26: Stained By His Own Blood

"See you." Sam nodded to his friends, watching as they walked over to Brian's car. Everything he did seemed absent and automatic, like Sam was lost on an island entirely alone. I wanted to meet him halfway, to drag him back into reality so that he would remain at my side. But I wasn't sure if that was a good thing to do or not. What if I only ended up destroying him more? He looked so lost and helpless, and I wasn't sure that he even wanted to be around me right then.

I sat down inside of his Mercedes Benz, Sam joining me after a long, hushed pause of brief isolation. Unlike on our way here, I didn't even think about touching the radio. It felt wrong, and Sam didn't seem to notice either way. He wasn't looking at me, just putting the car into drive and heading out to the road.

I wanted to reach out and touch him. To brush off the blood drying to his chin from his broken lip. I wanted to grab his hand and feel the familiar weight of it in my palm. Dennis, Caden, and Brian had all insisted upon going back to his house with us. But Sam just told them that it was fine. Until they were forced to let it go and part ways. It left me with the awful feeling that Sam just wanted to be left alone. And that I was included in that.

The drive felt painfully stretched out. My head was aching persistently, and there was some blood on the collar of my sweatshirt which left me wondering just how much was on my face. Did I look disgusting? Did Sam see the druggies every time he looked at me? Was that why he wouldn't meet my gaze? My chest was heavy from the recent return of my asthma, and the cuts in my skin burned from all of the dirt inside of my open wounds.

It took a lot to keep from crying during the whole drive. Even if I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to cry about. Maybe for the fact that we were all so fucking screwed. Or because everything hurt so damn much — my lungs, my back, my head. Or it could have been the space between Sam and I that wasn't there just this morning. What was I supposed to do? I never felt so fucking useless before.

An eternity seemed to go by before he finally reached his driveway. He parked the car, and I walked on wobbly legs beside him up to the front door. Just as he always did, he locked it behind us once we were safely inside.

Sam leaned back against the door a bit, as if he was fighting to not just fall apart right then. His eyes were closed, a large red spot slowly turning purple on his jaw. His lip was bloody and raw. He was so still, and I started to wonder if he even remembered that I was there. I knew I should leave him alone, but I had nowhere to go.

My hand betrayed me, moving from my side and lightly touching his arm. He stiffened beneath my touch, and it hurt. Was that how he felt when I was so hesitant about his affection? He opened his eyes and looked at me, at first almost gazing through me. Then finally, he seemed to focus, brow furrowed only slightly as though he was actually seeing me for the first time since everything happened.

Then he came to life all at once, moving towards me. His hand raised to my cheek, fingertips hovering over the damage. It was all he was focused on, as though he simply couldn't look away from what happened. I wished that he would just say what he was thinking instead of drowning himself in his thoughts alone.

"Come here." Sam said quietly after a few minutes, grabbing my hand and guiding me away from the door. It was an oddly familiar experience, a strange sense of déjà vu cast over the moment. Strange, because the last time this happened I was the one helping him. And yet here we were, weeks later, my face the one with the most gruesome outcome.

He took me to his bathroom, where I automatically sat down on the closed toilet lid. Just like he had. I wanted to get up and take care of myself, because I wasn't incapable or anything. But I could tell that Sam needed the small distraction. Something to keep his hands moving so that he wasn't just instantly drowning in his twisted realization of the sick world we lived in. I always knew that he was willfully ignorant to the danger we were a part of, but I could tell that it finally sunk in. For whatever reason, this was the moment that broke him. Not a gun pointed to his head, nor me getting asphyxiated in front of him. Maybe those had contributed, but this was the day that ripped him out of his hopeful mentality.

I saw myself in the mirror while he grabbed a washcloth and began damping it. And I was startled because my face was nearly unrecognizable. The left half was coated in blood, splotchy in some places, and thick in others. It was drying harshly to my skin, tightening it and making it itch between the dull throbs of pain. It was hard to make out exactly where the damage was or what I was going to look like for the next few weeks while it healed. I wouldn't really know until the blood was wiped off.

Sam walked to me, washcloth in his palm as he used one hand to lightly guide my chin upward so that he could get a better look. Then, with apprehension clear on his face, he carefully began to clean off the blood. The water was warm, of course, and my eyes couldn't seem to leave him as he studied me so carefully.

Sometimes he would brush the cloth just a little bit too hard over a place where my skin was too raw, and I would wince, and he would let out a soft gasp as though he was feeling my pain too. He wasn't saying anything, but his hand was shaking. He was shaking. Maybe the only reason I was so calm was because he wasn't. After all, whenever I was freaking out in the past, Sam was always the collected one. He rationalized my thoughts and reassured me. Was I trying to match that energy without even realizing it? But I wasn't like Sam. I didn't know what to say to help him.

His hands were trembling, and the longer it went on, the worse it got. His brow was furrowed as though he was frustrated by that fact, and his breathing was almost labored. I started to worry that he was experiencing some sort of breakdown. Was he going to have an anxiety attack?

"Sam." I mumbled his name, hoping to get his attention. It didn't work, his hands continuing. There couldn't have been much blood left anymore. It was like he wasn't even in the room with me. "Sam." I tried again.

When that attempt didn't work either, I grabbed a hold of his wrist. "Sam."

Finally, our gazes met. He was returning to me, and I hoped that it would stay that way this time. He didn't have to suffer through this alone. I was right here. "Yeah?"

"It's okay, Sam." I told him, holding his wrist tightly as if I was terrified that he wouldn't believe me if I wasn't touching him. The feeling of our skin contact meant that it must have been real, because I was the one initiating it. It wasn't often that I did that confidently.

His lips parted, but he said nothing. His bottom lip was still stained by his own blood, and it killed me that he was the one trying to look after me. I used the grip I had on his wrist to take the washcloth from him. I folded it over to a clean side, and lightly dabbed his chin and lip. Until his face was clean, though the bruise and scab were still there. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about those no matter how much I wished otherwise.

Then a tear fell down his cheek.

It was quick and sudden, and I hardly had any time to process the water welling up in his eyes. The tear fell, and I forgot all about the washcloth as it fell with it. My hands found his face, planting them on his cheeks as to hold a part of him. "Sam, I've got you. It's okay."

He seemed to fall apart in front of me. His hands gripped my shirt, and he descended to his knees in front of me. Until I was able to wrap my arms around his quivering form. And he was sobbing uncontrollably, and I had no idea what to do. He buried his face against my chest, and I held him close.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry, Sawyer." He managed between his uncontrollable sobs and gasps, and I wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for.

"It's okay, Sam." I told him for the third time, because I didn't know what else to say. "I'm okay."

"I'm so sorry." Sam said again, and I wondered if we were both just broken record players searching for the words we wanted to be heard. The words we couldn't find, because there just didn't seem to be strong enough ones in our limited vocabularies. I felt stupid and pathetic and hopeless. Judging by the way Sam was breaking down in my arms, I knew he felt that way too.

"Sam, I was the dumbass who chose the worst possible moment to be a bigger person. That was my fault." I told him, petting his hair softly as I tried to keep from crying too. I could see us in the mirror, my temple and cheek covered in patches of torn skin. Some places were in the early stages of a scab. There was also the back of Sam's distraught form as he shuddered through tears against me.

"You would never be in this situation if I hadn't fucked everything up from the start." He muttered into my shirt.

"You never would have manned up and kissed me then." I attempted to joke.

Finally, he peeled away from me just enough to look at me. His eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet. His hair tangled and unruly, this time unintentionally. "I guess that's true."

I don't know why, but that made me smile a bit. I cupped his face once more, my thumb running over his damp skin. "And I might have thought I hated you, but I'm a fucking idiot. Those druggies might have control over us, but they don't have control over this."

He touched his forehead to mine. "I hate the way they hurt you. That's my fault."

"They hurt you too." I said. "You made your decision under gunpoint. What else were you supposed to do?"

"I don't know." He admitted, but I could hear the apprehension. Like as if he was still unconvinced that he made the right choice in that scenario. And maybe he didn't. Maybe there was something else he could have done. But what did it even matter anymore? It was too late to backtrack. Sam could blame himself all he wanted, but it wasn't going to solve the problem at hand.

"We're here now, okay? We're here and we're in this together."

"I hate that it's hurting you."

"I hate that it's hurting you. But there's nothing we can do at this point other than to see it through. It's too late for the police, not without getting you into more long term trouble. And you were right, how do we know that it will even get them to back off? There might be more of them we don't even know about."

"I feel like a stupid fucking naïve child." Sam whispered, voice breaking again. "I'm so pathetic for ever thinking this was going to work out."

"Don't say that." The defeat in his tone was too much. I couldn't take it any longer, a tear slipping from my own eye. "Please, don't."

"Why?" His forehead finally left my own, our eyes meeting each other as he asked the question. "Why would you want me to be gullible?"

"Because your ability to be so hopeful is the only goddamn thing that makes me think any of this will ever work out." I told him between the sudden onslaught of my own crying. I was being a selfish asshole, and I hated myself for it. But Sam's optimism was the only thread we were both hanging onto. And if denying Sam the ability to cut that thread made me a bad boyfriend, then I was going to carry that title for the time being.

"What if I can't do that anymore?" He wiped a few tears from my eyes. We were both blubbering messes.

"Then how will our dynamic work if we're both equally pessimistic?" I pointed out, and Sam actually smiled.

"You're right." He laughed softly, and I felt like I won something. A lovely award that I would hold close to my heart. "It'd be a nightmare if I suddenly started matching your energy."

"Exactly." I found myself laughing a bit too. For the moment we weren't crying anymore, and I was grateful.

Was I codependent for relying on Sam's words so heavily? Was I horrible for falling apart with him rather than staying strong and simply holding him when he needed it? Or were we both just teenagers trying to find the strength to make it through to the other side of a disturbing situation? I didn't know. It wasn't like there was a damn guide on how to survive a situation like ours.

"I—" the word left my mouth before I realized I wanted to speak again. However, I stopped it there. Because I had the overwhelming feeling that I was about to say something that I wasn't sure I wanted to yet. Something that made my stomach churn uneasily.

This was my first relationship, and we had only been official for a week. My life was threatened, probably as a result of the way Sam looked at me. Perhaps that was why Drake knew to target me. I shouldn't be so apt to say something so absurd this early on. So I took those words and pretended like they never even came to mind.

Instead I said, "I trust you, Sam. You don't have to doubt yourself."

His expression softened. He started to bite his lip, but hesitated once he remembered the damage already done to it. "I know."

Carefully, as to make sure that I wasn't going to make anything worse, I kissed him. Our lips moved against each other slowly. It was a tender kiss, one unlike what we were used to. So serene and simple, and it felt so much like a promise.

Like we were both swearing to persevere through all of this and find each other once the dust settled on the other side.

If it ever did.

•O•O•

How do y'all feel about this chapter? This is an entirely new chapter that wasn't in the original, and I feel like it was so necessary. I can't believe I didn't write this the first time