Not A Finch

Chapter 15: Mistreatment

Mistreatment?

Foul play?

The words of the social worker slowly start to get jumbled in my mind as she asks me question after question.

Adjectives I knew that shouldn't be used to describe my brothers gets pinned to their names. Accusations hidden behind a smile. An understanding nod in response to my answers. And, always a pleasant "don't worry, your brothers won't ever know what we talk about."

It was starting to make me feel nauseous. I could feel a dark hole begin to form in the pit of my stomach, ready to devour my entire existence.

I just want to see my family. These days in the hospital have been terrible. Not because I can't move my arms or because of medical related issues, but because I'm alone. I don't have any of them here to hold me or to smile at me or to just look at me like I mattered.

I regret every time I pushed them away from me. I would give anything to have them here now. I would even go back to just being a little brother. I would even join their relationship.

I don't care I just need them.

I have never been away from them this long. I miss sleeping with Ozzie, Rue's stupid laugh, Adair's big words, Calloway's sweetness and mischief, Hunter's strong reassuring presence, and Augustus's alluring lip ring, his rough but sometimes gentle touch, the way he was just so fucking attractive just by standing around. I think about his promise every extra day they keep me here.

He promised me I would get through this. He told me they would all be waiting for me at home but everyday I'm left alone in this stupid empty room with nothing but a tv.

My nurses and my physical therapist enter and give me a smile, but they always exit. Everyone's just doing their job. None of them care about me or love me. This is the world I had wanted to enter. This desolate place where I could be my own man. Where I was Asher instead of a Finch.

If my brothers were allowed to see me I would never be alone. I should have just been happy being a Finch.

"Okay Asher." The social worker smiles brightly at me singing my name. "I'm just going to ask you a few more questions and then I'll get out of your hair buddy. So, do you often get injuries like this?"

I sigh, the pit in my stomach rolling around as I shift in bed. This lady had asked this question three times in three different ways. It was like she was trying to catch me in a lie.

"No, I don't often fall into a coma." I say with exasperation shaking my head. My hair falls in my eyes. "And, no my brothers don't abuse me. The worst thing they do is give me bruises sometimes, but usually that happens when I do something stupid." I say with a low huff, the dark hole within my growling as I slide my eyes upwards towards the ceiling. I let out a low breath.

I feel like I'm going to fail whatever test she's giving me.

I sink further down into the pit in my stomach before finally turning my eyes back to the nicely dressed lady in front of me; she nods rapidly as she writes on her clipboard.

"That's a lot of words..." I say nervously licking my lips.

The social worker finally looks up at me. She smiles at me leaning forward in the plastic chair she sits in.

"How exactly do you get these bruises?"

I stare blankly at her. The black hole in me whispering warnings to me. This had to be a trick question. She's trying to get me to say something absurd like I get being beaten with a stick or a bat or anything other than an annoyed swat so she could write something else down.