13. Benji
BENJI
STAY
Darkness had settled over the cornfield.
The town glimmered ahead, marking our direction.
I stared at the ground, watching every step so I wouldn’t trip.
The job at the farm had trained me to be careful on uneven paths like this improvised one through the stalks.
Small stones, roots, forgotten farming equipment—everything could become a tripping hazard, especially in the dark.
Sam walked as stoically beside me, eyes fixed on his feet, huffing angrily. We had been arguing about what happened for ten minutes, both insisting we wouldn’t stop looking out for each other, while also claiming we didn’t need anyone watching our backs.
“We’re both free people,” I had said. “I can do however I please.”
“Ditto,” he had scoffed back.
And then we went into a silent stalemate and kept to ourselves for the rest of the way.
The closer we got to the house, the faster Sam walked, until I almost had to jog to keep up.
My house still stood at the end of Third Street the way we’d left: the two cars in the driveway, the apple tree overgrowing the shed, and the light over the back entrance still broken.
And yet it felt different. It didn’t feel like I was coming home, finally able to shed my clothes, shower, and relax; it felt like the real fight was only about to begin, as if an evil spirit loomed over the roof.
Then again, maybe that feeling had less to do with spirits and more with the blood trickling from my head onto my shirt and the ground.
A flickering TV light behind the curtain in the window next to the main entrance let us know that my parents were still up or had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Not that it changed anything. We still had to get inside and clean up. We just had to be careful not to get caught.
“Let’s take the back door,” I said, my voice low but stern.
“Yeah, better not scare your mom,” Sam replied, matching my tone.
Careful not to make any noise, we sneaked over the yard to the back entrance.
I fumbled my keys from my pocket and brought them to the lock when a drop of blood decided that now was the right time to attack my left eye.
My right thumb shot up to wipe it, but instead of helping, it only rubbed the blood deeper inside.
Ignoring my blurred vision, I aimed for the lock, but all I managed was scratching sounds as the key hit everything but the hole it was supposed to go into.
“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” Sam asked.
Of course, I was sure. I wasn’t weak. I’d handled situations worse than this.
I leaned closer to get a better view, but another drop of blood hit my eye, making it almost impossible to see. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been any light, but of course, now the broken lamp ended up biting me in the ass.
For the first time, I regretted not listening to my dad. Three months ago, he had told me to buy a new bulb, but since it wasn’t a priority, I kept “forgetting.”
Groaning, I shoved my keychain into Sam’s hands. “Don’t get any ideas about it.”
He bent down and, without a problem, slid the key into the lock and opened the door, holding it for me to lead the way.
A quiz show blared through the house. I put a finger to my lips to signal Sam to stay quiet, and he nodded. Without turning on the light, I sneaked toward the bathroom on our right and pushed the door open.
Sam closed the back door shut, a quiet click echoing down the hallway. We both held our breath, waiting for a reaction—until the quiz show audience laughed ten seconds later, and we breathed a sigh of relief. No one seemed to have noticed us.
He sat one foot in front of the other, tiptoeing his way toward me, taking his time—which we didn’t have, since every second we spent in the hallway raised the risk of blood spilling onto the carpet.
So when he was close enough, I grabbed his shoulder, pulled him inside, and locked the door behind us.
For a moment, we stood in the dark, listening to our breaths and the faint sound of applause from the TV.
I flicked the switch beside the door. The white light above the sink buzzed, flickering twice before it settled into a steady glow.
I stepped up to the mirror and flinched back an inch when I saw myself: my face, shirt, and hair were drenched in blood.
Sam’s comparison of me to a serial killer wasn’t so far off.
Startled, I stepped backward until I felt Sam’s hands between my shoulder blades.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “If you keep going back any further, I’ll tumble into the tub.”
“Why are you even in here with me?” I whispered back, turning toward him. The bathroom was so small we couldn’t help but stand close.
“Because someone has to clean that wound for you.”
“I told you, I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself.”
“It’s in the fricking back of your head. You can’t even see it. Don’t you think it’s safer if someone else does it so you don’t make it worse?”
“You’re annoying.”
“I don’t care. You can hate me all you want when I’m done.”
“Fuck off. Fine,” I growled and turned away. “But let me at least wash my face first.” I reached under my shirt and pulled it up, but Sam gasped before I’d even lifted it to my chest.
“Careful,” he whispered.
I stopped and glared at him. “Don’t tell me you want to help me undress now.”
Sam froze for a second, then shook his head so quickly that it almost seemed like he was trying to rattle the mere idea of it out of existence.
“Yeah,” I growled and pulled the shirt over my head, indeed careful not to touch the wound.
I threw it into the sink and opened the tap to rinse it.
A quick look in the mirror showed some blood had also seeped onto my chest. No wonder Sam wanted to be so careful, but still.
It pissed me off that he tried to help me—though I wasn’t sure why.
The warm water bled red as I soaked my hands and the shirt.
I wrung the fabric, hoping for at least a hint of the original white, but no matter how much I twisted it, the shirt stayed red.
It was useless. If I didn’t want my parents to find out, I’d have to get rid of it entirely.
Better to scrub the blood off myself than to waste time on the shirt.
So, I turned around, looking for somewhere to stash it for now.
Sam sat on the rim of the bathtub, hunched over his phone, frowning as he typed.
Was he already telling someone?
I stepped forward, towering over him to peek at the screen. Sam wouldn’t be the first one to play along while deep in the shit, only to turn his back on me later. And since he usually does what he’s told, the chances he was already blabbing to his cop of a father weren’t that low.
“What are you doing?” I growled.
“I’m trying to look up how to clean a head wound, but all I can find are instructions for children,” Sam sighed without taking his eyes off his phone. “Don’t, like, grown-ups get injured on the head too?”
His fingers rushed over the screen, tapping with the urgency of someone trying to find a solution, not someone about to snitch. Why did I instantly assume the worst?
My grip around the shirt tightened so much that the bloody water dripped from my hands onto the floor. Startled by the mess, I hurled the red piece of crap into the bathtub, then stood there, breathing hard, looking at the wet tiles underneath my feet.
Maybe the only person I couldn’t trust right now wasn’t Sam, but me. Clearly, I had nothing under control. The mess I‘d made, driven by that stupid script in my head that sooner or later everyone would betray me, was proof enough.
“Do you have gauze?” Sam asked. “They say to press gauze on the wound for fifteen minutes.”
I opened my mouth to protest that I didn’t give a shit about what whoever- they -was wrote online, but I held back. Maybe his head was clearer than mine; maybe following his lead was smarter than arguing.
“Benji?” Sam looked up. “Gauze?”
“Yeah, right.” Damn it. What does it matter if he takes the reins for a moment? “I think we have some.” Sighing, I squatted down and searched the cupboard underneath the sink until I found a faded pack of gauze and a washcloth, setting them on the counter. “There it is.”
“Nice,” Sam hissed as he jumped up. “Finally, something is going our way.”
“Just—” I raised my arms to slow him down. “Just let me wash up first, okay?”
I needed to at least do something useful myself, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready for him to wash my whole upper body.
I turned to the sink and met my own eyes in the mirror, staring into my blood-drenched face.
This was something I had been coming for myself all along.
Just like the dream I had the night after we first met.
Only now, instead of Sam being my downfall, he was the one keeping me company, stubbornly staying by my side, taking care of me, no matter how grumpy I was.
The steady stream of water turned red for five minutes straight.
That’s how long it took to scrub my face, chest, and arms back to their usual color.
I worked carefully to avoid spilling any more water onto the floor, as I wasn’t in the mood to clean the entire bathroom.
When I finished, I was dripping everywhere.
I turned for my towel, hanging on a rack under the small window to my right, and rubbed it over my face, neck, and chest.
Sam stepped close as if he couldn’t wait to keep his promise. He took the washcloth from the sink, wetted it, and searched for my approval. His expression was soft and warm, yet threaded with worry that he might find a worse wound than he hoped for.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I grumbled. “You don’t have to be so freaking worried. It’s not the first time I’ve bled like this.”
“Turn around. And maybe get on your knees,” Sam said. His words lingered between us before his eyes widened and a blush spread over his face as he realized how it sounded. “No, I mean—oh shit, that came out wrong.”