Things I'll Never Say

When the Cover is Blown

I woke up in my bed with blankets drawn up to my chest delicately. Mike must've brought me up last night after I passed out and after he calmed down. The night before was a blur in my mind, but it wasn't my biggest problem at the moment. Right now, I couldn't seem to ignore the pounding in my head. It felt as if someone was jabbing knives into it and the feeling didn't seem to pass. So, I just stayed in the fixed position I woke up in and started to look around, trying to figure out if Mike was in the house or not. At first glance, it appeared that he was gone, considering he wasn't in bed beside me and his shoes were still in their rack at the foot of our bed. But then, I heard the sound of running water coming from our bathroom sink.

"Mike?" I croaked out, starting to try and push myself up in the bed, squinting towards the bathroom. I picked up my glasses off my nightstand to get a better look.

From the door of the bathroom, the outline of Mike's body came into focus, revealing a man in pajama pants holding a wet rag in his hand. "Hey, Demi, just wait there and don't move. I don't want you passing out on me again. Lay back down and I'll be in to help you in a minute."

That's the thing about Mike, he always was there to help someone when they needed it, and he always was there to fix things. That's what I loved about him- his caring personality, a personality that seemed to escape right from him when he became angry and intoxicated. I missed the Mike I knew before alcohol decided to come into our relationship and try to tear us apart.

Not even a minute had passed before Mike came to my side with a bowl and wet rag. "This is going to sting a little, but try not to move or it will hurt more, okay?" His eyebrows were raised with concerned and he waited, rag raised, for me to respond to him. I nodded my head slightly. "Okay, good. This might take a while."

Carefully and gently, Mike raised the cloth to my face and slowly began dabbing it, starting at my cheekbone. He had only touched it to my face about four or five times before he put the rag back down into the bowl and placed it on the floor. "I need to go check something and I'll be right back. Don't move!"

He got up from the crouched position he was in on the floor and walked back into our bathroom. As he moved, I saw the muscles in his back flex, reminding me of how strong he really was. At any given moment, he could kill me easily without even exerting too much energy. There didn't seem to be a part of his body that wasn't toned. It wasn't by accident, though, as he worked out virtually ever day of the week.

At the sound of a drawer closing, Mike walked back in and resumed his spot at the side of the bed, picking the bowl and rag back up. "Alright, I'm gonna need you to close your eyes until I tell you that you can open them again, okay?" I nod, like before, shutting my eyes as I did so.

This time, I didn't experience the cold, wet feeling of the rag being dabbed across my face, but rather the feeling that something was being pulled from my skin. Dink! Dink, dink! Something must've hit the bowl as I heard the sound repeat softly a few times.

"Mike, what's that noise?"

"Ssshhh, Demi, you can't talk right now. I don't want to hurt you any further," Mike hushed, continuing to do whatever was that he was doing.

I opened my eyes, realizing I wasn't going to get an answer, and saw Mike with tweazers, dropping pieces of glass into the bowl. Dink, dink, dink! It was just a bloody mess of glass and flesh in a bowl of water that was tinted to a pinky-red.

"Mike-"

"Demi! I said not to open your eyes!" he exclaimed, sounding more concerned than angry.

The pounding in my head made me even more nauseous and I started to feel woozy. "Mike, I don't feel too well," I mumbled, starting to feel extremely sick.