Tortured Sinner by Tessa James

Claire – 9

The door rattles shut behind me and I stand for a second, sizing up where I’m going to take a seat. The wine I drank still gives my body a strange tingling sensation that I can’t wait to get rid of.

“This spot is clean,” a bright-eyed older man says from behind the counter. He pulls a menu from the stack near the register and places it down.

“Thanks.” I slide onto the cushy stool and glance at the specials on the chalkboard behind him. “I’ll have a cup of coffee. And a blueberry old-fashioned, if you have any.”

He turns, grabbing a fresh mug and the steaming pot. He pours my drink and slides it across to me.

“Thank you.” I look for his nametag, but unlike the other employees, he doesn’t have one. “Do you happen to have any cinnamon?”

He pauses, blinking at me like I asked him something in a different language. “Sorry, I… yeah, of course.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a shaker and hands it to me.

I put a couple dashes into my cup and stir it in. I ignore this man’s strange stare at my apparently weird combo. I can’t be the only one that has ever come in here that takes my coffee this way?

“Here you go.” He sets a plate down with the donut I asked for.

“Thanks.”

“Mmhm.” He clears the countertop a few seats to my right. “You just start at the university?”

I nod. “Yeah, today.”

“Nice place. We get a lot of traffic from the school. I know a few students that go there.” He refills the sugar packet holder and puts it back in place.

“I like it so far. I’m hoping to transfer out by next year though.” I bite off a chunk of the blueberry goodness and chase it down with a swig of my coffee.

“Oh?” This seems to grab his attention. “How come?”

I wipe at my mouth with the napkin. “I had some…extenuating circumstances that brought me here. It wasn’t supposed to be a permanent thing.”

“I see.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it here. It’s nice, honestly. But I grew up on the East Coast. It’s home, you know? I don’t know anyone out here. My life is back there.” Here I am having word vomit with a stranger again, what the hell is wrong with me?

“That’s understandable.” The old man adjusts his thick brimmed glasses. “Change can come when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s for the better, other times it’s not. Obviously, I don’t know your story, but if experience has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes the most unexpected shifts pay off in the best of ways.”

I eat the last of the donut and soak in his words, letting the combo of substance and caffeine help sober me up. I reach for the bills in my pocket, counting out how much I owe.

He holds out his hand. “This one is on the house. Consider it a welcome gift.”

“Are you sure?” I flit my gaze around. “Can you do that?”

He chuckles. “I hope so. I own the place.”

Which explains why he doesn’t have a name tag. I’m probably the only idiot who didn’t know who he was. My cheeks redden with embarrassment.

He extends his hand across the counter. “Bram.”

“Claire.” I take his and give it a firm shake.

“Nice to meet you, Claire.” He takes my empty plate and mug.

“You, too. Thanks again.” I hop down from the stool and leave the little café.

I cross my arms over my chest, the evening breeze a little cooler than I anticipated. I walk past a couple storefronts when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and duck into the closest alley, gathering my bearings to answer the call.

A faint groan catches my attention. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and settle my gaze on a crumpled figure lying on the dirty ground. My heart leaps in my chest.

I click the ignore button on my cell and turn on its flashlight. I tiptoe closer, my heart pounding a little harder with each step.

Blood is pooled all around him. His face is swollen, his hair matted to his forehead. His wallet and phone are next to him, his keys on the other side. Was this a robbing gone wrong? Why would they have left his stuff? If anything, this looks to be a strangely personal attack.

I glance behind me and bite at my lip. I focus back on him. “Johnny,” I whisper.

His lip twitches and he reels his arm closer to his side, tugging the black fabric up with it.

I gently lift the shirt a few inches further. Bruising covers his ribs, probably from the injury over the weekend. Whoever beat him up must have made it worse tonight.

“Johnny, I’m going to call for help.”

Somehow, he moves, grabbing onto my arm and stopping me from getting my phone. “Please. Don’t.” His voice is barely audible. “Please.”

His touch stings, but not in a bad way. In an electrically surprising way.

If I can’t get backup, I have to do something. I can’t just leave him here.

I don’t owe him anything, especially after the weird way he’s treated me since I arrived, but I couldn’t live with myself if I walked away and left him behind.

He deserves better than that.

And in a way, I’m shocked by the anger that rises within me at whoever did this to him.

I take a steadying breath, careful not to focus too much on the stench of the nearby trash. “Johnny, can you sit up?” I place my hands on his shoulders. “I’m going to help you.”

He groans lightly but doesn’t open his eyes. They both seem to be swollen completely shut anyway.

I lean over and grab his belongings, shoving them into his pockets. “Come on.” I have to strain to lift him off the ground and bring him to his feet.

His weight leans against me, and it’s everything I can do to keep him up.

I throw his arm over my shoulder and reposition to get the best angle. “Let’s get you home.”

We aren’t far at all. But dragging his beaten body makes it one hell of a trek to our complex.

His head hangs low, and to unsuspecting passersby, he probably just appears super drunk. One short older woman gasps and covers her mouth, stopping dead in her tracks.

I force a smile, mumbling, "He'll be fine," and continue on.

Johnny coughs and spews blood onto the concrete near the entrance of our building.

“We’re almost there,” I tell him. I punch my code into the access box and maneuver us around the gate. The courtyard is empty, and it makes me semi-glad to not have to be asked questions I don’t know the answer to.

I nearly drop him when his legs buckle, which is fitting considering this is the exact spot he had knocked me down only a few days prior. I won’t be a dick like him, though.

I pause at the stairs. All of a sudden, they seem to be an impossibly difficult feat. “I’ll need your help on this.” I readjust to get a better grip on him.

“Mmmhm,” he slurs.

One by one, we conquer each step. It takes freaking forever, but I manage to bring his mass to his front door. It feels wrong to go into his place uninvited, but it’s a better option than taking him to my mom’s.

I lean Johnny against the frame and reach into my pocket, only to remember I stuck his keys into his. I fish them out quickly and shove the one that looks like mine into the lock. I turn the handle and nudge the door open.

I glide my hand along the wall where my light switch is located and flip his on. My eyes adjust and I notice the layout is pretty much the same as mine, only it’s decorated differently. My mom’s looks like a staged rental home, and his looks like a total bachelor pad.

A gaming controller sits on top of a pizza box on the dining room table. Two whiskey bottles on the counter. Chinese takeout boxes stacked on top of each other.

“We made it.” I continue to half-drag his body into his house, unsure of which room is his. I go down the hallway and enter the only bedroom with the door that’s actually open, hoping it’s his. I take him into the attached bathroom and guide him into the tub. It requires coaxing, but I manage to safely get him in.

I sigh at the release of weight. My shoulder aches, but it's nothing compared to what he must be feeling. I could have plopped him into his bed, but he would have ruined his sheets the second his blood and dirt-covered body touched them.

My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I don’t have time to deal with that situation right now.

Johnny groans as his head settles against the cold tile.

I stand and study him over.

He has numerous gashes on his face, the biggest of them on his brow. His nose is a bit more crooked than I recall, telling me that it’s probably broken. His lip is split, and he’s pretty much covered in his own blood. His palm rests on his stomach, clearly guarding some broken ribs.

I open the cabinet in the bathroom, hoping for some kind of antiseptic to clean his wounds. I manage to find a bottle of rubbing alcohol but nothing else. I check the linen closet but have no luck there either.

I kneel down next to the tub. “Johnny. I’ll be right back.”

He slowly moves his other arm and reaches out toward me. He fumbles with locating me but ends up finding my hand. He leaves his on top of mine and mumbles something I can’t quite make out.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. I promise.” Despite whatever happened between us, my heart aches at seeing him this way.

I can hate him tomorrow, but tonight, he needs me.

I rush out of his place, careful not to lock myself out, and go into mine. I go straight to the first-aid kit I recall seeing under the kitchen sink and toss it onto the counter. I search the medicine cabinet and grab anything that might be of assistance: a giant box of Band-Aids and antibacterial ointment, along with a few of those butterfly strips that I'm hoping will allow him to avoid getting stitches.

This is all a long shot, and definitely no replacement for actual medical care, but I’ll do what I can for him given the circumstances. If he decides to change his mind and go to the hospital, I’ll gladly take him. In the meantime, though, I can’t force him to go if he refuses. And based on his pleading, he definitely doesn’t want to go.

I shove everything into a grocery sack and grab the kit on the way out. Earlier today I was ignoring him, now I’m busting into his house to treat his wounds.

I snatch the half-empty whiskey bottle off his counter and go back to him.

He groans at my arrival and reaches into the air.

“I’m here,” I reassure him. Although, I’m not sure how well that will comfort him in a time like this. I’m a complete stranger. A nobody to him.

Still, the tenseness in his face seems to resolve.

I unscrew the lid and pour some of the brownish liquid into the cap. I hold it to his lips. “Here.”

He parts his mouth and allows me to tip it in carefully. “More,” he manages to say.

I give him another capful and set the bottle on the floor. I grab a washcloth from the closet and run it under warm water from the sink. I wring it out and drop to my knees next to the tub. As gently as possible, I go to work on cleaning him up.

I start at his forehead, wiping away the dried-up blood and dirt caked to his skin. I do what I can to lightly tend to the wounds without making it any worse. I uncover a freckle on his cheek that I thought was dirt, and a few more sprinkled around.

I try not to concentrate on being this near him, my face only inches from his. I brush the brown hair off his brow and smooth it to the side.

He stays silent while I do my work, I assume drifting in and out of consciousness. He winces when I get close to the cuts, but otherwise, he lets me take care of him.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn him. I soak a cloth with rubbing alcohol and dab it into his brow.

He hisses but stays still.

I do the same to the other wounds that I can see and wait until I’m sure they won’t keep bleeding to apply the butterfly strip to help close them up.

I’ve done this one other time before, when my dad decided bicycling was a good idea and ended up wrecking in our gravel driveway about three seconds after getting on his bike. He had busted his knee and bumped his head, and of course, refused to get medical attention.

Must be a guy thing.

Dad had me run down to the pharmacy and grab these strips to hold the skin in place so he wouldn't have to get stitches. It seemed to work for him, but it's been a while, and I can't remember exactly how deep the wounds were compared to Johnny's.

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 and prop his head up gently to 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 not bother him anymore. It’s then that I glance down at my own form and notice the blood and dirt covering me.