least until tomorrow, and I just say again, if some of the wounds on your back are not healing properly, possibly a course of antibiotics would help. Or it may be that you will need to go to hospital, have them opened up and drained, possibly debrided."
Zach just stared. The pain in his back had been
getting worse, not better, he admitted to himself. And she was a doctor —and she seemed nice— and her husband did give over his fugly sweaters. Despite years of family secrecy ingrained at the end of a belt, maybe today would be a good day to accept some help? He could always run if she tried to make him do something he didn't want to, or if Ben tried to make him stay when he didn't want to.
Running was easy.
"They may come back in," he finally said, looking to the door nervously.
"They won't; not until I tell them it's okay." She crossed to the drapes at the window, ready to pull them if he said yes.
"All right," he finally said, standing and slipping off the sweater, listening to her pull the curtains, giving him privacy, and then unbuttoning his shirt and pulling his arms 84
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
through the sleeves until he stood in the front room in just a Cowboys T-shirt and his jeans. Turning away from her, he took a deep breath and begun to lift the tee, waiting for her to say something. She said nothing, only tracing some of the healing scars and examining some that hadn't healed yet. He knew that one particularly bad one trailed from the middle of his spine and down past the waistband of his jeans, and she asked carefully if he could drop his jeans off his hips, which he did with some hesitation. One of the open weeping wounds went across one cheek and finished in the center, angry, raw, raised, the skin pink and pinched around the edges. He had seen it in the mirror and felt it when it wept. It made his jeans and shirts pull and stick.
"Zach, one of the wounds here, it's not nice, so I need to treat that and then dose you with antibiotics. I think you will be okay with that. The skin has semi closed, but it has trapped infection."
"Uh huh." His voice was quiet, distressed. "There may be…" How was he going to explain?
"May be what?"
"Splinters. There may be splinters from the stick…"
He shrugged. He wasn't an expert; he didn't know. Melanie didn't say a thing, in fact she was very quiet, and then he sensed her crossing to her bag, which he now realized was 85
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
a medical bag. When she turned back to him, he could see tears in her eyes, and it made him sad.
"It's okay," he said softly, reaching out to touch her arm. "It's happened before. I always get better eventually."
He was startled as she raised her hand to touch his cheek, and he flinched away before he could catch himself.
"Sorry," he said quickly, trying to make himself stand still as she traced the bruises and marks around his face.
"How long has it been, Zach?"
"Two weeks," he answered immediately.
"No, I meant since the last time you were beaten, on your face?"
Despair built in the pit of his stomach. How could he even start to explain that one? That it was daily, that it was more than he could take sometimes? That sometimes he cried, and that when he did cry, he just made it worse for himself? "A week, nearly two," he finally answered. "The day I left."
"Can I take some photos?" she asked cautiously.
"Why?"
"For evidence, Zach. Evidence against whoever did this to you."
"No." Zach was adamant. He just wanted to forget it all. It was only him it happened to. His dad didn't hit 86
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
Rebecca, and there was no point to it…
"Zach, as your doctor, I must point out that, days, weeks, maybe even months ahead, when the physical wounds have healed, you will want to face what happened to you. Having photos will help. As someone who wants to be your friend, please let me do this."
Zach was suspicious, his thoughts tangled up in
never and maybe, and he
Zach just stared. The pain in his back had been
getting worse, not better, he admitted to himself. And she was a doctor —and she seemed nice— and her husband did give over his fugly sweaters. Despite years of family secrecy ingrained at the end of a belt, maybe today would be a good day to accept some help? He could always run if she tried to make him do something he didn't want to, or if Ben tried to make him stay when he didn't want to.
Running was easy.
"They may come back in," he finally said, looking to the door nervously.
"They won't; not until I tell them it's okay." She crossed to the drapes at the window, ready to pull them if he said yes.
"All right," he finally said, standing and slipping off the sweater, listening to her pull the curtains, giving him privacy, and then unbuttoning his shirt and pulling his arms 84
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
through the sleeves until he stood in the front room in just a Cowboys T-shirt and his jeans. Turning away from her, he took a deep breath and begun to lift the tee, waiting for her to say something. She said nothing, only tracing some of the healing scars and examining some that hadn't healed yet. He knew that one particularly bad one trailed from the middle of his spine and down past the waistband of his jeans, and she asked carefully if he could drop his jeans off his hips, which he did with some hesitation. One of the open weeping wounds went across one cheek and finished in the center, angry, raw, raised, the skin pink and pinched around the edges. He had seen it in the mirror and felt it when it wept. It made his jeans and shirts pull and stick.
"Zach, one of the wounds here, it's not nice, so I need to treat that and then dose you with antibiotics. I think you will be okay with that. The skin has semi closed, but it has trapped infection."
"Uh huh." His voice was quiet, distressed. "There may be…" How was he going to explain?
"May be what?"
"Splinters. There may be splinters from the stick…"
He shrugged. He wasn't an expert; he didn't know. Melanie didn't say a thing, in fact she was very quiet, and then he sensed her crossing to her bag, which he now realized was 85
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
a medical bag. When she turned back to him, he could see tears in her eyes, and it made him sad.
"It's okay," he said softly, reaching out to touch her arm. "It's happened before. I always get better eventually."
He was startled as she raised her hand to touch his cheek, and he flinched away before he could catch himself.
"Sorry," he said quickly, trying to make himself stand still as she traced the bruises and marks around his face.
"How long has it been, Zach?"
"Two weeks," he answered immediately.
"No, I meant since the last time you were beaten, on your face?"
Despair built in the pit of his stomach. How could he even start to explain that one? That it was daily, that it was more than he could take sometimes? That sometimes he cried, and that when he did cry, he just made it worse for himself? "A week, nearly two," he finally answered. "The day I left."
"Can I take some photos?" she asked cautiously.
"Why?"
"For evidence, Zach. Evidence against whoever did this to you."
"No." Zach was adamant. He just wanted to forget it all. It was only him it happened to. His dad didn't hit 86
The Christmas Throwaway
RJ Scott
Rebecca, and there was no point to it…
"Zach, as your doctor, I must point out that, days, weeks, maybe even months ahead, when the physical wounds have healed, you will want to face what happened to you. Having photos will help. As someone who wants to be your friend, please let me do this."
Zach was suspicious, his thoughts tangled up in
never and maybe, and he
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