Spilling

JournalWord: Premature.

::

She finds him in the bathroom, more specifically, sitting in the claw foot tub. The shower is on and cold water pelts relentlessly at his bowed head. He’s soaked, and the fresh bandages she had taken the time to apply are ruined. 

He’s bleeding again, she realizes when she connects his cupped hand, pressed loosely to the swatch of spreading red on his left side. His other arm hangs over the edge, palm up and fingers curled, as if it had lost it’s grasp. His legs dangle off the side of the porcelain tub, defeated like the rest of him. 

She watches his body tremble and fidget from a shiver and she wants to squeeze herself in and curl up beside him and cry. He’s only twelve, she wants to cry, and he’s too big to fit in her tub. 

Her eyes sting at just the sight of his broken soul, and she can’t imagine the pain he’s been through; all the pain he shouldn't be in. He’s too young to fight alone. He’s too young to fill my tub, like the rest of the army he leads.

::

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~mera!