It's always worse when I see him in reflections like I had earlier this morning. He seems almost always to be malnourished. Ribs still somehow visible beneath cheap, oversized clothing that he likely grabbed from the trashcan of a thrift store. He looks like he's on the verge of a complete mental breakdown more often than not.

Visible parts of his skin are usually laden with bruises, some of which lead to horrific assumptions as to how he survives living on the streets. Despite having seen it numerous times, I am always well aware that I might never know why, which hit me harder than anything else. It really fucking hurts. And yet, I can't shake feeling guilty every time I admit to the pain. Mine seems irrelevant compared to his.

Lost in thought, I almost don't see the fist barreling towards my face. I block out of instinct, only to feel nothing but the crisp autumn air on my raised forearms. I look over them to see nothing but an empty sidewalk and a few concerned passerbys. Trying to shake the bizarre hallucination, I continue with my jog.

I only make it a few more yards before passing a seemingly empty alleyway, an image of myself jogging past it reeling through my head. My amber eyes are focused ahead, though I'm too far away to see the color I know is there, and my blonde hair refracts sunlight, making it cast an odd orangish glow. Confused, I stop mid-step before it clicks in my brain as to what's happening. It's another hallucination which means he's close. Close enough to see me directly in front of him.

Without further hesitation, I backtrack and peer down the dim alleyway. I can't really see anything in the shadows the two buildings cast, but I do hear voices. And they aren't of the pleasant kind.

There's not much of a thought process as I rush into it, stumbling across a scene that makes my blood boil instantly. I had wanted to see him for so long, to go to the place those hallucinations had always led me to, and for him to be there. But not like this.

"Logan," I speak his name quietly, the shock of the scene before me stinging every muscle in my body as I tremble with rage.

There, lying beaten on the ground with tears streaming down his face is Logan. His coal-black eyes are swollen shut, and his black hair is slicked to his scalp with fresh blood. Bruises, both old and new, decorate his exposed, pale skin like watercolor on canvas. There's a line of blood trailing from the corner of his battered, split lips and trails leading from his scalp down his forehead.

I wast no time stalking towards the three young men looming over him. From the looks of them, they seem to be college kids, probably a year or so under me.

Hearing my feet scuff the concrete draws their attention away from Logan and on to me. However, it seems that there's an air of disinterest despite my presence.

My rage is a swirling tempest within my chest at their nonchalance. Still, I know I'm better than the animals they seem to be. "It would be wise to halt your actions and leave here. Immediately."

One turns his head in my direction, stepping forward while his eyes travel as he scopes me out. "Why? You his next 'client'?" he asks, using air quotes to accentuate the word he spits like venom.

My teeth clench at the insinuations the young man is making. Is that how Logan has been surviving the streets? How long has he been like this?

"Yeah," another rises to join his friend. "Or are you just playin' hero for a lowly prostitute?"

I tap the fire academy's emblem on the upper left pec of my shirt, my temper nearing its peak. "It's better to help the few that need it than to take out your own self-hatred on someone you feel is below you, you coward," I spit.

He scoffs. "You know it's illegal, right?" He laughs like this situation is funny.

"Funny," I hiss. "Have you ever heard of assault? Something that's also very much illegal?"

He seems mildly annoyed but doesn't fight it. Instead, he continues, "A hero protecting criminals ain't really a—"

He doesn't finish. My rage has hit its peak, and I lash out at him with a closed fist, striking his left cheek as pain races down my arm. The kid rears back in pain while his friends materialize beside him, letting him fall back as if they think the two of them can take me.

It's a shame they realize too late how furious I am. How little I care about the pain and repercussions each hit might bring me. Before long, I'm alternating between the two before me, striking whenever there's an opening and taking hits like they're no more than minor nuisances. The first outspoken dipshit has yet to rejoin the fight. I'm not sure if it's out of intelligence or fear, but I don't care either way. Ironically, it's the first fucker that gets away with the least amount of injuries.

My hands are numb, blood peeking out of the torn flesh on my knuckles. I can feel the tension in my muscles and areas that I know will bruise either this evening or tomorrow. But that matters little to me despite the receding adrenaline.

"I hope that comes back to bite you in the ass, you fucking psycho!" The only one who escaped the majority of my blows snarls. As the trio exits the alleyway, he decides to add one last insult, "He's a fucking freak!"

I can't find the time to care about them or their empty threat as I turn my attention back to Logan, crumpled and lying motionless on the ground. At some point, he'd curled into himself, putting him in the fetal position. He looks so tiny, fragile even, that I can feel my heart break.

If I'm a psycho, what the hell did that make them?

"Logan…" His name is a whisper as I drop to my knees next to him, careful hands checking him for a pulse.

A relieved sigh escapes me as I find it, slow but strong. Then, I look him over for any injuries aside from the obvious.

He has a lot of blood running from his head, but it comes from relatively small gashes scattered throughout the back of his scalp, and his chest is spotted with bruises. There doesn't appear to be any signs of broken ribs or internal bleeding, thankfully. I briefly wipe away a trail of blood that runs over his closed lid. The beating left him unconscious and unresponsive to my touch, but there doesn't seem to be any serious damage that rest and my first aid kit couldn't fix.

Still, there's a moment where I debate calling an ambulance. I retract that thought immediately, knowing that to send him to a hospital—particularly the one that would likely respond—would be like ripping open old wounds. For both myself and him.

As I'd seen in his earlier reflection, Logan isn't a healthy weight, and I lift him with ease. As I walk towards the alleyway exit, I can make out blood and tufts of black hair caught on the jagged cracks of the concrete beneath my feet. A low growl travels up my throat as I conclude that they must have dragged him down the alleyway, his head being beaten along the way.

There aren't many people on the street when I exit the alleyway. I know I should report the assault to the local police department, but….part of me knows it'll do no good. Especially as the tendrils extend and retract around me in agitation, their dark, wispy forms moving like serpents. I know they won't hurt me—they never have. Set him down in front of an officer who just so happens to be sensitive towards their presence and….

I bite my lip hard enough that it bleeds.

You're having problems controlling it, aren't you? I think to myself as I clutch him tighter to my chest.

Getting up the stairs proves to be a challenge as Logan's limp head threatens to hit the railing after every step. Thankfully, I hadn't locked my door after leaving for my jog, and it swings open without hindrance. With hurried steps, I close it behind me and carefully set Logan down on my leather couch to go in search of my first aid kit. I find it in its usual hiding place under the kitchen faucet and sift through its contents to ensure it has everything I need.

Satisfied, I fill a bowl with warm water and return to his side. The tepid water cleanses his hair of blood and dirt before I apply thick layers of antibiotics and liquid band-aid to his scalp to keep the bleeding at bay. Running my hands through his hair.…I hate that every one of my dreams are being tainted by the situation. And I'm not too fond of the little voice telling me it's my fault.

Shaking my feelings, I continue in paramedic mode. Logan has a few scrapes dotting his body, so I make sure to disinfect and bandage each one properly. For a moment, I ponder removing his bloody shirt and replacing it with a new one. I dismiss the idea. I'm not yet an actual paramedic, and it's too much of an invasion of privacy otherwise.

Grabbing a bag of frozen veggies and a hand towel, I carefully move him to the far more comfortable bed in my room.

Despite his malnourishment, Logan sinks deep into my plush bed. After covering him with a soft comforter, I wrap the bag of veggies with the hand towel and hold it gently over the swelling around his eyes. A little over an hour passes without any sign of him waking back up. I'm slightly worried, but after his temperature and pulse show regular readings, I decide it's best to let him rest.

If he doesn't wake soon, I'll have to face down the consequences of bringing him to the hospital. For now, though, I replace the veggies with a cool, damp towel and leave him to sleep in peace, his soft snores filling me with a slight sense of relief.