A

I stare out at the now-far-away giggling children blankly as he carefully rolls the bandage around my arm. We don't talk. We don't even acknowledge each other. It's nice.

"That should do it," he finally breaks the silence, his fingers lingering for a moment. I say nothing. Just continue watching the little girl and her father now getting ice cream from a street vendor. He finally chuckles nervously, "You're welcome."

"I never asked you to," I snap, yanking my arm away, still refusing to look at him.

"Is, uh, there a reason?" he gestures at my bandaged wrist. I must've looked angry. He says quickly, "Not that you have to tell me."

I shrug and wipe at my eyes, still not willing to admit why I am furious with the world. He stands there, silent, for several long, excruciating minutes. He turns away with a sigh, muttering under his breath why he even bothers to do things like this for people like me. 

I know why. He's scared. Scared of death. Scared of life. Scared of possibilities. Scared of everything they tell him to fear in that close-minded, little cult he calls religion. Well, I'm not about to go sit in a little wooden booth and "confess my sins" while holding everyone's hands, singing Kumbaya. I'm not about to claim I have been saved by some invisible man in the clouds and give up my life's savings just to feel good about myself. 

He may feel the need to, but I don't.