In my bathroom, I start the water and peel off my outerwear, shirt, and wet boots.The jeans take a minute, clinging damply to my thighs.My reflection in the mirror looks haunted and restless.Normal.
I turn away and test the water.Still ice cold.
Gritting my teeth, I kick free of the rest of my clothes and try again.
The spray pelts my palm, arctic sharp.No heat.Not at all.
Weird.
I pause, listening.The pipes groan, carrying the sound of rushing water through the wall.Wolf’s shower.Still running.Did he use all the hot water?Burn the tank down to nothing?Except he’s still in there.Taking a cold shower?
My stomach drops, that earlier instinct slithering back to the surface.He didn’t stop to get me after work.He came straight here.Alone.
Something’s wrong.
I shut off the water and bolt through my room, yanking on a clean shirt and shorts.Then I grab my phone and race into Wolf’s room.
“Wolf!”I hammer my fists on his bathroom door.“Open the damn door!”
No answer over the continuous hum of water.
I barge inside, andOh, my God.I can’t process what I’m seeing.
Oh, no, Wolf.No, no, no.
He’s curled on the shower floor, knees tucked, head down, the icy shower beating into his naked body.His lips are blue, and his frame shakes so violently his bones look ready to snap.
Goosebumps cover his skin.
And scars.
I stop breathing, and my hand flies to my mouth.
His torso is a battlefield of macabre cuts.Some still angry and red.Others pink and shiny.Knife marks everywhere.Crosshatching.Overlapping.Hewed, quartered, and carved in layers.
Too many to count.
AndJesus Christ, another one, deep in the ball of his bicep, left a hole that never healed right.As if whatever went into his arm had been ruthlessly torn out.
“Wolf…” My voice breaks as I lunge forward and twist off the faucet.
Silence crashes as the spray sputters and dies.I snatch a towel from the rack and wrap it around him, my hands trembling and pulse crashing.
“It’s okay.You’re okay.I’ve got you.I—”
“Don’t touch me!”He erupts with a roar ripped from hell.
“Wolf.”I flinch.“It’s me.It’s Dove.”
“Get away from me!”He jerks back, shoulders slamming the tile.“Don’t fucking touch me!”
His arms snap up to shield his face.Hands over his head, elbows tucked in, he folds tighter into himself, making himself smaller, bracing for a blow.
I stagger back, my heart crying.
He isn’t yelling at me.He’s yelling at ghosts, at whoever put those scars there, and I don’t know how to pull him out.My hands hang uselessly in the air as I choke on panic.I don’t know how to help him.
Monty.
