Chip wasn’t the most secure man in the world.

He made… choices. Choices that always ended up blowing up in his face. Mainly relationships. You remember his first relationship — he had only recently turned 18, just months before graduating high school, and he started dating a 25 year old woman.

Of course you hated it. That was your best friend, and even though he was of age, it was clear he was being taken advantage of by a far more mature woman.

After her, it never got any better.

It was as if he didn’t even respect himself. He gave his body and soul to any woman that would give him the time of day, and it would usually end in his heart getting broken. Did he even love them? No, probably not. It was the idea of somebody loving him that he loved — and it was usually (always) a mislead sense of love.

His current girlfriend was Liza. And you knew she way crazy. You’d only met her a few times, and you could see it — the way she had some kind of control over Chip, how she’d hurt him in the most subtle of ways and he seemed to like it.

It’s late in the afternoon when you and Chip decided to meet up to hang out, one of the few times you could manage to see him when he wasn’t on his little leash with Liza — you’re both at the park near your apartment building, sharing a cigarette.

And it’s when you’re taking the cigarette from him as he passes it to you that you see it — the handprint. It’s not even faint. It’s red. Welting.

“What the hell is that?” you ask, not even trying to hide the mixture of worry and anger in your voice as you grab his wrist, the cigarette forgotten on the bench. You pull his sleeve up.

Chip tries to pull his arm out of your grasp, but you just hold tighter. “What?” he asks, voice raising in pitch as he finally relents to your grip. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem? What’s this print from Chip?”

He sighs, running his free hand down his face. “It’s nothing, okay? Drop it,” he says, trying to hide the hint of pain in his voice. “Please.”