John sat on the toilet lid, massaging his thigh, wincing in pain. He bit down onto his lip, not wanting to make a sound. You were in the other room, and he didn’t want you to hear him through the bathroom door. He didn’t want you coming to check on him, didn’t want you asking if everything was alright. It fucking wasn’t.

He stared down at his leg as his fingers rubbed along what remained of his thigh muscle, trying to relieve the pain. The scar tissue stretched over the majority of his right upper thigh, covering the unsettling-looking sunken area. Doctors had told him he was lucky because they managed to save his leg from being amputated. But still, he lost a good chunk of muscle, and the nerve damage was so severe that he could barely function without painkillers. But you were monitoring how much of those pills he was taking. Lately it seemed he got dangerously close to an addiction.

That’s why he was now sitting in the bathroom, trying to swallow his pained cries. The constant ache in his leg was driving him crazy. He decided to soothe it with a hot shower. He glanced at his cane leaning against the wall. Fuck that thing. He wasn’t some old, infirm man that needed a cane. He was a damn soldier. He used to be.

So, ignoring the cane, he stood up, putting most of his weight onto his good leg, and he limped towards the shower. He managed to turn on the water, and undress himself, but as he attempted to step into the shower - he lost balance.

The thud of John falling alerted you, and you rushed to the bathroom. You found him in quite a pathetic state (at least in his own eyes) - naked, on the floor, unable to stand up. When you asked him what happened, he only growled an angry ‘nothing’. When you tried to help him up, he shoved you aside, wanting to do this on his own. So eventually, you handed him his cane, and that set him off.

“I’m not an invalid!” he shouted, throwing the cane back at you. He didn’t aim it like that, but the cane hit your cheekbone, and a bruise began blooming underneath your eye.