HIDING - every scar has a story

41. Cover.

{Cary}

Cary ran the bath as hot as he could stand and gingerly lowered himself in. He felt his whole body release and let out a shaky sigh, closing his eyes and sinking up to his chin. He wanted to stay here forever.

That thought slapped him like a bucket of cold water. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash already crammed into one corner of the bathtub.

What if he did what Pete said? What if he could live here?

He ducked his head under the water, scrubbing his fingers into the thick tangle of hair at the nape of his neck. Once he'd had that thought he couldn't stop picking at it. He added up the cost to himself and the cost to the Whites. He would have to say sorry to Jon, he would have to let Pete and Jon close enough to hurt him, he would have to keep his hands from hurting anyone back, and he would have to tell the truth when he talked.

He would have to stay alive, even on days when it hurt just to breathe. Leaving Pete with a dead kid to explain to Child Protection would be a hell of a way to say thank you.

Maybe if Jon covered for him he could do that.

He sat up gasping, wiping his streaming face. Shit. He'd just broken his own rule and wished for something for himself. When Pete changed his mind, it was going to hurt like hell, because Cary wanted to stay.

He reached for the soap and scrubbed himself clean until his skin was raw and his hair squeaked. When he got out of the tub, the water was pinkish-grey. He put on his shorts and pants, frowning at the short-sleeved shirt Jon had given him. The cuts on his arm were bleeding sluggishly. He should have washed and treated them two days ago; now their edges were red and inflamed.

The drawers in Jon's bathroom weren't stocked with first aid supplies like his bathroom. He had opened all of them when the doorbell rang. He froze, looking at the bathroom door. He heard Pete in the front entry greeting someone—a woman. Child Protection.

He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and backed up so fast he almost fell back into the tub. His mouth was sloppy, swollen with bruises, and his father's hard, black eyes looked back at him. He couldn't scrub hard enough to get the bruises off his body. The scars over the mended bones in his wrists looked like thick, pink worms crawling over the backs of his hands. He was going to have to explain these things to someone he'd never met. Right now.

The room tilted. He caught himself on the back of the toilet and threw up. He spat, hanging onto the cool porcelain with his eyes squeezed shut. I am not strong enough for this. He straightened gently, turning on the taps to rinse his mouth and wash his hands. There was a light knock on the door.

"Cary," Jon said. "Child Protection is here."

The cold water bit the cuts on his palm. Cary shut his fingers and turned off the tap, avoiding his face in the mirror.

"Can I come in?" Jon said.

He opened the door. Jon slid inside and shut it behind him, a worried wrinkle in his forehead as he looked at Cary. "I heard you throwing up--are you ready for this?"

Cary shook his head. His throat was raw. "I need some—I need something to cover this." He turned his arm out.

Jon sucked in his breath. "What the hell did you do?"

Cary met his eyes. He couldn't speak.

Jon shut up, but he looked furious. He reached into the back of the cupboard under the sink to pull out a shoebox of first aid supplies, flicking packaged squares of gauze onto the counter.