Cuts P.O.V

After dinner, I help Horn clean up the kitchen despite his objections. I want to do my part around the apartment. I don't want to be a burden.

Afterwards, we sit on the couch and watch some television. Although, I'm not exactly paying attention. I'm paying attention to a few minor details, but I'm mostly picking at my skin. The scabs on my scratches are driving me crazy. They are itchy and uncomfortable. Even if the wounds bleed, I want to scratch it.

Horn happens to glance over at me as I begin to feel the blood under my fingernails. I was hoping that Horn might not notice, but he can probably see me fidgeting through his peripheral vision.

"You're scratching," he points out.

My arm stops dead in its tracks as I look in the opposite direction. "Sorry," I mumble softly.

Horn takes my hand and begins to inspect the damage that I've inflicted on myself. He's obviously worried even though I don't want him to be. I don't deserve to be worried about. All I do is cause trouble.

"You'll get an infection if you keep picking at it," Horn reminds me.

"I know that, I just can't help it," I admit quietly.

Horn pulls me from where I was previously sitting on the couch. He pulls me to the bathroom.

"Sit," he instructs me.

I do as I'm told and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Horn starts to rummage through the medicine cabinet and under the sink. When he's found what he's looking for, he sits down next to me. He has a rag, hydrogen peroxide, and bandages. I already know that this will not be a fun experience for me.

"It might sting," he warns me while opening the bottle.

I sigh softly and immediately tense up once the hydrogen peroxide hits my skin. It burns my wounds and makes a terrible fizzing sound. I hate the sound with a passion.

"Sorry," Horn says while dabbing my arm with the cloth.

I bite my lip softly, trying my best to be careful. In the past, I've bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood. I'd rather not do that right now. It's not exactly fun.

"It's fine," I say after a moment.

Horn takes the roll of gauze and begins wrapping it around my arm. He covers every visible scratch he can find before tearing the piece and sticking it to itself. A soft sigh leaves my mouth.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me." Horn sets the medical supplies on the counter. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No, everything else is healing already," I tell him. "The only other thing wrong with me are some bruises."

"Some?" he asks in disbelief. "You're practically purple. That's far more than some."

"Whatever."

"Do you want any ice? Some of those look pretty dark." Horn puts away the medical supplies he was using on my wounds.

"No, I'm fine," I reassure him before standing up and cracking my back.

"Okay, just let me know if you do," he says.

I clear my throat. "Would you mind if I took a shower? I feel kinda gross after such a long train ride."

"Help yourself." Horn taps the cabinet under the sink. "Towels are here."

I nod and Horn leaves the bathroom. After the door closes and I hear Horn walk off somewhere else, I lock the door. As much as I hate being trapped in confined spaces, locking the door gives me a sense of security. I hate being walked in on, especially when I take of my chest binder. I had to take it off in the bathroom during the train ride, but I put on a baggy hoodie that conceals my chest.

I strip down and purposefully avoid looking at my body. I don't want to see the full extent of my injuries or experience any more dysphoria than normal. I'm still breathing. I'm still living. As unfortunate as that may be, it's the truth. I'm not dead, yet.

I turn on the shower. The water remains ice cold because my skin is sensitive to heat. I've grown used to cold showers. It's just another thing I do in an attempt to refrain from damaging my skin any further. As uncomfortable as it is, it's a must.

Slowly, I step into the ice cold water. It makes goosebumps spread across my entire body. I've gotten used to the cold, but it's still a bit of a shock when you first step in. It's never pleasant.

I sigh as I wash my hair and the rest of my body, trying my best to avoid getting soap in some of my larger cuts and scratches. Getting soap in scrapes never feels good. It burns and forces you to rinse it under water, which doesn't feel great either.

After I'm done showering, I turn off the water and grab a towel from under the sink. I dry my hair before wrapping the towel around my torso.

"Damn," I mutter to myself, only now realizing that I forgot to grab any clean clothes from my bag. Unfortunately, I know that I'm going to have to go get some clean clothes. That requires me to leave the bathroom and have my body exposed. I hate to do it, but I have to.

I unlock the door and slip out of the bathroom, gripping the towel around my chest rather tightly. To lose my grip now would be absolutely mortifying. Just the thought of it makes me desperately hold tight.

I rummage through my bag quickly and grab a change of clothes. Horn is laying on his bed, typing away on his phone. I don't know what he's doing, not that it's any of my business. I don't even know if he noticed me come out.

I slip back into the bathroom the same way I slipped out; silently. I dry off the rest of my body and change into my clean clothes. I make sure my hair is dry before hanging up the towel.

Even if I don't intend on living with Horn for very long, I need to get used to being around him. I don't want things to always be this awkward. I have to be more open. That will be quite the adventure.