I went out on a walk today.

I've been trapped inside my room for days and I needed air that isn't the same stale atmosphere of my room. I was wearing sleeves even though it's burning outside.

You saw me and pulled my frail body into an alley.

Don't worry if I don't struggle against you anymore. I'm used to it now.

I didn't even protest. I think you noticed. Because you just stared into my eyes and the prominent hallows of my cheeks and the darkened patches on my skin.

You gently lifted my shirt up.

You saw.

You saw what you're doing to me.

I didn't expect you to touch the scathed skin but you did. You never touched all the other times before, because you know.

I flinched a lot — expecting you to hit me like my mom does. Why wouldn't you, if you hate me so much?

You're no stranger to shoving me away.

Your eyes lingered on the fresh ones, the ones neither you nor your friends caused.

I thought you'd be happy seeing the aftermath of your doing but you're not.

You're just stoic.

"Why?" You asked.