by J. R. Rogue
“How?” I whimpered.
“Let it out. Write about it again. Show it to everyone. Show it to no one. But please, don’t let it sit in there anymore.” He took his hand from my face and placed it over my heart. I leaned back and looked into his endless blue. “It’s a cancer and I need you with me.”
I uncovered myself and wrapped my arms around his neck. I pulled him in, to my skin and my broken bits. I wept and he stayed steady.
I recalled a poem I wrote when I returned home from Missouri, once I escaped that house again and the slow choke of my memories.
some people are
born fractured.
demons deposited
here among us.
I like to think I was born pure.
that for a while I was like an angel.
(my mother named me after one, after all)
I guess it wasn’t in the master plan for me to
stay that way.
this sickness was put inside of me
by familiar hands.
I walk with the pretty people now.
the good.
but I am not.
I am not good.
Chace made love to me that night. It was tender and rushed and then a slow resurrection. He was vulnerable and I was a soft cry in the low light of my bedside lamp. He bit my jaw and followed the map of my pulse. He tasted my tears and the pure passion I wrote about but never allowed myself to give into. I let him take control, something I never did. He let me unravel.
He reminded me that I am good.
Sera told her mother about the childhood abuse she experienced at the hands of her grandfather while we were all still in New York. They sat on her bed all day and wept together. I brought them food and water and stayed away, letting them have the moment, the one she had been hiding from her for years.
The guilt Sera had been choking on was unnecessary. Now, she was free. They were the two strongest women I had ever met. They would heal together. They would not let that man ruin, again, not even from the grave.
I stayed in the City for the rest of Sera’s signings, and then we flew back to Missouri together. We stayed in Sera’s mother’s house, while she figured out what she wanted to do with her grandparent’s old home, her old home, my old home. I knew what she would decide, but I stayed quiet and waited for her to work through it in her own way.
I held her on the nights she would cry silently into her own pillow. I brushed the hair away from the back of her neck and kissed her there, whispered there. I listed all the ways she had changed me. All the reasons I would never leave her side. She had been holding everything deep in her chest for so long, letting it eat away at her light, letting it cloud the mirrors she looked into. Each day I saw a bit of her self-loathing fall away.
We spent two months moving everything out of the old farmhouse. The books, the beds, the vanity, and the china her mother loved. She had some moved into storage, sold some, and burned some in the front yard. I would sit on the front porch and watch as she doused pieces in gasoline. I would watch as she let it go. She would wait a moment, watching the flames going higher, and then she would come back to me. She would take a seat and grip my hand. She watched the black smoke fill the sky, and I watched her breathe deep and exhale.
When it was all done, she had the house demolished. She kept the land, not wanting to sell the woods that were her refuge all those years. We sat in the treehouse, out in the green, away from prying eyes, as the bulldozers ripped it all apart. She sat at the old school desk, her knees pressed together, her head in her hands, dark hair tumbling towards the floor. I sat on that old futon for a while, watching her.
After a moment, I walked over to her and knelt down to her feet. She was wearing her white converse. I pulled a sharpie from my pocket and reached for her ankle. She jumped, pulled from her thoughts, and looked at me. “What are you doing?” She asked.
“You can let it go today,” I said. I pulled the cap off with my teeth and looked down at her feet, then back up at her. “Today is the start of something new. A blank canvas.”
She nodded and a tear started to roll down her cheek. I wrote the date on her shoe quickly then threw the marker over my shoulder, reaching for her.
I was born to touch Sera. Whether she was falling apart or putting me back together, it did not matter. I had fallen in love with her when I was a young boy. Before I had a chance to go out and see the world. I had no regrets. Falling for someone so young was not a burden, as my mother had thought. I could barely remember a time before her, her words, and the comfort she planted in me. A day didn’t pass by without me reminding her of how she saved me, how we had saved each other.
After I finished school, Sera and I moved to Nashville. I found a teaching job there and wrote music in the moments I had to spare. Together, we designed a writing workshop for the troubled youth in the area. Lyrics, poetry, and short stories. We recruited singers and songwriters in the Music City to help.
We made our home downtown, in a one-bedroom loft apartment above our classroom. We thought about finding a house outside of Nashville eventually, but the hours we spent downstairs were long, and rewarding. We couldn’t imagine cutting them short, even for a commute.
Sera became a voice for the abused. Her second book of poetry set her secrets free for the world to see. As emails and messages came in from strangers all over the world, telling her that her courage had changed them, I watched her change.
Others knowing they were not alone helped them to let their own voices be heard. She helped them believe they could one day break free.
Working with those children, helped me let go of the resentment I had held onto towards my father. I couldn’t let it eat at me anymore. I reached out to him; I reached through the casual conversation we had been drowning in for years and he reached back. I didn’t wear my darkness like a shroud, the way Sera had, but it was still there, deep down. Each time I spoke to my father, I felt some of it fall away.
After three years together, I asked Sera to marry me, as we relaxed in her old four post bed, listening to the rain pelting our downtown Nashville home. Our floor-to-ceiling windows let the yellow glow of street lamps in, painting her skin gold. She closed her amber eyes and reached for the only thing she was wearing, a hand stamped necklace circling her neck, the one she never took off.
I laughed when she had it made. I smiled. She infused beauty into my skin. She called me her music. She wrote poetry about it. ‘He is music, and I am merely madness and melancholy’. She wore those words around her neck, her love for me. She was not merely madness and melancholy. She was so much more. I was convincing her, every day.
She rubbed her thumb back and forth over the words and then opened her eyes. “Yes,” she breathed.
I reached for her, pulling her close. She wrapped her legs around my center and found my lips. I poured my dreams into her collarbone and she kept them there, safe. I rocked into her and felt everything fall away. She let me love her without restraint. She let me unravel.
She reminded me that I am good.
Writing this book is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Without these people, it never would have happened.
Krystal and Courtney, my book club besties. Never change. I love when you are hangry and when you over do it and when you think you may die. I love meeting once a month to be assholes and all the texting in between.
My Radiant Sky family. I am so glad I have found a home with you beautiful humans. We are going to change the world.
Kat, it was fate we met. I wrote you into this book before we ever met! How spooky is that? You’re my go-to. My confidant. Your words heal and I can’t wait to see all that you do this year.
Alicia, my editor and friend. Thank you for never trying to change my voice. You polish my mess and make it lovely, while still keeping my jagged edges. I’m sorry I hate capitalization and punctuation. I’m sorry I may never change.
Beta readers, bloggers, critique partners, and res
earch gatherers. Talon, Katoff, Christina, Stephanie, Devon, and the rest of you brave souls. Thank you for reading this through all of the phases.
TJ, thank you for the valuable NYC information.
Mom, thank you for showing me what true strength is and for showing me unconditional love. You showed me that we can live full lives, despite our past.
Aaron, thank you for believing my truth, and for never doubting me.
Brandon, thank you for showing me what true goodness looks like in this world.
Catye, thank you for showing me friendship—unflinching. For telling me your secrets. For guarding my own. For having my back, through every up and down. We will have so many stories to tell when we are sitting side by side in our rockers with white hair and too many wrinkles around our eyes. I’ll have more, of course, because gingers never age.
Cody, where do I begin? We have had a long crazy ride, full of messes and forgiveness. You balance me. I would be tumbling around this world, lost, without you. You saved me. It was as simple as that, but it was never simple.
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