Of Bruises and Beds

    “Jesus Christ.”
    Ah yes, the eternal and all-encompassing declaration of shock and anger. I turn and see Em step into the ward. All I can do is smile at her. “Hey.”
    “Hey?” she says, stepping toward me in something of a mad rush. “Jesus Christ! What—what the fuck happened to you?”
    Immediately, my eyes fall to the floor as I start to scratch at the brace that’s now holding my wrist. I don’t want to answer her. I really don’t want to answer her. There are two reasons for this. the first being that I’m embarrassed and ashamed. Stupid reaction I’m sure, but stupidity tends to take control of me rather often. The second reason is a little more considerable. This young woman is twenty-one years old. She’s been one of my closest friends for five years. Her name is Emilia Poikayer. She is Keith’s younger sister. What would your reaction be if you were told that the beaten woman in front of you was the direct product of your brother’s temper?
    She stands right in front of me and very closely and carefully scrutinizes every inch of my face. The bruising isn’t as bad as I originally thought. It’s just a dull blue with a hint of green. Even then, it’s not bad at all. “What happened?” she asks, her voice soft and a little fearful. She knows that I was at her brother’s place tonight.
    Finally, I look up at her and grit my teeth. “Keith hit me.”
    “He did WHAT?”
    I almost choke at her reaction. I assumed that she would stare at me and call me a damn liar. I didn’t think she’d believe me right off the top like this. “He hit me,” I repeat, my voice soft and very mouse like.
    She stares at the bruise on my face, at the brace on my wrist, the bandages on my chest, and then the tenser bandage around my knee. I suddenly realize just how pathetically made these hospital gowns are. “He did more than hit you! Looks like he beat the living shit out of you! I swear to God that when I see him, I’m gonna KILL HIM!”
    I can’t help but smile softly at her reaction. It’s a little comforting. “Who drove you in?”
    “Cabby,” she answers, lifting her hand to touch the bruise on my face. I shift and move from her outstretched fingers. “Sorry.” Her voice wavers sharply and she looks as though on the verge of telling me something.
    “What?”
    “Driver was nice,” she says, forcing a smile on her face.
    “Em?”
    She turns her back to me and crosses her arms over her chest. I can hear her crying softly.
    “Em?” I ask softly, standing from the bed and tossing a housecoat over my half-assed gown. “Em what the hell is it?”
    “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, wiping her tears with a furious motion. She turns and looks at me so much self-hatred it almost scares me.
    “Don’t be sorry.”
    She looks away for a minute and then turns back to me. “I have to be. He’s my brother.”
    “So what? So what if he’s your brother? He’s also an adult and he’s responsible for his own damn actions!” I can feel a deep and resounding rage building within my very soul. For some reason, I have a horrible sense that this is going to be some very misplaced anger.
    Em looks at me and smiles weakly. “At least you get the day off.”