your child fantasizes about knocking on the door of their sworn enemy, an open wound pouring blood down their shirt as the door opens to their enemy standing on the other side: surprised for a moment before they usher them inside, an arm lightly wrapped around the other despite their protests.
The rain pours outside as the two stare at each other quietly in the bathroom, the injured one breaking the stare first as the pain in their chest flares up.
Silently the other walks towards them from the opposing wall, producing a roll of gauze. It's silent as they lift up the torn tunic, a wet cloth brushing over the slashes before the gauze is carefully placed, the two painfully aware of how close they are to each other, less than a breath between them.
The silence is unbearable, and the injured one makes a move to slide off of the ledge they were currently perched on, when a strong arm clamps down on their forearm, a silent urge to stay still followed by a shaky breath as the other asks them, "who did this to you?"
your child is not fine