"You are not the only one who wants to treat someone well," I said, ignoring the pain his grip caused. He looked at me for a while. The flames in his eyes slowly dying and their color becoming golden again. He let go of my neck and looked down as if regretting what he had just done.
"You should... take your shirt off," I said.
Walking back to the bed, he ripped his shirt open, showing a perfectly toned stomach and chest. The muscles in his arm twitched as he lay down on the bed.
"Are you just going to stare?" he asked. Embarrassed I hurried to the bed, sat down, and started cleaning his wounds.
This was horrible. The wounds seemed deep and they would probably leave scars on his back. It must have hurt a lot. Was his family always so cruel to him? And I had thought my family were too cruel. I wondered what his childhood was like. Was he always like this? Rejected by his family, bullied and punished? He must have been so lonely.
