Grey's Tribute

We Are Even

Opening my eyes, the withdrawals still shake my body. Even when sleeping, I still have tremors. He's here, holding me tightly to him, not letting me go. It looks like he hasn't slept in days, bloodshot eyes staring down at me.

"It's okay, Meela, I've got you."

Closing my eyes back up, listening to his heart pound away, his breathing even and regular. Sweat trickles down my back, soaking me, soaking him. He's just as wet as me, but he continues to hold me, not paying any mind to his own discomfort, his cramped muscles, his numb arms.

We're on the bathroom floor, his back propped against the wall, while I'm cradled against him.

I'm a foul stinking mess, full of vomit and piss. He's rocking me like a mother would a sick child, cooing softly in my ear.

His hand is on my forehead and my head perched in the crook of his arm, my cheek pressed against his naked chest. I find comfort in this. It's something I haven't had in a very long time and my body craves it.

"It's going to be okay."

He believes his own words even though I don't. I place my hand against his heart. The strong beats increase the longer my hand rests there. He's affected by me, that little touch sends such sweet pleasure flowing through his body, so I take my hand away.

"I'm okay." Saying words while shifting myself away from him, creating space.

"Would you like to get washed up?" He asks slowly.

"Yes."

The Northerner stands and puts my butt against the lip of the tub, so I'm sitting up. He starts the bath water and leaves as I just watch the crystal clear water filling the white bowl. He comes back quickly and brings with him a change of clothes, setting them on the counter.

Testing the water to make sure it's the right temperature, he tries to take off my disgusting sweater.

"I'd rather you leave."

He looks hurt but agrees. Once the door is shut securely, I peel off the offending garments, kicking them in a pile away from me.

Sinking in the lukewarm water, only to scrub myself clean. After rinsing out the conditioner, I get out and wrap a towel around me.

It's in the mirror that I stare back at myself, but no one I know stares back at me. I look sickly. Ashen skin, sunken cheeks. My eyes are drawn to my scars. It always takes my breath away looking at those marks. Faded white lines, running jagged patterns along my arms, over my shoulders, no smooth skin left on my back. I look away in disgust and I dry myself off, dressing quickly. Satisfied that I'm covered completely, I walk into the open space of the house.

He's there, waiting for me, a cup in his hand. "Come and sit." He pats the cushion of the couch. "Feel better?"

"Yes."

"Here." He hands me the mug.

Smelling it, I realize it's chicken soup. My hands still tremble, making it hard to grasp the cup.

"Let me." Taking the mug from my hands to dip a spoon into the hot liquid, blowing on it gently before bringing the spoon to my lips. I swallow the warm liquid down, and it heats my belly. He's giving me nourishment and he couldn't be any happier that I'm allowing him to feed me.

"It's good." I mean it, the broth is so flavourful, I can feel my nausea subside, as he keeps spooning me mouthfuls of the healing liquid.

He keeps cooing encouragements to me, how good I'm doing, that it's almost done, just another spoonful. Every time the spoon dips in my mouth, he swallows an imaginary spoonful down, encouraging me to do the same.