oil heavy starlight

You push yourself up and sit on your knees, looking around at the contents of your bag scattered around you. The gun you were gifted from your boyfriend, Frank, pokes out from inside, the silver barrel catching what little light it could from between two tall buildings. You should've lead with that, you now think. That would've made far larger a impact than to shove the man from behind. 

Stashing everything back inside your bag, you reach for your phone just a little out of grasp from you — the screen broken and cracked under the foot of such a vile, reprehensible man. You turn it on, and while it glitches, you can just about make it work. Clicking on the phone icon, you press Frank's name at the top of your most recent calls, the heart emoji beside his name helping you navigate through such a malfunction.

In just a couple short rings, he answers, worry clear in his voice when he hears the same in your own as you relay the event. 

"And then he just punched me, Frank. I don't—" you take a breath, trying to regulate yourself. "I don't—" you cough on the blood that seeps down the back of your throat and spit it onto the ground in a clump. "He just—"

"Easy, baby. It's alright," he lies. It was definitely not, alright. Despite his own indignation, he knew you were in need of something gentle — his anger won't calm you. "Just hang on for me, yeah?"

"I was only trying to help," you mutter, speaking to yourself through him. "He was pushing her around— and I…" you feel yourself grow emotional, mind flickering between alternating states. You lower your phone and place your face into your palms, blood spilling from your nose and down your wrists.

"I know, baby. You helped, alright? You did good. Keep that phone to your ear, yeah? Gotta know you're still there, sweetheart," he speaks into his side of the phone, voice similar to a plea. "Just round the block, baby, okay?" he awaits a response. "Okay?" he repeats.

"Okay," you confirm, tone so soft it's just about audible. 

You keep your phone to your ear and place your free hand to the ground, using it for stability as you push yourself to your feet. You stumble for a moment trying to find your footing and inch closer and closer to the brick wall in front of you. Placing your hand to the graffiti wall, you balance yourself, using it to hold yourself upright despite feeling so disorientated. 

"Still there?"

You hum into the speaker and rest the side of your head against the arm you have for support, wet, teary eyes closing also. 

"Then speak, baby," he speaks, voice rustling with the movement of his phone. A slam of a door follows his instruction, the closing truck door indicating his arrival. 

You hear the scuffling of rushed footsteps and a voice echo down the alley, and you stand up stiff and straight. Your neck snaps to follow the sound, but it can't be Frank, there's no truck; not one that you've seen or heard. 

"Frank?" you whisper into your phone. "Frank are you here? Is that you?" you reach into your bag for your gun and hold it out in front of you, directing it to the darkness down the dim alley.

"It's me baby."

"I think someone else is here, Frank," you utter into your phone, voice scared and panicked in a way he's never once heard. 

"Sweetheart, it's me. Promise… see, listen."

Your name is called from the dimmest part of the alley, the voice belonging to Frank, and you breathe out — relief clear with your ragged exhale. 

You hold out your phone and wave it, directing him to you with the light of your screen.

"Frank," you mutter, spotting his silhouette become vastly more clear. 

Ending the call, you place your phone into your bag and trudge forward. Though Frank's quick to close the gap, pace quickening with broad strokes when he notices you inch forwards.

Frank stands in front of you, dark brown eyes narrowing in on your nose and the blood that leaks from it. He places a hand on your chin, fingers hooking most cautiously into the lowers of your cheeks as he tilts your head, directing your face into the flickers of light so he can assess just how much damage was made — how much force was inflicted upon the sole thing he cares most about. 

He tilts your head just a bit too much and just a bit too soon. You flinch, hissing at the sting of pain. 

"Sorry, baby. I'm sorry," his gaze flicker over yours, voice sympathetic. His head tilts to match yours, keen to keep his eyes locked on your own. "You did good, my girl," he nods once and adjusts the placement of his hands — settling them on either cheek. "Took one hell of a punch."

'Took one hell of a punch.' He found that most distasteful to say and it left a foul feel in his mouth. You shouldn't be taking any punches, especially not from a man. But still, he had to commend your strength, your sheer will for doing right even if it meant getting a punch or two to the face. 

Your eyes well and you divert from his gaze, lowering them to settle somewhere around his chest. He doesn't urge you to meet his eyes, instead he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a couple crumpled takeout napkins he found in the truck. He pinches the corner and reaches for your nose, carefully placing the tissue just under the nostril that was making the most amount of mess. 

You sniffle and close your eyes, wet lashes practically fusing together. You raise a hand and wrap it around his wrist, for the hand he has clasped to the side of your face. Holding what you can reach of his very lower arm, you keep him close — using the dual sense of touch to seek comfort quicker. 

"I hit him too," you speak through a hiccup. 

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek, roughened pad as soft as he can muster. A small, amused smile tugs one corner of his mouth and he nods, each act displaying something satisfying.

"Attagirl," he coos, voice low. "Where'd you get him?" he asks, almost like the question was a means for distraction, andof keen interest.

"Throat and eyes... and his balls." 

The corners of his lips reach down as he pulls a pleased face, features exhibiting pride as he nods a couple times. "Remember what he looks like?"

You nod within the hold he has on you. 

"I got a picture of him in the bar."

Frank pulls you in slightly and presses a kiss to your forehead, to just between your eyebrows, lips remaining in place as he speaks. "That's my girl."

He'll need a copy, need it later to ensure payback is being dealt to the right person. But not now, maybe later when you've bathed and are in bed, maybe that's when he'd remind the man that women are not for hitting and belittling.