Taking The Blame

The door slammed behind him, echoing through the small house like a gunshot. Louise jumped at the sound, her heart hammering in her chest. She had been on the couch, hands pressed to her lap, staring at the floorboards as if the house itself would swallow her whole.

Aaron stumbled into the room, jacket torn, sleeve shredded, a dark smear running down his leg. His breath came in ragged gasps, a mix of pain and rage, the bottle still loosely clutched in one hand. Blood glistened on his calf, soaked into his jeans, a vivid, alarming red.

“You—” he hissed, voice breaking as he spun to face her. “You did this! You made me go out there!”

“I—Aaron, I didn’t—” Louise started, stepping forward cautiously, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

“You did!” he shouted, voice sharp, jagged, almost unrecognizable. “Every damn word, every look—you made me leave the house. You made me—look what happened! Look!”

He lifted his leg slightly, blood dripping onto the floor, leaving red footprints across the worn linoleum. The sight made her stomach twist, but she forced herself to stay calm.

“I’m—here,” she said quietly, reaching toward him. Her fingers trembled, but she moved carefully, intent on helping, not provoking. “I can help clean it—wrap it up. We can stop the bleeding.”

Aaron’s eyes flicked to hers, wild and suspicious. “Stop? You think you can just stop it?” He laughed, low and bitter, shaking his head. “I’m bleeding, Louise! I’m—hurting! And you—you always have to be right, don’t you? Always…”

She pressed a hand to his leg, careful to avoid the worst of the bite, dabbing at the blood with a damp cloth she grabbed from the sink. Her hands were steady despite the fear curling in her chest. “I just want to help,” she said softly, voice steady, calm—like a counterweight to the storm he carried.

He flinched under her touch, then shoved her hand away suddenly, growling under his breath. “Don’t. Touch me! You’re the reason this happened! You!”

Her stomach sank, but she didn’t argue. She grabbed another cloth, wrapping it around the wound as best she could, murmuring soft reassurances she didn’t entirely believe. The smell of iron and whiskey mingled, thick and oppressive.

Aaron sank onto the couch with a groan, head in his hands, shaking. The bottle found its way back to his mouth, liquid burning down his throat as if trying to drown both the pain and the guilt. He muttered, cursed, sometimes incoherent, hands clawing at the fabric of the couch.

Louise hovered nearby, towel in hand, eyes tracking him constantly. Every twitch, every flinch, every breath measured. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just for herself anymore—it was for what she had just witnessed him survive.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes; time seemed suspended in the dim light. The blood stopped dripping, the wound wrapped as best she could manage, but Aaron’s agitation didn’t lessen. The alcohol dulled his edge but didn’t erase the restlessness thrumming under his skin.

Finally, he slumped against the couch, half-asleep, bottle dangling from his hand. His breathing was uneven, shallow in parts, and loud in others, as though his body could not decide whether to relax or remain alert. Louise sank onto the floor beside him, exhausted, knees pressing against her chest.

Something inside her stirred—an unease she couldn’t explain. His pain was over, for now, or at least managed, but it was not the end. Not by a long shot. The shadows of the room shifted with the flickering light, whispering promises of chaos yet to come.

She didn’t know it yet, but tonight would end differently than any night before.