Blood is coursing down my arm. I don't notice it and neither do you. Coldly I tend to your wounds and mop up all the blood.
"Thanks" you say tiredly.
"Hn." I turn and head up the stairs, but my knees give under me. Vaguely I realize that I haven't hit the floor yet. I am in your arms, but I can't hear what you're saying as my world goes black.
I come to myself on the couch and glare at the hands that are wrapping bandages around my chest. My arm has already been bound and I raise my cold black eyes to your midnight blues. I try to swat your hands away from me and glare harder as you start to chuckle softly.
"Stop that!" you order. You look really lost between annoyance and amusement though your eyes hold nothing but concern for me.
"I can do it myself!" I growl, my eyes narrowing to slits.
"Would you just keep still and let someone worry about you for once?" you cry in exasperation. "Besides, you've lost too much blood," you add crossly, inspecting my other various cuts.
I start and my eyes falter for a moment. Of course, I know that you are right, I can feel the familiar weakness in my limbs. But why do you care so much? I've always been less than kind to you. Everyone knows that. I don't deserve to be cared about. By you, or by anyone else.
It is the afternoon the next day when I awake. Stretching languidly, I cringe as my many wounds make themselves known. But there's something wrong. I freeze and look up slowly to find myself staring up into your smiling face. I groan and try to push you away. "You're staying in bed today," you announce cheerfully, shifting out from under me and shoving me back onto the mattress as I try to rise. Feeling the heaviness of my limbs and weariness of my body I accept defeat. Laying back with a glare, I grudgingly allow you to do what you will.
Now I go and attend to my own wounds.