I remembered my abduction. I remember waking up tied to a chair in a cold, concrete room. I remember being told I was a bargaining chip for Max. I remember Rob telling me that it didn’t matter if I lived or died, as long as I served my purpose.
I remember hearing Max scream in agony. I remember watching my brother’s girlfriend, a dear friend of mine, and the mother of my unborn nieces or nephews get tortured in front of me. All while I was strapped to a pole, unable to help. But most of all I remember the lightning hot pain ricochet throughout my body as Rob’s blade pierced my flesh.
Over.
And.
Over.
And.
Over.
Again.
The memory of that pain is how I knew that I was truly remembering what I went through, and not just concurring some H.P. Lovecraft style shit in my head. You can’t conjure that pain on your own, the only way to know that, is to experience it.
So here I sit, day ten post wake up, Dex’s arms wrapped tightly around me. He’s doing his very best to hold me together as I drown in my tears, my sorrow. The memories of what’s happened in the last seven weeks assaulting me all at once. Even the ones from when I was in a coma.
I had to sit in this pitiful excuse of a bed, feeling a tube scrape down my throat as a machine forced my body to breathe. I had to sit here while everyone I care about cried beside me, begging me, and everything in the universe, to just wake up.
I had to listen to Dex scream at nurses because he was breaking down a little more each day and he wouldn’t let any of our friends step in and help. I had to feel his kisses, his tears, his shaking breaths as he sang to me, recalled memories of our lives, and cried himself to sleep in the chair beside my bed.
What good is it to be fully aware of everything happening around you if you can’t communicate, comfort, reassure, or love the people around you who are hurting?
Hearing Dex like that… It broke something inside of me. He’s always been so strong and always able to brighten a room with his humor and laughter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry before. I’ve seen him lose his composure out of anger plenty of times when we were younger. But I’ve never seen him lose himself over to any other emotion like he has since being here in the hospital with me.
When he was playing that last song to me, singing the chorus, and talking about walking away from me the day he saw my tattoo… I felt like I was stuck inside my own body, my fists banging against the walls, begging to wake the fuck up and talk to him. Begging to have control over my body again, to talk, to cry, to touch…
When his quivering lips touched my tattoo it was like a defibrillator shocking me awake, giving me the strength to break through the internal world I was living in. I tried to yank the tube out of my throat, desperate to talk to him, to talk to Abel, Max…
Anyone.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of those memories. I don’t want to relive them. I want to forget them forever. I want to move on with my life.
“I wanna go home, Dex. Please. Just take me home.” I beg him.
“I know, Breezie, I know. Just a few more days and you’ll be released.” He tells me, gently running his hands through my hair.
It’s the same thing they’ve all been telling me since I started getting my memories back. Apparently monitoring after waking up from a five-week long coma takes a while.
They say I’m lucky. Apparently not too many people walk away from over a month-long coma without any deficits or permanent memory loss. But ya know what? I wish I didn’t have all of these memories. They’re just too painful.
It’s bad enough to go through what I did. But to relive it out of the blue… To have a memory sparks out of nowhere, bringing you to your knees in the middle of the hallway… It’s fucking cruel.
I sob harder into Dex’s chest. Clutching his shirt between my fingers, scared to death to let go of him. I’m terrified if I let him go, that he’ll vaish before my eyes. Feeling him this close is the only way I know I won’t lose him again. It’s the only thing centering me to this bullshit life I’ve been dealt.
“Tell me what to do, Breezie. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. You just have to tell me.”
I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what the hell I need, besides to go home. My lack of response causes the room to fill with silence, something I loathe with all of my being, causing the anxiety in my chest to rise.
I need noise to calm me, bring me some kind of solace in this sterile hell. I reach across the bed to the small stand hovering on the side of one of my rails. I scroll through my songs, trying to find just the right song to reflect what’s going on in my mind, trusting that the lyrics can answer Dex in a way that I just can’t on my own.
As ‘Sabotage Internal’ by The Spill Canvas plays through the tiny speaker, he listens to the words intently, like he knows this is my answer to him. Like he knows I just can’t find the words on my own.
When we were younger, he would make fun of me, saying that I tried to turn my life into my own personal musical. He said I was always finding a song for every situation, putting my life on display. He wasn’t wrong.
Music tells a story better than just words alone can. There’s something about mixing words with a specific sound that brings them more to life. Music makes you feel the words in your bones, not just in your ears.
The words cause me to come to a conclusion. Healing isn’t something that can be measured by doctors or shrinks. It’s not something you can actively decide to either do or not to do. Healing is an amusement park line that you impatiently wait for, begging to be next.
‘I don’t wanna stay scared, living in this daymare. Burn off this mirage in my internal sabotage.’
No matter what anyone tells you, healing isn’t up to you. If it was, I would be both mentally and physically healed by now. And I’m neither of those things. The plastic surgeon they called into my surgery did his best, but they told me at least sixty percent of my scars will not fade. That they were too jagged, too deep, to heal properly. I haven’t braved a glance yet… I don’t know if I ever will.
I don’t want to drown in this. I don’t want to keep fighting through it. I talk to that damn shrink every day. I take all the medicines. I’ve been through all the surgeries. I do all the stupid tests and scans. I’m walking around as much as I’m allowed, utilizing my muscles that were neglected for so long… I’m doing everything that I’ve been instructed to do.
And it’s not fucking working.
I’m still choking on these memories.
I’m still suffering in my nightmares.
I still see his smug damn face every time I close my eyes.
I still feel the pain of his blade with every breath I take.
I’m not fucking healing.
“I need your help to get through this, Dex. I’m not strong enough to do this on my own.”
He pulls me closer into his side, rubbing the stress out of my arms and back, kissing my temple as he does so. He doesn’t offer me words of encouragement, he doesn’t have any. He just sits with me, holding me together as best he can.
And even though it gets me no closer to going home, it’s kind of perfect. He’s kind of perfect.
Chapter Fourteen
DEX
Our friend Sonya always says that she understands numbers better than she does people. She says numbers are black and white whereas people come in all different shades of grey. I’ve never really understood how she could think like that until this whole thing happened.
Bree’s been awake for 13 days.
She’s been in the hospital for 48 days.
Which means I have too.
She was missing for 11 days.
That means it’s been 59 days since she was home.
It’s been 59 days since she’s felt safe, felt whole, and got to sleep in a real bed, or been able to breathe in the fresh air.
If all goes a
s planned, she should be released tomorrow. She took over Max’s old house before everything happened, but never got a chance to move in. Max has still been keeping up with the mortgage, but Bree isn’t happy about going back to her tiny one bedroom apartment. An apartment she loved before all this happened.
She hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t pushed, but I think she’s developed a bit of claustrophobia throughout all of this. Even though Rob is dead, with how many other people were involved in the whole thing, everyone has been required everyone to go on the record.
She gave her statement to the police a few days ago, once all of her memories came back. Throughout the whole story, she curled in on herself, shrinking away from the events that haunt her. But as soon as she got to the part about the tiny room Rob held her in when she wasn’t tied to the pillar, she involuntarily made herself bigger. She sat up, squared her shoulders, and bent her legs beneath her blanket, forcing her body to occupy more space in the room.
Hearing what she went through, the stuff that Max wasn’t privy to, makes my blood boil all over again. I want so badly to avenge her, but like I’ve done every day for two weeks, I bury my shit deep and focus on taking care of her in any way I can. My anger doesn’t help her. It doesn’t make her feel better, and it doesn’t take away anything that happened. A lesson Abel has taught me again, and again, throughout this entire process.
When she started freaking out about going back to her apartment, I got with the guys and made a plan to move all of her stuff into Max’s old house before she got home. It means more time away from her than I’d like, but I know it will be worth it in the end. The guys have been working on it more than I have since I spend so much more time at the hospital than anyone else. But they’ve really amazed me with how much work they’ve gotten done.
Bree’s got an obsession with pairing the colors coral and grey together so the majority of her shit is covered in all kinds of different patterns of these two color combinations. It amazes me how much stuff one person can accumulate. I think she had more stuff in that tiny one apartment than Abel and I have put together, and we moved into a three-bedroom house when we came home.
As soon as the plan to move her stuff came into play, I got with the girls and asked them to help me out on a special project that I wanted to get set up as a surprise. They were, of course, all for it.
Max text me this morning and told me that the surprise was ready and that she thinks both Bree, and I, will like it. I’m pulling up to the house now and I’m pretty excited to see what all they’ve come up with.
Abel’s truck is backed into the driveway and Karen’s car is parked on the curb in front of the house. Seeing this lets me know that all of our friends are just as dedicated as I am to ensure that Bree has a smooth transition back into the real world.
I climb out of my truck and make my way to the front door, sweating like I’ve just been though a rough work out. August is just around the corner, so of course, every window and door is propped open, and I can tell by the music flowing from the inside that Max must be here too.
Sonya stayed at the hospital with Bree so that she wouldn’t have to be alone. She’s the girliest one of Max’s friends and for some reason, Bree has latched on to her more than the others. I think there’s a part of her that still hurts seeing Max, feeling responsible for her the injuries she sustained. So while Max patiently waits for Bree to come back around, Sonya fills the void when I can’t be beside her.
I walk in the front door and see Max, Karen, and Kat all dancing in the living room to ‘I Think I’m Paranoid’ by Garbage. These girls are fucking crazy.
“I see you found your dance party partner again.” I say to Kat and Karen, pulling an adorably pregnant Max into my arms for a hug.
“She’s a much better dancer than all you guys put together.” Karen says, her body still bouncing around.
“Oh gosh, did you guys have the guys do a dance party?” Max asks as she covers her mouth to hold in a laugh. “This I gotta hear.”
“Well as much as I’d love to relive that horror, I hear there’s a surprise waiting to be surveyed upstairs. Y’all hens can stay here cluckin’ if you want, but I’m gonna go check it out.”
“Oh! No, we wanna go with you and see your reaction.” Kat smiles proudly. “We can tell the story after.”
I follow the girls upstairs to what used to be Kat’s art room, and then later Max’s study. I requested that they help me turn this room into a sanctuary for Bree. A place where she can run to and decompress, escape the world.
They asked all kinds of questions about what she likes, what kind of stuff I had in mind, colors, you name it. These girls got way more into it that I had anticipated so I’m a little nervous to find out what’s waiting on the other side of the closed door.
Max moves in front of the doorway, extending her arms out on either side, blocking my path.
“Before you go in, I want you to know that we added some of our own personal touches that we didn’t discuss with you first. It’s just as much of a surprise for you as it is for her. Let’s just say some things came to us… Unexpectedly.” She tells me, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Should I be scared?” I ask, feeling paranoid all of a sudden.
“No. We actually think you’ll really like it.” Karen tells me, walking around me to stand by Max.
“But if you don’t like it, we can change it quickly.” Kat adds, joining the other two.
It feels more like a warning, a plea for my acceptance, but I’ll let that slide until I see what I’ve gotten myself into with these three.
“Okay, well let’s have a look then. Ladies, ya wanna do the honors?”
They all smile and clap their hands, sharing some kind of girl code with just a look and open the door to Bree’s hideaway.
When I told them what I wanted, I envisioned a bunch of girly pillows, a small loveseat, some candles, something basic but completely hers. I wanted to incorporate her love for music, her favorite colors, and happy memories. What these girls delivered looks as if it came straight out of a magazine.
They have the walls painted coral in what looks like sheet music with grey music notes and symbols dancing around. Someone installed a fucking window seat for crying out loud. It’s covered in pillows with North Carolina’s silhouette on the front. There’s a desk in the corner with a Papasan chair, and a corner triangle wedge bed that has some frilly princess looking shit hanging from the ceiling. It’s covering the wedge, creating a personal cocoon to escape to.
It’s perfect.
It’s so Bree.
But what really takes my breath away are the giant framed photos on the far wall. There’s five of them in total. One of them is all of us together at Henry’s. One of them is her and the girls. But the other three are photos that I’ve never seen before.
“Where did you get these?” I ask dumbfounded, stepping towards the photos to take a closer look.
“When we were helping pack up her room, we were sifting through all of her CDs. Kat didn’t just want to paint random music notes on her wall, she wanted to bring some of Bree’s favorite songs to life. Well, the bookshelf that had all her CDs also had a photo album on it. We saw these in there and Karen wanted to blow them up and frame them. Y’all have had to love each other from afar for long enough. It’s time you get the opportunity to love each other out loud, ya know?”
Max’s words hit me in the chest, rooting me in my place. I’m completely speechless. I stand glued to my spot, staring at these photos in awe with my mouth still hanging open, not even trying to hide my surprise.
The first one is in black and white. Bree and I are dancing at a friend’s wedding before the guys and I moved to LA. I never even knew this photo was taken. Jason’s wedding was four years ago. His wife, Jennifer worked with Bree at the time and I worked with Jason so instead of bringing dates, we just hung out together.
“For two people who kept their lov
e from everyone, including each other, a secret for all these years… I’m really surprised no one caught on before now.” Karen says from behind me.
“Why is that?” I ask, eyes still glued to the photos.
“Look closely Dex. Look at y’alls faces. I photograph people for a living. The way you two are looking at each other… Those are the same expressions I get on the faces of a bride and groom on their wedding day. You guys look at each other like the other is your reason for breathing.”
I do as Karen suggests and I take a closer look. Even though the photo is in black and white, I vividly remember the vibrant purple of her dress, making the indigo around her eyes pop more than usual. I don’t remember what the music was, but I remember how happy she was when I agreed to dance with her. The only times in my life I’ve ever danced were either with, or for, Bree.
Her hair is piled on her head in loose curls, a few had fallen down on the back of her neck at this point. I have one hand on her waist, and the other is holding one of her hands in the air, spinning her in a circle. She’s looking back at me with a pure and innocent smile spread across her entire face. She looks so genuinely happy…
My look mirrors hers and I know how right Karen is. The amount of adoration and uninhibited happiness on our faces is plain as day now. But neither of us saw what was right in front of us the whole time.
Each other.
The second photo is older, from when she was a senior in high school. She showed up to a party the guys and I were at. I noticed how many vultures were circling around her, waiting for the right moment to try and pounce. My jealousy reared its ugly head. My inability to let her go, propelling me toward her like a fucking magnet.
I walked over to a tipsy Bree, picked her up and threw her over my shoulder. Her solo cup fell out of her hands, and on top of my head, dousing me in beer from head to toe. She laughed so hard, for so long, I didn’t think she’d ever stop. Her happiness, her laughter, brought forth my own. It didn’t matter that I reeked of Natty Light. It didn’t matter that I had some in my eyes, or that I was peacocking in front of dipshit horny teenagers who made me see red… All that mattered, all that’s ever mattered, was Bree.
Revival Page 17