You said I was your dream-girl,
Guess you decided to wake up.

.\.|./.

Crystal Monroe

|in which she makes soup for strangers|

Ryan ... that's what his sister calls him.

Maybe all guys with the name look like freaking gods. But honestly, though, this man would give Ryan Gosling and Ryan Guzman a run for their money.

He's a special specimen.

He looks at me through confused eyes, and I'm just as confused as he is. He probably can't see me straight, because I see him doing weird things with the muscles around his eyes. He blinks, squints, widens, flexes, and whatnot.

I should stop him before he loses his eyeballs.

"I just came to say I'm sorry," I blurt out.

"Sorry?" he whispers, his voice passing through me like wind and knocking the breath right out of me.

I have an idea about the kind of things he would say.

'Sorry? You think sorry can fix anything? It can't get me out of this hospital bed. It can't get me walking again. It can't make all my pain go away. I don't need your fucking sorry. Keep it.

"I'll do whatever you need," I say quickly, resorting to pleading before he can utter another word. "I have little money but I can pay the hospital bills and ... if you need physiotherapy or anything --"

"Wait, stop!" he interrupts, his voice breaking halfway through. His eyes close and the thousands of lines popping on his forehead demonstrate how much pain he's in.

Now, with my mind focusing more on him and less on the fact that I nearly killed a man today, I see just what he looks like.

I'm sure the initial impression that I got from seeing him — that I have actually murdered a god — was pretty accurate. The man looks like he dropped out of heaven and right in front of my car. That would also explain why he was flying midair on a stop-less freeway.

Sticky raven hair flop out from under his white bandages, and onto the face that looks like it used to have a beautiful tan to it but is now growing pale. His nose was probably pretty before it broke this morning, and his full lips chapped and dry.

If this man looks this good in hospital scrubs and bandages, imagine what he would look like in Calvin Klein's. On second thought, maybe don't imagine it at all. You'll need to go and 'cool down' after that image.

I don't know what's scarier, the fact that this god-man in lying in front of me in a hospital bed, or the fact that I put him there. Either way, if he turns out to be some sort of angel-slash-deity, I'm pretty sure I'm screwed.

"I'm really sorry," I repeat, praying to the real God to keep this one from getting up now and tossing me three hundred feet below hell.

"For what?" he asks, opening his eyes a fraction to show me grey irises. Maybe it's the anesthesia's effect, but his eyes look pretty much transparent.

Now I'm positive he's a god.

"The accident --"

"Exactly. It was an accident. You don't have to apologize. It wasn't your fault."

Damn right, it was — wait what?

His eyes close and the grimace that flashes across his face when he shifts his head tells me he's not okay. Maybe he hit his head so bad he forgot how to act normally. Maybe this 'you don't have to apologize' is just code for 'wait till I get my hands on you'.

The sister reaches towards him, trying to help him move the way he wants to. She doesn't glance at me and I'm kind of glad. I look like I've just been punched in the gut.

Is this guy for real?

Last time I checked, handsome guys were supposed to be jerks. They're players and flirts and they enjoy getting into girls' pants before spitting them out like gum that has lost its flavor. Last time I checked, Jeremy was a handsome guy, and he was anything but forgiving.

Even ugly guys would hate you if you hit them with their car.

I bet anyone would.

"I ..." My voice trails off.

I don't know what to say.

"Look, I mean it. It's fine."

His voice is especially throaty now that he's moved a little. He's breathless and a thin sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead. I wonder how much morphine he's on. Maybe that's what's making him crazy.

Since I don't know what to say and definitely have nothing to do, I stare. Yes, I openly gawk at the handsome god like I've never seen a man before. I let my eyes roam his body, not taking in how muscular he is — he is a lot — but counting all his wounds.

Apart from his entire head being wrapped in bandages, his right arm and leg are in a cast. His nose is swollen, and the left side of his face looks like it's been slapped multiple times.

With a cement block.

Seeing as what he looks like because of me — the brokenness, not the handsomeness — I'm even more skeptical of his light tone. There is nothing light about this situation.

"Are you freaking serious right --"

"Ma'am, you have to leave. Visiting hours are over."

If I was the old Crystal, I would tell the man-nurse to shut up and mind his own business, giving him the coldest angry-cat glare I could manage. I'm not the old Crystal though. I'm Jeremy's Crystal. And Jeremy's Crystal does not argue. She does not assert her opinions, and she does not resist commands. She obeys.

But I don't.

Okay, yes, I do, but I scowl at the annoying nurse before I do, making sure to narrow my eyes at him so that I look more like a cat ready to pounce than a girl who just apologized to a weird human being who has no sense of reality whatsoever.

The nurse ignores me -- or pretends to because I look like I might just claw his eyes out -- and I have no choice but to head silently towards the door, not glancing back to see if the god and his sister are looking at me.

I entered the room guilty, leave it confused.

Today has been a weird day. First, I hit someone with my car while singing along to Fetish — terrible thing to remember — and then end up at the hospital to find out the man I hit wasn't a man, but a god instead. Then instead of being mad at me and calling me out for breaking the entire right side of his pseudo-human body, the god told me it was fine.

What universe is this?

Honestly, I kind of don't care. Which is why I get out of bed at six a.m. and make soup for the guy lying somewhere in the hospital. I should be getting ready to go to class or figuring out why my supposed boyfriend hasn't come home in months. He hasn't even contacted me or responded to my messages and I should be freaking out with fear that he's either lying dead in a ditch somewhere or sleeping with a bitch somewhere. I should be worrying about the police who might still think I'm a homicidal murderer who runs people over with her car.

Instead, I get up and think of the man whose body I nearly shattered and landed him in a hospital bed.

I have no idea why I do what I do, but the only thing that makes sense is the suspicious look his sister shoots my way as soon as she realizes it's me entering the private room rather than a doctor. Nothing else makes any sense whatsoever.

Not why I'm here.

Not why I made salt and pepper crème soup for two people I barely know.

Not why I would even do all this.

Not why the man-god smiles at me.

He ...

Smiles.

And I freaking freeze.

.\.|./.

A/N: Similarities between Ryan and Crystal, guys? And what are the differences? Do you like them, hate them, feel nothing for them?

Question: Have you ever been subjected to any kind of abuse? Mental, emotional, verbal, physical, or sexual? Share your answers if you're comfortable.