The broken clock is a comfort. It helps me sleep tonight. (Lifehouse)

Nicky started banging on my door the next day as soon as he had pieced together what he thought had happened the night before.

“Open this door!” he blared.

Open the door; that was the last thing I wanted to do. I think I was a little scared. What if he took his fist to me the way he was wailing on that door?

“I know you're there! Open the door!”

“What do you want?” I asked lightly, my lips almost touching the door.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I don't have anything to say to you. Why don't you tell it to the chick you were caving into by the pool?”

“Is that why you told Tommy I beat you up?”

“What? I didn't say that to anyone.”

“Then why did he come after me? Why would he think that? You've got nerve, Honey! You come on to my roommate, you tell people I'm abusive, and now you're lying to me, right to my face.”

I'd like to add that there was still a door between us. In fact, that was when I opened it. I slowly let it swing open. His mouth was already parted ready to really lay into me but no words came out. He just stared at me for a second, slack-jawed.

“Shit, Honey, what happened to you?”

I forgot how damaged I looked. I ignored his question as I took a cautious step forward and I softly touched my thumb to his swollen eye. He winced. It doesn't make sense but I just wanted to touch his wounds. I felt somehow responsible but I felt no remorse. I felt bad because I didn't feel any remorse, but feeling bad about not feeling bad isn't the same as feeling bad. It's okay if that makes no sense to you. Read it a couple times. I wanted to touch his injuries to feel connected to what had happened to him and take ownership of it.

There we were: broken.