Take A Shot For Me

Charlie

Dashie sleeps most of the following day. I Google how to dress his wounds and carry out the instructions to the best of my ability. He wakes up in the late afternoon.

"Waddup, BabyGirl?" he says, smiling. "How's my face?"

I gently touch his cheek. "Still handsome... ...You had me worried," I murmur. "...What happened?"

"Nothing; don't worry about it," he replies, dismissively.

"Charlie..." I murmur, looking into his eyes.

"Oh," he laughs, the surprise visible on his face. "We doin' Charlie now?"

I've never called Dashie by his real name. It may sound strange, but I've always preferred to call him Dashie, or Dash. He doesn't seem to mind, and given that I've never used his real name in conversation before, his surprise is understandable.

"Just... Can you tell me where that wound came from? What happened to your face?" I ask.

"I... I don't want to talk about it. ...I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Dash... Someone hurt you. They could've done worse. Why don't you want to press charges?" I peer into his face.

"I can't! I just can't, okay?! Shit!" His eyes are hard for a moment, then they soften. "I'm just doing what I have to..." he murmurs.