Needing Your Broken
He walks in to their bedroom – grand and huge, white walls scarily large – with the blood still soaking through his pale blue shirt. She's lying on the bed, glass on the bedside table, and when she turns to look at him she has to close her eyes in anguish.
"Hey mom," he says, stepping closer, even though it places stress on the wounds on his back, turning the dull ache to a sharp sting.
"Logan," she says, slowly sitting up, gracefully poised on the edge of the bed. It would be like any one of the photo-shoots he's seen of her in the magazines, except he can see the dark bags around her eyes, and that look of having been on the edge of tears for the last decade or so.
Neither of them really know what to say. She stares at him, reaching for her glass. "My poor boy," she whispers, and he's not all that sure he was meant to hear. "You're just a kid."
"Am not," he says, although maybe he is. He doesn't know where the exact line is. He's eleven years old now, at some point going to grow taller than her, and he thinks that may or may not be over the line of 'a kid'. He's not ready to vote or anything yet, but that doesn't mean he can keep his eyes off Lilly Kane's chest.
His mom sighs. "Of course not," she says, and he walks closer, sitting on the bed next to him. "Is your father out?"
"Yeah," he says. His father always goes out for a bit after doing this to him – Logan doesn't really know why; maybe it's because he feels guilty, or wants to get some more perspective. Maybe he wants to use someone else's tap to wash his hands, because he's worried that the amount of blood that could flow down this one would be suspicious.
She wraps a thin arm around him, and he leans to the touch. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs into his hair.
"It's okay," he says, even though it's really kind of not. It never has been. But he'll never tell her that, because he needs her.
"Poor boy," she repeats. "Poor, poor, poor boy."
He can smell the alcohol on her breath – he doesn't know how to tell between different types yet – but he doesn't mind. She's like that a lot anyway, and it doesn't make her cruel or angry like it does with Dad (not that he's not cruel or angry when he's sober, but booze makes him worse. It makes the wounds he inflicts more unpredictable; harder for Logan to brace himself for).
They wind up lying down on the bed, and he curls into her side, her arms wrapped around him like she can protect him. She either can't or won't – he doesn't want to know which – but right now it doesn't matter, because the way she holds him is a comfort. For now, it's enough to just stay here with her and know he is loved, at least a little.