A nurse let us through into one of those rooms where they work on patient's motor skills, telling me to use the boxing gloves on the punch bag. I don't listen to that bit. I just walk in and start punching it as hard as I fucking can. A lot.
"You okay?" Stupid question, Kyle. I don't bother answering, and just keep hitting. He waits for me to answer.
"Oh yeah. I'm brilliant," I growl, feeling the skin on my knuckles beginning to split. I ignore as blood starts to smear on the punch bag, and just keep hitting it.
"Damien, stop." If you think I'm gonna stop, you got another thing coming, sunshine. "Damien!" I ignore him. He grabs my arms, "stop." I don't have much choice when you're holding my arms, do I? He looks at my knuckles, but I'm more concerned with how tight he's holding my arms. "You need to get this cleaned up." Dude, I don't care about that. I'm just trying not to move, or wince. He looks like he realises something and apologises, letting go. I don't think what he quite realised why I was trying not to wince, though.
I shrug and drop my arms to my sides. "You really should get that dealt with," he says, gesturing at my hands.
"It doesn't matter. I've done worse."
"You still should." I shake my head and sit down, ignoring him sighing. He arches an eyebrow as I absently scratch at my arm where he was holding me. I wince a little, catching one of the cuts by accident. "Are you okay?" you asked that already.
I look up at him. "You wanna see what words can do to people?" he doesn't say anything, but I push my sleeve back anyways.
"...I'm so sorry," he says when he sees the cuts that lace across my arm, from my wrist upwards. More of my skin is red and angry than it is pale. I shrug again.
"There's more, but I think you get the picture."
"I'm sorry." I don't say anything, pulling my sleeve back down. He falls silent and I sigh, resting my head back on the wall.
"I guess it doesn't really matter. It'll get worse for a couple weeks and then it'll stop again. The joys of being too sedated to care about anything," I smile slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"Campbell - my therapist guy - put me back on antidepressants. They make me a bitch to be around for the first couple of weeks. But after that, I'm okay. It's just like being on sedatives." He doesn't say anything. "So if I'm horrible to you or Danny over the next couple of weeks, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be."
"Don't worry about it." I sigh. I don't really want to say what I'm about to, but I guess it has to be said.
"And I'm sorry for being a dick to both of you before. I don't really have an excuse for any of that."
"Damien, don't worry about it." I don't say anything. I feel kinda sick again. I feel Kyle slip his arm around my shoulders.
"I wanna go home," I mumble. I wanna go home and find Phil waiting there for me. Kyle hugs me a little bit, but it doesn't feel right. I know he's trying to help, but... I dunno.
"I'm sorry," he apologises again.
"I feel like this is partly my fault."
"You can't help me being screwed up."