’re good for you,” but that was a cop-out answer, and I knew it. It felt cheap and hollow, and not at all the answer he deserved.

I sighed, knowing this shit with Elliott was already too deep for my own good, but I was powerless to change it now. “Because at first they’re green and chewy and slightly bitter, but when you get down to the center of it, they’re actually kind of sweet.”

I was completely high. I’d dropped a pill when we got home just to take the edge off. My lips were slightly parted and my eyes were probably a bit glassy. Every once in a while one of my knees would buckle under me, making me sway as I locked them tight again.

“W-w-why do you g-get high all the time, S-S-Sophie?”

“Damn!” First, I couldn’t believe he could just tell every time I was high, but then I grew worried that maybe Tom could hear what he’d said. I cast my gaze towards the living room where he sat in his recliner watching some kind of sporting event. “Tell the whole world, why don’t you?” I hissed. “Why do you get so anxious around people, Elliott?”

I wasn’t pissed or defensive, but this was my way of letting him know that for every thing about me that was rough and raw, he had an unpolished area of his own.

“W-why don’t you like sssspicy f-food?”

I could take that question one of two ways: It could have been innocent, just Elliott wondering about my likes and dislikes, or there was an underlying motive.

He wanted to know because to him
everything
had meaning.

So I called him on his questions, not directly, but by asking him a blatantly burning question in return. I could see through all of his disguises.

“How can you not hate your mother after what she did?”

This was a game of who would crack first. Somehow we had silently agreed that he would push me and I’d push him right back. Like the night I danced with him, one of us was going to get tired of the shields we’d built around ourselves and let our guard down just long enough to let the other one in.

The night we danced, it had been me. I had a feeling that tonight it would be too. Despite my unfortunately obvious coping mechanisms of drugs and brashness, I knew that somewhere inside of me, I wanted a friend.