Campus Corner (Open)

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I take the bite, eat it, then swallowed and leaned back with a satisfied smile. I made a face at my heavily bandaged hand. "Can I take these off?" I ask plaintively.
 
"Not for a couple days baby. Then you get a removable soft cast that we will have to wrap each day for a few weeks. You cut your hand pretty good, and you have 44 stitches and 12 interior staples." I lean down and whisper, "No handjobs for a while," I blush after I say it.
 
I blush as well. And pout. "It looks so bulky, though," I whine. I really hate being in a hospital, and being out of commission on anything. I look at you with puppy dog eyes and Don shakes his head laughing.
 
"Well we can cut your hand off if you want, Miss Priss," I say. Stacie tells me to be nice and asks why I haven't sent flowers to your room.
 
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I shake my head, amused, and try to situate myself with one hand so I'm more propped up, and it turns out clumsily. I look at you and smile. "It's okay, Stacy, he doesn't have to," I say. "And I have made a terrible mess of things." I'm tangled up in the sheet, and I growl.
 
"That you have, cripple," I say, putting a pillow behind your back and straightening your sheets. "Good news is you get to check out at 11."
 
"Good," I say with a huge sigh of relief. "I wanna go home and snuggle. . ." I give you a sly wink and burst into giggles.
 
"Well, you have an appointment at noon, first," I tell you. "And then we can snuggle as much as you like. But we are supposed to keep your blood pressure down."
 
"So. . . no play?" I ask with a pout and Don just cracks up laughing. Stacy smiles and shakes her head.
 
"I gave you some pie, didn't I?" Clearly indicating my intentions on how much I will be following doctor's orders.
 
I sigh. "Okay. . ." I say, my voice laced with disappointment. I'm sleepy again, so it just comes out weird as I close my eyes and fall back asleep.
 
Don and Stacie leave and I gather your things. Around 11, I wake you up and tell you it's time to check out. I help you into a wheelchair and get you out to the car. I put you in the front seat and tell you there is a surprise for you to look at in the backseat. You look over your shoulder. In the seat is a bear like the one you snuggle with, except two and a half feet tall, surrounded by three get well balloons and two dozen red, white-tipped roses and a little card attached to its furry paw.
 
I squeal excitedly, my pain forgotten and I hug you and kiss you. "Thank you!!" I say happily, practically bouncing in my seat. "Oh my God, thank you!!" I tear up a little bit, having never been treated this well before, and overwhelmed by your kindness and generosity.
 
"You're welcome baby," I say. "You can take the bear to your appointment, which I need to tell you about." I hand you a water bottle. "The doctor has you scheduled to see a trauma counselor. You just have to go once, but if you want you get 6 visits. That ok?"
 
"Okay," I say. I knew why this was, I had seen a trauma conselour before, and it helped a little bit.

We arrived and you walk me in. It's not long before I go in, clutching my bear with my good hand.

It's a long session, and I start to feel sleepy towards the end of it, the drugs kicking in once more. But it was very beneficial, and she was nice. I told her I'd let her know if I need anything and I walk out back to you, where you're waiting and you help me out back to the car, where I fall asleep once I'm buckled in.
 
I watch your cute, tired head bob as we drive back home, and reach over to wipe your chin when I see you begin to drool a little. "Ah, baby," I say to the empty car as I help you out. It isn't long until I get you home, where I walk you upstairs, prop your arm up next to you where you crash on the bed. I pat your head and kiss you, where you fall into a deep sleep deep into the night.
 
The next morning, I woke up and I was in a bit of pain and I give a soft whimper. I roll over and see you there and smile. I curl up next to you and rest my head on your chest, holding my slashed hand close to my body.
 
I see you favoring your hand. "Hurting?" I ask, rubbing your hair from your eyes and noticing a tear well up in your eyes.
 
"Baby," I sigh. "Did that guy...did he...well what did he do?" I ask, just worried about you. "You don't have to say if you don't want to."
 
I knew from experience talking about what happened helps. "After you went into the freezer, he started to feel me up, while my hands were on the bar. Asked me my name. I didn't want to tell him, so I remained silent. He stuck the knife into my side a little bit and asked for it again. I kicked him, but I fell, and I aimed for his wrist but got the knife. . . crawled behind the bar and pressed the panic button. . . He got me back on my feet and pulled on my hair. . . asked for my name again, said he was going to use it while he fucked my ass. I surrendered that tiny detail and begged for him to stop, and he said he wasn't going to. . . That's when police showed up," I whisper. A couple tears fell from my eyes, but I rubbed them away. "I was so scared, baby. . . I was trying to be strong for you. . ."
 
I tear up a bit. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from him," I begin to cry a little. "I was so afraid he was going to rape you or hurt you," I pause. "Or worse." I take a deep breath. "Nobody has asked if I'm okay, and I don't know if I am. I hate thinking of his hands on you or you crying while he was hurting you."
 
I wrap my arms around you and cry with you, hurting just as much from your pain as from mine. I begin to rock us both, not saying anything, but did anything really need to be said? I just rock us, crying with you, and being there for you, even though I was in pain, you were too.
 
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