“Good evening, Mrs. Scott.”
The young teen extended a carefully prepared bouquet of bleeding hearts and tulips, his awkward height standing in an impossibly proper posture as Helena Scott scooped the blossoms lovingly into her arms.
“You’re such a thoughtful gentleman!”
She reached out to pinch his cheek, a live wire of anxiety stabbing through him as she gently caressed the side of his face in a maternal gesture of appreciation. Stifling the urge to sink his teeth into the fleshy elegance of her wrist, Ambrose forced a practiced smile.
“There are seeds there, too... I recall you saying that you wanted some of them for your garden.”
The older woman tilted her head at him, the fine auric glow of her golden curls falling over her shoulder as she smiled at him with a genuine kindness that, even after the past couple of years, Ambrose had still not grown accustomed to. In fact, the curving heart-shape of her lips and the glinting blue waters of her eyes were almost too cheerful, a masqueraders facade that made him feel increasingly uncomfortable; constantly waiting for her to pull away the shades of her compassionate disguise and throttle him the way that he almost always expected.
“Come inside, then. Micah is finishing some work with his father upstairs, but would you like a cup of tea?”
As she welcomed him inside, Ambrose nodded, amiably accepting her offer in spite of the fact that he hardly ever ate or drank at all as of late. He followed her into the cozy warmth of a domestic kitchenette, each window illuminated by the faint glow of a descending twilight, casting wine rouges and peachy pink hues of romantic color throughout the room. He stood, rigid and wordless for some moment’s time before the lithe frame of his friend’s mother turned towards him with raised brows. Gesturing towards the elegantly carved legs of a wooden chair, she chuckled, turning back to her work.
“You can have a seat, dear. They’re going to be a few minutes. Relax a little. Sugar? Milk?”
Ambrose paused, the warm oceanic orbs of his eyes flickering between her busy body and the chair she had gestured to. Slowly, he pulled the seat out before him and gently lowered the sore ache of his bones down, wincing slightly as the raw lacerations hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt pressed against the slatted back supports in a casual resting state. The steady burn igniting his nerves reminded him explicitly; this wasn’t his home, and he wasn’t any safer here than he was within the grasp of his parents. Eventually, it all came full circle, and he was already counting the bounty of new injuries he would collect simply by visiting with his friend again.
“Ah... I don’t need either, but you’re very kind.”
He responded distractedly, resting his hands flatly on the surface of the clean table in front of him, his fingers drumming in waves of impatient discomfort. He had wanted to see Micah. Although his friends mother had never been anything short of gracious; Ambrose couldn’t help his subliminal bitterness towards her. Or his inherent jealousy over Micah’s blessed life. Sure, his home wasn’t nearly as grand. The humble three bedroom estate offered little more than a sedentary guise of family domesticity, but oh... How he longed for it, and how often he had dreamed of trading in all of the luxury and splendor for just a morsel of maternal affection.
“Ambrose? Darling, you’re bleeding.”
Helena Scott set the saucer and teacup down, just ahead of the young man’s waiting hands before reaching out to rest a steadying hand upon his shoulder. Her eyes were glued, wrought with concern over the deep claret stains rising against the material of his button-up shirt, unaware of his bleeding shoulder blades, or the warm sanguine stickiness of his spine.
“Your back, sweetheart. Are you hurt?”
He bristled immediately, hot blushing streaks of embarrassment rising over his usual apathetic expression as he shot immediately out of his chair. The older woman watched him as he whirled around, the downturned line of his lips pursing open as he searched the panicked flurry of thoughts in his head for even one credible excuse, avoiding her steady gaze as he shook his head in response, at an utter loss and feeling trapped within his own careless mistake. He should have waited to come. Should have allowed the venomous aftermath of his father’s fury to fully bleed away from his system before he deciding to visit with anyone. Instead, he had been all too eager to escape, too anxious to wait within the confines of his own bedroom for another wave of cruelty to come knocking on his door.
“I’m perfectly alright, Mrs. Scott. Thank you for the concern.”
Ambrose blurted, the unsteady waver of his voice shattering his characteristic rectitude as the stricken frown on the woman’s face deepened in disbelief. She reached out for his arm instinctively, and he immediately recoiled, backpedaling until the stinging comfort of the nearest wall against each irritated wound calmed him, feeling that much more grounded. Helena quirked a brow in his direction, folding her arms across her chest as the analytical scope of her eyes washed over him incredulously, but just as lovingly as they always had been.
“Come now. I’m a psychologist, not an idiot. How long has this been happening to you?”
“I really would prefer not to discuss it, respectfully, Mrs. Scott.”
“Call me Helena. You can talk to me, you know. Nobody else ever has to know about it. I know how to be discrete.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Scott.”
“Your parents don’t need to know about it. You can come to me.”
“It’s truly not a problem. You’re misunderstanding, I fell into the rose bushes-”
“Please. You’re such a well-spoken, intelligent boy... Do you honestly expect me to believe that those are thanks to a bushel of thorns? Ambrose, as respectful as you are, I think you’re trying to insinuate that I’m a fool.”
“That’s not at all what I meant to say... I apologize, I-”
She took a few careful steps in his direction, the wide willowing stretch of her arms reaching out in preparation for an embrace that Ambrose was in no way receptive to. His entire body revolted in defense, pressing defiantly into the wall which supported him as his brow furrowed in frustration and fear. The frenzied hammering of his heart thrashed wildly in his chest as she drew nearer, the placid seas of his eyes freezing over in frigid denial as her hands brushed against the hypersensitive flesh of his wrists, pulling him inward impulsively.
Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!
In one violent maneuver, he shoved her away, his arms straightening mechanically as his frantic gestures summoned a shocked gasp from that of Micah’s mother- who stumbled backward, her face painted a striking portrait of disappointment. Hot floods of venomous, toxic blood rose against the surface of his tongue, he had been instinctively biting it in a knee-jerk reflex meant to prepare his lurking malice, wanting to lash out and drive the edges of his teeth deep into the nearest bit of flesh he could settle his bite upon.
Micah peered in at them, the youthful curves of his face shaping expressions of confusion as the looming shadow of his father lurked somewhere in the background. Their eyes shifted between the teenaged boy and Mrs. Scott, who stood with her eyes full of unacknowledged sympathy as she passed knowing glances between the three of them. Ambrose stiffened, his shoulders quaking unsteadily as his fists flexed in a defensive throb of tense muscle.
Ambrose seethed. An overwhelming riptide of shame had pulled him irrevocably under. Suddenly, he felt as if he were under a microscope. A paranoid sensation scoured him for defects, for the blemished stains tainting his soul, something to pity. Something to sympathize with and coddle. Pridefully, he tore into the raw sinew and muscle of his own tongue, grinding the flesh between his teeth as his mouth swiftly became a deluge of blood and venom.The masticated tatters dissolved to a pulp between his teeth as his tongue rapidly regenerated in spite of the flexing anxious movements of his stiff jaw.
The one place where he felt he had any semblance of control over his own body had finally capsized. Now, Micah’s parents would never see him in the same distant light. Helena already looked upon him with a different pair of eyes. He winced, pulling what remaining fortitude from his weary bones in order to force himself into a prideful, proper posture. A fearless position shaped in an attempt to salvage his dwindling dignity as the warm trickle of bittered blood slithered down his throat and into the core of his dying innocence.
Don’t look at me that way.
“Ambrose, come on. I’ve got some books you’re going to like, my dad picked up a first edition of The Grapes of Wrath, it’s got hand-written footnotes.”
Micah extended a hand, respecting the impossible electric field of tension Ambrose exhibited as he turned slowly towards him. He paused momentarily, at once wrought with a humiliation so thick it hindered all motion. The freezing chill of his formerly placid sea-spray stare traversed the outstretched branch of his friend’s open palm.
His feet moved sluggishly, dragging against the tile flooring before gaining a new wind of confidence. Falling into step with Micah as the other young man draped his arm over the young man’s shoulders, guiding their youthful boyish figures up the steps as Ambrose allowed the stiff nervousness of his body to relax beneath the comforting weight of his friend’s reassuring embrace. The further from the kitchen he became, the more relief seemed to surge through him. Ambrose sighed, a tight hiss rushing between his clinched teeth. Micah, carefully climbing the stairs, observed him as he reached up to press his thumb and pointer finger against the closed veil of his eyelids.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Do you want a fresh shirt?”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
Although he was more than sure that there were plenty of things that Micah had desperately wanted to say, all of the words drowned within his efforts to play as a comforting distraction. Upon reaching the bedroom, Micah had wasted little time. Handing off a fresh t-shirt, he’d smiled, shrugging the narrow expanse of his shoulders. Had insisted that he take his time before leaving the young blonde to his own devices within the privacy of a bathroom; his only company being that of an antibacterial salve.
He’d crumpled there. Hidden behind the safety of a solid wooden door, his agonized heart encouraging a burning fountain of stifled tears to rise against the obstinate denial of his eyelids. He refused to allow them any more leeway, brushing the dampness away from the reddening angles of his cheeks before outwardly hissing in evident disgust.
Turning towards the porcelain basin and waiting faucet, Ambrose grasped one of the spigots before immersing his anticipant palms beneath the fury of a scalding stream.
