I was first hit when I was 10 years old. I remember the day clearly, as if it was the beginning of everything that had gone wrong for me. I had seen violence, watched its side effects, but the pain and sting of it had never touched me. Having a brother, I had play-fought, but nothing to the magnitude where you could claim violence or brutality. My father, on the other hand, understood the meaning of the word and used it's definition with malice. The first time I tasted my own blood had been at his hands, and the beginning of whatever psychological problems I might have incurred since then. Nothing had hurt worse than the first time. Beyond our backyard, beyond my father's belt, I had learned a lot about physical pain. There were numerous remedies, spanning a spectrum from herbal homeopathic ones to the far, amber end of the spectrum that doused your mind in opiates, bringing you so far down that pain couldn't reach you. The first part of the spectrum was a piece of shit, let me tell you. And the second? I knew that way too well. Painkillers on top of painkillers, I'd medicated myself the night before in order to attempt sleep. It had been fitful, yeah, but at least it had existed because I didn't want to relate to that first night, and the pain I felt was nearing amber.

Serafina's voice reminded me that I was located in her musty shop, rather than in a tiny plot of land that led to a cliff that overlooked the Atlantic in South Africa. You never know who might wander in? I'll tell you: a fat load of no one. The day was bleak, and almost as gray as I wished my mind was. She seemed blunt and assured that if someone were to walk in, they would be displeased with the sight so in an attempt to reconcile myself for my initial behavior, I followed her complacently.

It was a pleasure to watch her focus on her craft, distracting myself from whatever hole I had been mentally digging. She moved deftly around her work table, creating some kind of concoction that was supposed to fix my ailments. I contemplated commenting on that, wondering what kind of plant could do what heavier drugs would do. Once the fragrant tea was handed to me, I wrinkled my nose, hesitating to put it to my lips. Now, I'm not a picky eater by any means... But cure-all tea just struck me as tremendously strange, and imagine that. It tasted as such. I took a tiny sip, sputtering almost in order to swallow it before wiping my lips with the back of my hand.

"I get it. You're trying to poison me." I was grumbling, distinctly uncomfortable. My voice lacked the hot edge it had taken earlier, alerting her that I wasn't angry, but I was unamused with the taste of her "tea". "Couldn't blame you, though..." I let the words hang, and while they were flat, it was fairly genuine. I really wouldn't blame her if she was trying to poison me at this point, considering I was far, absolutely far from good company. Although her blush was endearing, it was pretty much lost on me when she turned around and voiced her opinion on a general healing potion. Why wouldn't that work? What I could not fix myself surely could be handled by whatever herbs were in that fucking tea, right? It hadn't occurred to me that the injuries were worse than I'd believed, but her softened words led me in that direction. Feeling compelled to do as she asked, I nodded as an aquiessence to her request. Her authoritative tone was almost comforting, familiar. It was surprisingly comforting, but maybe that was because hardly would a man, let alone a woman, have the notion to control any action of mine. My attitude, my actions, behaviors, aura... whatever you want to call it, generally deterred people.

It was nice to surrender.

At her command, I fell silent. At first, the silence felt thin and delicate, only touched by the echo of her soft voice. It was almost musical, and I started to think I'd prefer her to keep talking while she worked, but the request was far below the surface. The silence thickened when her fingers touched my skin. I tended to run hot, and her cool fingers against the marred skin nearly caused goose bumps on my arms. I think that would have hurt though, and it felt fortunate when the shiver died as quickly as it started. Her travel across my arms, my chest and the scape between felt like pounds on pounds rather than the feather light touch she'd graced me with. When her fingers even ever so slightly traced over the yellow-purple discoloring, I found my breath lodged in my chest. Only Elenore and Serena had ever tried to take care of me. Granted I wasn't even a mess, I was more of a trainwreck colliding with another train, but it was strange to see someone attempting to put the pieces back together.

"Take some of this home? I believe there are far stronger painkillers that I am pretty sure I would prefer to indulge in," I muttered skeptically, shifting my position so I was leaning back against the table, giving her a better canvas to work with. The slight movement had me shutting my eyes and leaning my head back as if the light in the room was far too much. In reality? There was no way I wanted her to see my eyes change from blue to white in anticipation of the healing process. Fuck that. Gently, I drummed my fingers against bench beside me before gritting my teeth to raise my arms to lean them on the table.

"Hit me with your best shot."

Was I ready? The scars marring my ribs and stomach from previous injuries would tell her that there was no way I hadn't felt pain on a massive scale before. Below my jeans, scars marred their way on my legs too. There was no way whatever she was going to do would hurt as badly as those...

Right?