I keep going in and out of sleep, catching a few random words of his stories now and then. Now he’s rambling on again about jellyfish... Big Bertha... Benji.
In the midst of the brain fog the name of the guy from the hallway is floating around. Did Tex say his name or did I imagine it? Maybe I’m dreaming.
Benji.
A man who looked like he belonged on a runway, not beaten and bleeding on a dirty bar floor.
Chapter 6: Benji
The blood takes three washes to come out of my hair.
I’m watching dirty water circle the drain and thinking about how blood doesn’t wash off the way you think it will. In movies the shower scene is dramatic, the water turning red, the symbolic cleansing. In real life it’s just standing under weak water pressure scrubbing matted hair with cheap shampoo while the water runs a brownish pink that doesn’t look like anything from a movie.
I’m still finding blood in places I didn’t know it could reach. Behind my ears. In the creases of my elbows where his body pressed against mine when he fell backward onto me. On one of my eyebrows, dried and flaking when I touch it.
The biohazard bag is sitting on the kitchen floor where I dropped it when I walked in. Inside that bag are the white jeans, the silk shirt, the rings I pulled off my shaking fingers, all of it soaked in his blood and sealed up tight. The nurse wanted to throw my clothes in the trash, but I held onto that bag. Now I want it gone.
After getting out of the shower, I pick up the bag. I take out my rings and put them into a container in my suitcase. It feels wrong to wash his blood off them. I carry the bag outside and leave it on the landing. The night air hits my wet skin and I shiver even with the muggy heat. In the morning, I’ll throw it away.
I go back inside to the bathroom. The face looking back from the mirror is someone I don’t know. Not because of the bruise already going purple on my cheekbone or the butterflystrips on my lip. Those are just signs of physical damage that I understand. I’ve been beat up before.
What I don’t recognize is behind my eyes, a dullness that wasn’t there hours ago when I stood in this same spot, put on eyeliner and told the mirror I was stunning.
I’m sure as fuck not stunning now.
The boy who used to stand in front of his mother’s bathroom mirror, practicing smiles until he found the one that hid the sadness, is standing here now without a single smile left.
I change into shorts and a T-shirt and lie on the bed. The AC is making that loud grinding noise that never stops. The sheets smell like fabric softener and the pillow is flat enough that the mattress pushes through it. I don’t sleep. My brain won’t let me. The night just keeps replaying itself behind my eyes.
Sheila leaning toward me, her hand on the bar.
Those boys have been drinking since three o’clock.
Let me call you a cab. On me.
Benji. I’m asking you one more time.
She tried to give me three exits.
Three times she tried to save me from myself while I sat on that stool, smiled and stayed. Because I chose pride and this time someone else paid for it.
I pick up my phone and text Dante.
Benji:I’m home. I’m okay. He’s alive. Spinal cord injury. They’re planning to transfer him to Tallahassee once he’s stable enough.
Dante responds immediately.
Dante:Spinal cord???
Benji:They don’t know if it’s permanent. There’s swelling. They won’t know until it goes down.
Dante:OMG. Benji.
Benji:It’s bad. I know.
Dante:You need to try to sleep.
Benji:There’s no way.
