Palliative

I got my ass handed to me.
It happens. Not often, but sometimes I limp back, shut myself away from the world and lick my wounds alone in the darkness. Still shaking, I sink onto the sofa and start an inventory.
Lip split, but nose isn’t broken. Good. Cheek cut on teeth on the inside, but teeth themselves intact. A humongous bruise, but-
The door opens. Mithra hands me a bag of frozen carrots. “Press that to your face before it swells.”
I obey. The cold burns – but at least she can't see me cry.
Relief is such a bitch.