Breathe With Me (The Breathe Series Book 3)

by Wendy L. Wilson

  A lot of good talking to Tristan is going to do. “Well, I’d like to fix it, but with her…” I sigh, “It’ll be pretty impossible.”

  Tristan’s brows dip and he cocks his head back incredulously. “That’s pretty harsh, given what it seems she’s gone through.”

  I blink my eyes in a bit of surprise, because it’s not every day, or any day for that matter, that this discussion is breached, not even with her. It’s somewhat encouraging, yet still a cause for caution; I’d like to limit myself to one screw up every couple years.

  “No, it’s not that. I mean, yeah, that’s the reason she does what she does, but she just hangs onto it…she lives there…in the past and lets it dictate every major part of her life. Then when faced with it, she runs, takes off, hides from the damn issue instead of realizing…” I gulp, fuming the more I say, because dammit, I wish she’d find a way through this. If I could knock that wall down, I’d tear through it and make sure there wasn’t a fiber of fear left in her. “…that it happened. Yes, it is horrible, it sucks major ass, it’s even downright traumatizing obviously, but if she lets it beat her, if she just lets it hold her back her whole life then…” I stop, not sure where I’m going with this, but a bolt of livid frustration is thundering through me. She couldn’t even hear me out. “I think she’s so scared of facing what happened that she thinks of reasons to run. She’s not even mad at me, she just needs an excuse to not face it head on. She’s running,” my voice grows quieter as I go on, picturing her at my doorstep the night it happened. She’s still running; she ran out of that cabin that night and she never stopped running from it.

  “Damn…” Tristan murmurs, also sounding deep in thought. “Yeah, but sometimes that’s all a person knows to do. Sometimes, that’s all they’ve got to save them, because if they stop…” His face twists into a painful understanding and for a moment I wonder; Is he thinking of his own life: his mom, his wreck, his own unrelenting traumas. “It might bury them alive,” he pauses, looking me dead in the eyes and shocking the hell out of me that he can be serious and make some damn sense. “Listen, I think everyone has a trigger. Something that can free them from their personal demons.” He shrugs, continuing on, “Some find it, some don’t. Maybe you’re hers, but…maybe you’re not…” Pursing his lips, he goes back to a straight bland expression as if he’s not talking about himself; maybe he’s not. “I guess all you can do is wait and see if she comes back? Or just say screw it and move on.” He shrugs, sounding more like the same antagonizing Tristan I know. “But the pain in the ass you spoke of…I wouldn’t worry about whatever she said to tip this off.”

  Kicking my head back, I suddenly do not follow. I referred to a hemorrhoid being a pain in the ass, but I don’t remember it saying anything. My face goes slack as I stare at him in question.

  “Abby…I’m talking about Abby.”

  Ahhh, pain in his ass. Got it. I always thought there was something going on there.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she’s a pain in a lot of people’s when she gets going.” I go over all that went on tonight as I pause. “Ahh, I guess Abby’s a lot like me. She just doesn’t know when to shut up,” I say, refusing to elaborate anymore on the night.

  “I’m sure I could shut her up,” Tristan’s confident tone which has been lost since the wreck, comes through loud and clear as he turns to get back to work.

  I chuckle, “Well I’ll let you use whatever preferred method on her, I’m good. I’m learning on my own that I need to keep my mouth shut.”

  Tristan and I both quietly laugh to ourselves, neither of us sounding real genuine or invested in a happy mood or night of talking. Jumping up, I head for the small blue sofa in the break room for a restless evening of no sleep. My head goes over where I should be right now and I slam on the breaks, in full on ‘kick myself in the ass’ mode for the stupid careless slips I’ve made. Damn my mouth!

  AFTER A FEW DAYS OF deep thought and time alone, I came to the one-time-halting conclusion that is, I have to read the letter. I already had this talk with myself, convincing my heart that it could bear whatever he had to say and ensuring my mind that it would help me move on, but in the end I still put it off.

  Not any more!

  Flinging my legs off of the bed, I sit up with my hands digging into the mattress on each side of my hips to hold me steady; to give me strength to do it. I stare ahead, my vision set hard on the top drawer of my dresser where I had hidden it as soon as I had returned from the lake. My body trembles, and my eyes bear down to such an extreme that they should be able to penetrate the solid wood piece of furniture. I can do this. I spring forward, off the bed and to my feet, bolting across the surface of the carpeted floor as if I’m on ice skates. My hand falls to the brass knob and I pause, a deep breath moving over my tongue and down my throat to fill my lungs and give me courage.

  Pulling it open, I automatically set my eyes on a sliver of notebook paper at the bottom of the drawer beneath a pair of red and white polka-dotted pajama pants. I move quickly, not wanting to lose my nerve. After slamming the drawer shut, I walk back to the bed and slowly ease down, because standing up seems too hard right now. After a deep breath, I begin to read.

  Piper,

  I know your first instinct is going to be to rip this up, destroy it, anything not to read it, but I’m begging you to read it all when you feel you can. Believe it or not, this is the sixth time I have written this letter. I suspect I’ll write it a couple dozen more times, then toss them in the trash just like the rest, but I would like to think that one day I will have the courage to send it. That maybe I will get some sort of sign telling me that you are as ready as me to hear this.

  I know first off, I should cut to the chase and just say sorry, but there is far more that I need to say to you. Sorry and I never meant to hurt you is not good enough; no words are good enough really. If I had it in my power to erase time, I suppose that may be the only thing that I could do to make it right, but I can’t. I’d give anything to do that though…for both of us. Piper, for so long I was so messed up…confused, scared and even saying that makes me feel selfish and greedy. I have no right to tell you anything I felt when I tossed all those pains at you in a matter of seconds. I robbed you of your innocence and stole something that I can never give back. I cheated you and I can never change it.

  That night changed everything for me. It made me look at my own past in a different light, because I had shoved a burden that I had carried for so long to someone else; to you. I made you feel helpless, violated, alone, afraid, powerless to control your own life and with so many unanswered questions that you knew you’d never get. I hurt you and the only thing I can offer you is some answers, although I fear I’ll never be able to give you the best answer and that is why. All I can offer is a bit of understanding, yet never enough or what you deserve.

  I started seeing a counselor shortly after what happened. I thought I was screwed up, demented, beyond repair. I was ashamed and wanted to die for what I did to you, but also for what was done to me. I felt that pain for years before, I felt it every single night that my innocence was taken from me. My counselor fed me all kinds of crap about how that act was imbedded into my mind and when a child watches and experiences an act that is made to seem like it’s routine or possibly even normal, that it distorts their view of life and that act, almost makes it seem ok, but I can tell you right now, I always knew it was wrong. It made me feel like I was guilty, it made me feel ashamed. I won’t go into the details in this letter, but as clear as it reads, I was molested. It happened to me from the time I was adopted at 8 years old till the time I came to live with your family. No, it wasn’t by my adoptive mom, which spent the majority of her life bouncing from rehab facility to rehab facility, it was by her cracked-out friends that would come to party every week. I don’t know why, and I know now that I will never get answers for that, but I know that it changed everything in me. It made me withdraw from any sort of friends, it made me think twice about any type
of functioning relationship, it made me live my life closed off and shut down, until I got help and faced it; until I finally opened up and realized that I was holding back an ocean of pain and suffering that was only aiding in my self-destruction. I don’t think I would have ever lived, if I had not found a way to open that door. That’s one of the reasons that I’m writing this letter.

  Years ago, my counselor told me that the steps to healing included acceptance, remembering, anger, change, moving forward and so many others, but one thing she did mention was forgiveness. I didn’t know how, not with what I had done to you. She suggested me healing through opening up further, by explaining to you what had happened to me; offering you a small resolution to the “Why?” that I’m sure you need. And I know, I know this whole letter will never give you healing or most importantly allow you to forgive me; I truly don’t feel I deserve your forgiveness, but you deserve for me to show you my scars, no matter how it hurts to open them back up.

  If you found a way to read this letter, to finish all the way to here, then maybe you will find a way to respond. I know I don’t have a right to even ask that of you, but honestly, even if you want to send me a letter reciting every hateful thing you’ve ever thought of me, I don’t care, do it. All I know is that for years I held it all inside and until recently, I didn’t realize the impact it had on me could have very well affected you in the same way. My hope is that you found a way to talk about it; that you got help before it even dawned on me that I needed some. I know there are a million things that I’ve forgotten to say or go over, but maybe someday I can tell you more. You deserve that at the very least. I wish I could change the past, I do. If you find the courage to talk, hear more and let me explain, write back or email me…anything.

  Trent

  Trent_sr@globalnet.com

  Every nerve in my body tenses in an emotional effort to save me from drowning; from blacking out. I clamp my eyes shut tight, squeezing my fists around the letter and half tempted to rip it to shreds. Anger courses through me at what he did. He’s sorry? He wishes he could take it back?!

  My blood races through my veins, flowing like molten lava. Pressing my teeth together, I tense up more, my shoulders tightening and my back rigid. My knees and calf muscles tense, although I suddenly feel the need to jump up, run…flee from the feelings that are overcoming me; but I don’t. I don’t move at all and the most unbelievable part is, no tears come. I hate him; I wish he was dead. How could he try to compare anything that happened to him, to what he did to me?! Anger like I’ve never known before scorches a way through me, causing my heart rate to accelerate and my head to throb. A sudden ball of ferocity forces its way from my chest, up my throat and out into the still, silent confines of my bedroom in a sound-shattering scream. I fall back onto my bed, my body wracked with a hate and hurt like no other.

  Curling my knees to my chest, I pull the letter to me as the fury slowly bleeds into pain and the tears finally come…and they come and come. I cry long and hard, twisting my head into the soft, pillowy fabric of my comforter and then cry even harder.

  I lie there for what feels like an eternity, letting the anger from it all consume me, eat me up and burn through me until I cannot even keep my eyes open. This time as the lights go out in my mind, the whole night is replaying; every second, every touch, every dirty feeling I felt, but this time I fall asleep from pure emotional exhaustion; no blacking out, no hyperventilating, and no need to remind myself to breathe.

  My eyes slide open slowly, and the first thing I notice is that I didn’t sleep away my entire Saturday. The sun still streams through the window, casting iridescent strands of light over my desk. I look down, my fingers shuffling against the crinkled-up notebook page in my hands that I obviously hung onto in my sleep. Flicking my eyes back to the desk, I stare at my cell phone resting silently beside my laptop. I could look him up; look Mom up; email him or write a letter back. The lids of my eyes close, a heavy weight dragging them down even though I’m not tired. In a sense I am tired, but not physically. I’m exhausted from carrying around the pain of that night. Restless from worrying that it may sneak up on me during every exciting and heartfelt moment of my life. I’m emotionally drained from feeling the fear and confusion of it all, over and over again. I’d do anything just to have peace from it.

  Pulling the letter away from my chest, I finally sit up, the bed making a creaking noise in the process. My hands fall, bringing the sheet of paper to my lap as I study the bottom.

  trent_sr@globalnet.com

  My chest expands on a deep breath, but I can’t move. What would I even say? All that comes to mind when I think of running into him, is a string of profanities and gestures that would scare most onlookers. I’m the one that’s gone through this, and I’ve dealt with it for years, but I still have no idea how to handle it. But now, looking down at the letter, my eyes focus in on the center portion of it…rereading it to myself.

  …it made me live my life closed off and shut down, until I got help and faced it; until I finally opened up and realized that I was holding back an ocean of pain and suffering that was only aiding in my self-destruction. I don’t think I would have ever lived, if I had not found a way to open that door.

  Could writing him, talking to him, or even seeing him actually help? Knitting my brows, my stomach swirls in unease at the thought of being near him again. I haven’t even faced him since that night; not even to hear his voice. A few times, Mom would call him and she’d ask if I wanted to talk with him, assuming we had some sort of cousinly bond, I guess. She would usually drop the line and get off, stating that he had to go a second after she hollered my name. I pause on that. Was he just as scared and pained by what happened as me?

  I look down for the hundredth time, the letter suddenly taking up more space in the room; a ghost that has come to haunt me over a past left unsettled. I’m not sure I can do this. But just as that thought seeps into my mind, a surge of strength lifts me to my feet and straight to my laptop. I’m not even sure what has come over me as I pull the chair out and plop down, still grasping his letter; the same sheet of paper he held in his hands at one point. I drop it to the desk and stare at it, gazing long and hard and pulling my hand away up to my computer. I have to; and maybe it will even be like it was for him. I could write something and then have to rewrite it half a dozen times. I might write it and never send it, but I have to try. I’ll never get past this if not and I’ll continue to screw things up in my life. I’ll keep trying to push people away.

  Evan’s face comes to mind, and instantly, I suck in a breath. Breathe, I can do this. I have to do it or I’ll keep trying to blame him for the fact that I cannot even talk to anyone about it. I should have never put something so huge on him and expect it not to burn through him. He cares about me and always has. If this hurts me so greatly, how can it have not hurt him for as long as I’ve had him carry it around too? I owe this to myself mostly, to get closure, but I also owe it to us.

  My fingers pinch the edge of the laptop, pulling the screen away from the keyboard as I continue to look back over to the paper, studying the words and committing them to memory so that perhaps it can fill my head with the words I need to reply.

  After clicking the power button, a slow hum sounds and my screen lights up. It takes me seconds to have my email open and type his address at the top. The thoughts of waiting for a response, when I only check my email about twice a week, is almost like waiting for a bomb to detonate; a slow torture, however, instant messaging him makes me sick to my stomach. At least this way, it gives me time to catch my bearings and think of what to say.

  My fingers run over the keys, typing frantically, the simplest and easiest thing I can think of; the only words I have the courage to say at this point.

  I’m ready to talk.

  I hit send before I can even think to forget about it or stop myself. A swoosh goes off and my stomach plummets. I did it.

  Sitting there, I slowly close my laptop and shove th
e letter beneath it, waiting. It’s not like my laptop is going to announce a new message or that I’ll receive a satellite signal to my brain that he replied. I will have to find the courage to open it back up and check to see if he answered later, but I still wait, a sense of resolution overpowering the nausea that was taking root in my belly. It gradually unravels each knot that had settled in my subconscious.

  Breathe with me.

  I close my eyes; imagining myself back in that small little camper with Evan slid all the way against me, whispering those words in my ear and my heart stops. It was always when I knew I wasn’t alone that I had strength; that’s when the pain stopped and I was free.

  He knew…he shared my grief over that night. I could face it and fight away the fear and heartache when we faced it together. I think about what the letter said, my mind reeling around what has been missing this whole time.

  She suggested me healing through opening up further, by explaining to you what had happened…

  I recite the words silently then repeat them again. A more profound sensation moves through me than I’ve ever felt before; a sense of strength, courage and confidence that barely gives way to light at the end of this dark and lonely tunnel that I’ve been trying to claw my way out of for years.

  Can I do this? Can I?

  My hand falls to my phone and I rip it up, urgency pulsing through every cell in my body with the need to face it all, to open up, to free fall into a place I’ve never ventured. Evan’s face comes to mind; his laugh, his smile, his voice. Breathe, Piper, Breathe with me.