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Tonight, Tyler made me fight the biggest of the newbies. Even before I stepped into the ring, I could have told you how it was going to end.
One of my eyes is swollen shut. It hurts to blink. It hurts to do much of anything, really. I would have been content to lay half conscious in a pool of my own blood on the floor of Lou's basement, where I only had to feel the worst of my injuries push me towards the sweet embrace of sleep's worse cousin.
Unfortunately, Tyler has picked me up and half carried, half dragged me across the broken asphalt back to our shithole of a house. I wonder just how many infections this journey alone will give me. I can't feel all of my fingers.
Lying on the splintered wooden floor of the house, I gaze blearily up at Tyler as he kicks the door shut behind us, his other hand still gripping the back of my white bloodied button-down shirt.
“They really did a number on ya out there, huh?”
I’m too tired to respond to Tyler stating the blatantly obvious. I just look up at him from where I’m limp on the floor; I must look fucking pathetic right now. He sighs like he’s disappointed, hauling me up in his arms, bringing me into the bathroom and setting me up to sit on the ledge of the vanity. It feels vaguely unstable. Was anything in this house very far from collapsing?
He walks off (presumably to find a washcloth), and I distantly wonder if it’s more or less clean to have the house’s water on the fabric. We certainly don't have any clean washcloths.
Tyler returns, and all of my thoughts are replaced with him. My breath (that I am still trying to catch) is knocked back out of me when he gently takes my chin in his hand and begins to gently wipe away at the drying blood on my face with the washcloth.
"What happened tonight?" he asks softly. There's no malice behind his words, instead just a sincere concern that I don't know if I've ever heard out of Tyler. I wish he would marry me so that he would speak like that to me and only me, every day of the year.
I'm too far gone for words. Instead of answering his question, I softly shake my head. I don't know. This was quickly apparent to be a bad move, as the room seems to swerve around me.
Tyler can tell something is wrong and gently but firmly holds me up by my shoulders. "You still with me, psycho-boy?" I can tell he's nervous, although he tries to hide it under his usual false bravado.
I hum as loud as I can in response; the sound is barely above a whisper. All I want to do is collapse onto my disgusting mattress. I almost feel wrecked enough to sleep, although passing out cold is sounding more and more likely the longer Tyler holds me up on the vanity.
My head starts to slump forward, and before I can even panic about leaning on Tyler, he’s catching me with his shoulder. Through my vision, which is slowly tunneling, I can see the thinly veiled distress on his face.
“Hey, hey, you’ve gotta stay with me, okay? Calling an ambulance isn’t on the to-do list tonight–” He’s cut off by me going limp, no longer holding up my own weight. I wish I could listen to him. Really, all I want right now is to listen to Tyler. But my eyes fall shut, and the ringing in my ears grows louder until things go silent.
For a minute, I am nothing. It’s a sort of peace that I haven’t felt in months, except when I fall asleep on my shitty mattress after a really good meeting.
The next minute, I feel the leather of his jacket under my face. I lean back dazedly. I feel the washcloth back on my face, and the water on it mingles with tear streaks on my face. When the hell did that happen?
Tyler looks at me with a face of pure pity. He never looks at me like that. “Are you back with me? Come on, up, I’m gonna get you to bed, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
I hope in the morning I’ll remember to thank him.