I do what I can to fix Johnny’s face and then sit back on my heels, studying him over. He looks like crap, but there’s a sort of tender beauty to him that’s captivating.
He grimaces and tries to move.
“Shh, take it easy.” I rest my hand on his shoulder to calm him.
He tries to pry his eyes open, but the swelling is too much.
“Hold on.” I rush to the kitchen and open the freezer in search of anything that can be of use. I snatch a bag of peas, the perfect thing to mold to his face.
He’s mumbling something when I come back, but I ignore him and put the frozen veggies on him.
“Shit,” he gets out. His palm comes up to hold onto the bag but ends up landing on mine instead.
I weasel it away and steady my gaze on his semi-exposed midriff. “Hey, um, do you think you could get your shirt off so I can check your ribs?”
“Help me.” He pivots at the waist and sits up a little.
I swallow and grip the bottom of his tee, carefully tugging it over his head.
We both seem to gasp, him from pain and me from the sight of him.
His entire side is one solid bruise, his muscles much more prominent with the contrasting color. There's an inch-long cut trailing the center of the discoloration and smaller patches of redness are all over his torso.
Someone must have kicked him over and over again.
“Is it that bad?” he mutters.
Without thinking, I trace my fingers along the purple splotches. “Who did this to you?”
He swallows hard, like it might be difficult for him to do. “I don’t know.”
“I need to clean this.” I grab the cloth and repeat the same steps from earlier, this time trying extra hard not to apply any more pressure than necessary.
He’s patient and much quieter than I think anyone else would be in this same situation. Another person would have wanted to go to the hospital and probably gotten some strong painkillers, but other than a few low groans, Johnny is handling this like a freaking champ.
I can’t help but wonder what else he’s suffered through on his own.
I grab the bottle and unscrew the cap, taking a fiery swig myself and handing it to him.
He clutches it gratefully and chugs a few gulps down. When he’s finished, he holds the bottle to his chest like a child does a stuffed animal.
I only hope it helps ease his pain.
I sit with him for a little while, not sure whether or not, or when, I should leave him. I’ve done pretty much all I can do, and unless he wants to go to the hospital, there’s nothing else that can be done other than letting his body heal on its own.
I have this strange pull to make sure he’s okay, to not let him be alone, even though he’s not my responsibility.
He dozes off in the tub, still cuddling the whiskey.
I go into his room and pull the pillow and blanket from his bed and bring them into the bathroom. Propping him up gently, I place the pillow behind his head. I cover him up and tuck him into his makeshift sleep spot. It’s probably uncomfortable, but I can almost guarantee there’s no way I can drag him from there and get him onto his mattress.
After everything he’s been through tonight, he looks at peace with where he is, and I don’t want to be the reason to disturb that.
I kneel next to him one last time and tuck a rogue piece of his coffee-colored hair away from his face. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper to him.
He moves slightly, almost leaning into my touch.
I quietly step away in an attempt to let him rest. It’s then that I glance down at myself and notice the blood and dirt covering me.