Ouch! (Part II)

Astrid paused, for several heart pounding seconds: regarding him carefully with big wet eyes. Her body was tense, muscles locked - the fight or flight instinct had taken over her, but was slowly subsiding. The hurt in his eyes killed her, and she knew that he really didn't mean it. But she also knew that there was still something wrong; not necessarily between them or because of her, but ...

Taking a deep, shaky breath, her eyelids dropped shut, letting the tears that welled up drip down her cheeks. "Okay," she said with a small hiccup, furrowing her brow - but leaned into his arms, pressing her face to his chest, letting her arms encircle him. She began to cry again, softly and quietly, not really able to hold it all back. The emotions that ran rampant throughout the night were unexpected, wore her down a bit, and all she could really do was try and catch her breath. "Okay," she repeated when she was calm enough, pulling back slightly from his body and rubbed her eyes with her fists, forcing a small smile. "I'm sorry. Do you ..." not really knowing why she was apologizing, maybe to keep him from getting upset again, "... want me to finish dinner?" She was going to ask him to talk, but ... it didn't seem right: the tension was still high in the air, thick.

"Eh," he said, waving a hand and turning away from her. He felt as if something had broken inside of him at the sight of her face, the tears running from her eyes. It was him that was wrong, and yet she was apologizing. Bile sloshed in his stomach and he cupped a hand to his mouth.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he said through his fingers, afraid to turn around and face her. "Excuse me." He brushed past her toward the bathroom, eyes watching the floor. If he could get into the bathroom, maybe see if there was a little nipper under the counter or something, he could take back control of himself.

Astrid watched him helplessly, feeling a sudden chill ravage her body. Biting down on her bottom lip, she resisted the urge to break down and cry again - Jesus Christ, why was she such a goddamned crybaby? She liked to think of herself as a tough kind of chick, but when emotions were involved, she was prone to bursting into tears. Cursing her sensitive nature, she realized that there was little she could do for the moment. Climbing to her feet, using the kitchen counter for support, she leaned over the sink and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face to try and calm herself down.

Giving herself a few minutes to relax, because maybe if she was relaxed, then he would calm down, too. Her finger throbbed, she noticed dimly, but she tried to put it past her mind. The door to the bathroom was shut, ominously quiet - maybe he needed some space, too. She took the moment to carefully reapply her make-up in the bedroom - using waterproof eyeliner and mascara, this time - to let a few minutes pass. When there was nothing coming from the bathroom, she walked up to the door, knocking softly. "Dante? Dante, are you okay? Let me in."

Nothing, there was nothing. Dante stared at his reflection in the mirror, horrified. There wasn't even a mouthful of mouth rinse, and the worst part about that was that he had actually considered drinking Listerine. I think I might have a problem, he thought, and shook his head at his reflection. No. He just needed something to calm him down, something stronger than a Marlboro or a hit of cheap city weed.

His mouth felt as if it were coated in baking soda. "Yeah?"

There was a hint of desperation in his voice that threatened to break him, and she heard it, closing her eyes for a few brief seconds. "Dante, are you okay?" The feeling of impending doom washed over her, took root in her belly and worked its way through her body. She felt sick as she reached up a trembling hand, grasping the door knob and turning it, finding it unlocked.

Nudging the door open with a shoulder, she let it open to look at him standing there, gripping the sink. "Dante .... talk to me." She could see his resolve weakening, see that there was something very, very wrong with him; firming her tone slightly to show that she was strong, to show that she could handle whatever he would threw her way. All she wanted was to know what was wrong, do her best to try to help.

He clamped down on his tongue, fighting the explosive words that threatened to break free. His nostrils flared and he peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked worried, innocent.

"Get... Get..." He turned from her, facing the glass shower, shaking. His mind raced and his fists clenched. He couldn't control himself, but the corners of his mouth threatened to curl up. Part of him enjoyed the mindless lack of self he now was. Part of him wanted to embrace the rage, to shatter that glass shower door. A small part of him remembered that he was a lot bigger than her, and that he needed to control himself if only so that he didn't scare her. He didn't think he would hurt her, but hadn't he already?

This was a side of him she had never seen - and it terrified her. He was upset about something, to say the least, and he was a bomb just waiting to go off. Part of her wanted to stay and try and comfort him, but the rational side of her overrode any maternal instinct that welled up inside her. She had to get out of here, and she had to go fast. She knew he would never hurt her purposefully, but she knew that if provoked, she would be in the way of a very dangerous man.

"Okay."

Her mouth was slightly open, fearful: but she obeyed his unfinished demand. Slowly backing up away from him until her back hit the wall, prompting her to turn for the bedroom and, very quickly and quietly, gather her purse and keys. She didn't know what else to do: she could hear him breathing heavily in the bathroom as she approached the door opening it and stepping out onto the porch. She'd wait here. She'd give him a few minutes, see what he did, and if things didn't change, she'd bounce. If only it were that simple.

He listened to her keys jingling off-beat with her footsteps, and when the door closed behind her he threw his fist into the medicine cabinet mirror. A few shards of glass sprayed onto the floor, but most of the mirror was now in his fist. He slid to the tiled floor and buried his face in his hands.

"Scissorhands," he said, voice cracking as the first of his tears burst and trickled down his abraded cheek. Little beads of blood sprang out from the wounds in his fist, but he didn't bother getting up to take care of it. He had given Astrid his last Band-Aid, and now he was pretty sure she was gone.

Astrid had just lit up a cigarette and taken a well-needed drag off of it when she heard the muffled, albeit noisy explosion of glass. Nearly dropping her cigarette and her keys, she turned around and flung the door open, dashing back into the apartment. It was a good thing she waited around, although she was not prepared for the sight that awaited her. This time, she did drop her purse and keys to the floor, not even hearing the clatter: mouth falling open and letting the cigarette fall to the tiles.

"My God, Dante," she choked out, pressing a hand to her mouth as she fell to her knees, crawling on the floor into the bathroom, careful to avoid any shards of glass, but even more careful of him on the off-chance he was primed to explode. She had a feeling, though, that this was the fallout of his rage and she didn't have anything to fear. She did, however, have to tend to his wounds - starting off by reaching a comforting hand out to him.

"I thought you left," he said. Lyrics from an old song came to him, something about being half a man, and then the fragment was gone. He didn't want to think about who he was; he wasn't even sure he knew anymore.

He held his damaged hand out in front of him. It didn't look good; some of the glass looked like it was in deep, and he thought he would probably need stitches. "I can handle this. It's okay. Really. You can just go home, or something." He tried his best to sound reassuring, to be the stone that he normally was for her, but the effort was half-assed.

"I didn't want to," she pointed out. Never mind that, though, this wasn't the time to be arguing or debating. He was seriously injured, whether he wanted to admit to it or not. Shaking her head as she gently took hold of his wrist, holding the hand up. It was a grotesque looking injury, one that he could most definitely not handle on his own.

"No way. I'm not leaving you like this." Astrid didn't want to leave him ever, but ... banishing the thought from her mind, she slowly stood up, holding onto the door jamb for support. "I'm taking you to the emergency room," she said finally, that firm tone seeping back into her voice. "I'm taking you, and you are not going to argue with me. I can't handle this, and neither can you. Come on, get up ..." Whoa! When did Astrid grow a spine? Her eyes were glassy like she was going to cry all over again, but she grounded her stance and bit the inside of her cheek. He was starting to bleed badly now, and she was growing more anxious with every moment that passed.

He tried to grin, but grit his teeth instead. "Really, it's fine," he said. "I can just pull these out with pliers and--" He knit his brows together. "Ooh, okay, okay. I might need to go to the ER."

He flexed his hand out in front of him. "Ooh, man that's bad. Shit," he said. "I might need a drink." He forced a grin and looked at her dead on. "Oh, man it hurts!"

Astrid shook her head, pale pink strands of hair coming loose from her pony tail, but she ignored them, still holding onto his wrist. "Baby, come on, get up. I'm going to take you to the ER." Slowly climbing to her feet, ever so gently pulling him up along with her.

"You don't need a drink, you need medical attention." Shaking her head - if only she realized how telling his own admission had been. It lingered in her mind when she helped him out the door and out to her car, but concern took over immediately. She found that her hands were shaking, fumbling with the keys before she actually got the car started, backing out of her parking space. "Just ... relax, okay?" God, why did he have to go and do that? He was bleeding all over himself, her car - not that she cared about that. At least he wasn't fighting her on the hospital bit.

"Fuck me, this hurts," he said as he swung the passenger door shut. "I feel like I'm gonna pass out." He held his hand in his lap, letting it bleed into his already soaked jeans. "If we could just stop somewhere real quick, get me a shot so I don't start screaming like a little girl in front of my girl..." He turned and winked at her, then winced. It actually did hurt pretty bad, but he didn't really care about the pain. He wanted to scream at her, to shake her, but that wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed to stay calm, cool.

He kept mentioning alcohol. She knew he drank often, but she never really considered the extent; though when he asked her to stop somewhere so he could get a shot, her early suspicion was beginning to seep back into her mind. It was a sobering thought - no pun intended, of course - that threw her into a tailspin of emotions: first concern, then anger, then annoyance, then ... well, she wasn't sure what she was feeling. Knitting her brows together, tossing him a dirty look. "Alcohol thins the blood, so you'll bleed even more than you already are." He was trying to be cute, but it wasn't going to work this time. As she drove, she wondered how many times she fell for this same trick, wondered just how bad his problem with alcohol really was.

"Come on, babe." He pulled at a piece of the glass in his hand, then drew his hand back when it hurt too much to fully pull out. "If you love me, you'll do this little thing for me. I'm already bleeding like a pig, anyway." He wiggled his hand for emphasis.

Astrid couldn't help it: she was beginning to feel quite angry at him at this point. All she had wanted was a nice, quiet night at his place to have dinner, relax, and forget about everything. This became evident long ago that this wasn't going to happen - and she was less than pleased that she had to drive him to the emergency room after he scared the everloving shit out of her. "No." Thank God the ER wasn't too far off, she could see the lights on top of the building in the distance. "Dante, I think you have a problem."

"Yeah, I think so, too," he said, not bothering to cover up the anger anymore. "It's my tyrant of a fucking girlfriend." The second the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He wanted the drink even more, so he let the words hang, anticipating the inevitable argument that he was hoping would follow.

And she was here to let him down. She braked suddenly when he spoke those words, gasping softly in surprise - and then nothing. She couldn't even begin to formulate the words, the feelings that washed over her,m but she knew that if she even attempted to speak, she'd probably wind up hitting him in the face. Thankfully, they had reached the hospital; pulling up by the ER's sliding doors, she braked again, a little harder than necessary. "Get out." Her words were cold, her hands clutching the steering wheel so tight her knuckles began to turn white - her jaw was set, fighting back the tears.

He froze, unable to make even his good hand work the car door. He had, obviously, not anticipated this.

"Babybabybaby, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. I'm just freaking out. I mean, I think I'm like delirious or something. It's the blood loss. I don't know what the fuck I'm saying. I'm just scared. I'm sorry." He glanced from the ER doors to Astrid's face as he spoke.

"Jesus FUCKING Christ, Dante, get the hell out of my car!!" Astrid had exploded suddenly, slamming both her fists on either side of the steering wheel. It was better than bursting into tears all over again, which she would be damned if she did that in front of him again. But she was pissed off, and understandably so, and right now, she wasn't sure she could stand to be around him anymore - even if she did feel concerned about his hand. Reaching across his lap, pushing the door open and then squared her shoulders, hands back on the wheel.

He got out and walked away, taking brisk steps in the opposite direction of the ER doors. Fuck his hand. He needed a drink.