"So I can't help but notice your new bruises are coming before your old ones heal. Is this becoming a weekly thing?"
I could hear her disapproval, her maternal, caring tone. She's the only one who doesn't sneak furtive glances at new bruises, who I'll talk to about it. It is generally understood that changing homes is pointless so close to the end, and that switching homes can leave me even worse off.
As of June 15, I am a free man.
"I guess he's trying to get as much as he can in before his time's up." My bitter tone and half smile don't seem to help the joke along, and she just gives me a look. Not funny. My bitter/ironic sense of humor has never actually "humored" her. Just the jokes that don't strike so close to home. Funny how I don't even care about myself, yet she, a stranger at one point, who only liked my sense of humor, did care. My lone ranger.
I don't know what I'd do without her. Probably just wither away.
"Hey, if I can get out of the house today, you wanna chill at your place?"
She knows not to ask me, because it's rare I can get out. Without pi**ing him off. And sometimes, I do it just because.
"Sure. Just text me or something, and I'll be ready."
I don't know why she never gave up on me. Why she still doesn't.
She's too good for me.
And it really does kill me.