by Sarah Buhl
“It’s my fault she did it,” she said without opening her eyes. “She wouldn’t have killed herself if I hadn’t done what I did.” Her blatancy shocked me. She confessed without a second thought what she held so tight to her. It was so tight she wrapped herself in it like a security blanket. Her guilt held her together and without it she would crumble. She opened her eyes and looked at me with a vacant expression. “I’ve never said that to anyone. No one knows it was my fault. Looks like I couldn’t even go a day before telling you my something,” she said, lacking any joy or humor that was present just a moment ago.
I thought of saying something in response, that it wasn’t her fault. There were no words of comfort to change her mind. They would be shallow, so I waited for her to continue.
“I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.” She pulled my arm closer to her. “I think it’s because I can tell you understand me on a level.” She leaned her head on the couch and looked over at me. “Plus I’m thankful for your honesty. You haven’t tried to be something you’re not with me,” she said, closing her eyes again.
“My sister was two years older than me. She was twenty one and she dated the same guy since she was a sophomore in high school. She dreamed of marrying him since she was little. He became the captain of the football team and a total jock. He was also class president and everyone loved him. He was perfect for her because she was the cheerleader and prom queen. They planned to marry and have perfect little babies after she finished college. My parents adored her and she was their princess.” She opened her eyes and looking down she let go of my hand and began to roll up one of the legs of her overalls. She rolled and unrolled it as she continued to ramble, trying to race to the end of the story.
“Religion was my father’s way and if we didn’t uphold his rules he'd have our hides. She and the football guy became close, but they wouldn’t have sex until after high school. She had this whole idea to make it special on the day after graduation. The day drew closer and she was so excited she wouldn’t shut up about it. I remember wishing I could understand or grasp that emotion. But I never saw my first time that way because I never wanted romance. It was a stepping stone I needed to cross to get on with the rest of my life.” She looked up and toward the window and I saw the tears that rested on the tip of her eyes. If she were to blink, they would cascade down her face. Grasping onto her defiance I was becoming accustomed to, she refused to blink.
“I was different. I started dating my first when I was sixteen and once I got enough experience, I wanted to move onto more experiences. I wanted to live life and do whatever the fuck I wanted. Lily called me a slut for breaking up with my boyfriend and wanting to experience more. She told my dad, who called me a fornicating slut. His words by the way,” she said as she gave me a pointed glance.
“He thought that by using fornicating and slut in the same sentence it made it more righteous,” she said as she turned toward me with her eyebrows raised, but didn’t meet my eyes.
“He said I was an abomination and as soon as I graduated high school I was out. It was almost that time, so I didn’t give a shit what he threatened. My sister was in college and out of the house for two years, but she was still their little princess and tattled on me. So my sister was away at college and her boyfriend didn’t go because he stayed to work at the local sawmill.” Her hands worked with more determination on her rolling as if every roll was going to wrap up her story and put it back in the comfort of her guilt.
“I saw him one night at a party and he fucked me, and that’s all it was because I wanted to hurt my sister. I wanted to knock her off her pedestal.” Hannah looked over at me for the first time in her story, giving me eyes of defiance once again. She was hoping I would judge her, but I couldn’t, which was unusual for me, considering the circumstances of her story.
“He broke up with her, shattering their happy future. He and I hooked up several times for almost a year. When she came home on one break, something was different. I told her that her boyfriend cheated on her with me and I was the reason they separated. I watched as her whole face contorted, though she didn’t say a word. I never saw such raw emotion from her in my life. I wished she would slap me or something but she just stared at me before turning to leave the room. I didn’t follow her. Then…” She paused because her tears fought to fall and she battled to hold them inside her eyes. I could tell it was getting even more difficult to tell her story, but she wanted to continue. I remained silent and didn’t try to comfort her, but waited to follow her lead.
She took in a deep breath and held her eyes closed in quiet desperation. “Then, my parents learned of her fornication as well. But I didn’t tell them, they found out otherwise. When my dad found out he screamed and tore apart the house in his anger. I don’t need to go farther into that part of the story. He’s a bastard, that’s all she wrote, you know,” she said, pulling both her knees up and hugging them. She rested her forehead on the tops of them muffling her voice.
“That night was a full moon. She came into my room and sat on my bed. She asked me, Hannah, do you remember when we were little, and we used to run in the field when the moon was full? Those nights were always beautiful. We sang my song and laughed. I loved that.” She raised her voice an octave as she quoted her sister and eased back into her natural voice, though strained as she continued.
"I tried to sleep but the sound of her pathetic voice annoyed me. I didn’t want to talk to her. I thought she was trying to pry pity from me and I refused to give it to her. She was the bitch. She made my life difficult with telling my parents of my history and I was glad she was getting a taste of it. God I was the bitch,” she said as she turned her head away from me.
“I am the bitch. I yelled at her to leave me alone and she did. I lay in bed for a while staring at my ceiling as a feeling started in my chest. An ache stirred me from my bed and it felt as though my ribs squeezed against my insides. I had to get out of my room, which is the main thing I remember. I had to get out of my room.” She looked toward the window as if she were there and no longer in my apartment.
"I ran toward the spot where we used to play as children.” She pulled her lip in and took a deep breath as she closed her eyes, allowing her tears to fall. "I found her lying there in the wet grass in her blood stained nightgown. She had slit her wrists. I drove her to that.” She ended her story without emotion in her voice. She met my eyes again and her face was wet from tears that she now let fall in silence.
The story was horrible, but the prominent thought in my mind was of how much I hated her father. I also hated her mother for not defending her daughters. Hannah blamed herself for her sister’s death, but I always believed that if someone held the mindset to do that, the ending was always at their hand. They could have chosen otherwise. Hannah didn't do that to her sister. I pulled Hannah closer to me and let my fingers trace along her arm. “I hate your dad,” I said.
She chuckled against my chest. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Yep, that’s it,” I said as I ran my hand through her hair.
“I’m a horrible person, Wynn.”
“Is that why you have penance tattooed on your wrist? Do you need to suffer for what you think you did?” I asked, in a stern tone that reminded me of Stinson.
“Yes. I can’t get close to anyone. I don’t deserve it. She was with two people in her life and she would have spent her life with one man, had I not spoiled her happily ever after fairy tale. I can’t get to know them. I can’t experience anything of value because I don’t deserve it.” She held my hand tightly.
“Why didn’t you tell your dad about your sister and her boyfriend even after she told him about you and yours?” I asked.
She raised herself up with a forced smile. “Because my momma always told me not to tattle,” she said as she took a deep breath before lying back against me. "And that's my story."
I understood the darkness of pasts that haunt you. I understood blaming yourself for anot
her person’s choices. It’s easier to take the blame yourself than to believe someone chose to do something on his or her own free will. It makes more sense to believe that you drove them to cause you such pain. It was their retaliation. I understood absorbing other's stories and pain as your own.
“Everyone has a story, Hannah. Some people have shittier ones to play out. Maybe suffering is our payment for living on earth. The good times are gifts to us for putting up with the shitty times. It isn't anything you did, it’s just life. It isn’t karma or sin, its life and it kicks our ass one day and fills us with joy the next because that is all part of the experience.” I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. I realized it was the first time I did such a thing and I watched as a smile formed on her face. “Thank you for telling me your story. I know it wasn’t easy.”
She nodded, “I feel better having voiced it. So what’s your story?” she asked and shook her head. “I’m sorry, just because I told mine, doesn’t mean you have to share. I remember our little deal.”
I thought of whether I should tell her. Mine was a story of years long hidden away and I was afraid of what the outcome would be if I shared. As I looked at her next to me, and the lightness of her once burdened shoulders, I couldn't hold back. I had to tell her. I needed to give my sorrow words.
14
Hannah
Why the hell did I do that? Why did I open my mouth and say all of that? I blame it on the shots and today’s date. I put my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat as it quickened. It started to increase as he began to tell me his story and I was nervous for him. The tension I was beginning to associate with Wynn began and guilt filled me for another reason now. I wanted to focus on his story, but all I thought of was how wonderful it felt to be this close to him. Friends, Hannah. Friends.
“Let me back up a minute. I have a hard time explaining emotions, Hannah. But there’s openness with you and for some reason I can tell you something I have just told Stinson. I don't share emotions. I don’t share my pain or dark memories. I learned from a young age to hold them inside.” His arm rested on my back and he ran his fingers up and down the side of my arm as he spoke. He took a deep breath and on his exhale he began to speak quickly.
“I’m going to say it without any of the details right now. Okay, here goes. I’m going to plow right through it,” he said before taking another deep breath.
“First, my mom used to beat the shit out of me. She loved wine. Red was her favorite—anything dry. She chose my name because of wine. How fucked is that?” he asked as he lifted his eyebrows and looked at me as I lifted my head to meet his eyes.
“She would drink and hit me. But that wasn’t all she did.” My own muscles tensed as his voice began to drift and my mind started running with possibilities of what he would say. “She said that my father was the love of her life and because she chose to keep me instead of an abortion it was my fault that he was no longer with her.
“He didn’t want to keep me and because of that he didn’t want to keep her either. She thought he would change his mind, but he strung her along and when she was six months pregnant he left her for good. She clung to the idea that someday he might come back. She told me I had his eyes and she hated me for it.
“She would come into my room at night and she would do things no mother should ever do to her child. She told me that I belonged to her and if I told anyone, they would laugh, because it's not possible for women to abuse boys. She said she wasn’t technically abusing me because I must like it since I reacted to her. I believed her, because it made sense. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have reacted.
“She started doing that before I can even remember. She stopped when I was about thirteen. I grew in height and weight so I threatened her one day and she never did it again. She still beat me, but the other stuff stopped.” He rushed through his confession without pausing. I wasn’t even sure if he had taken a breath the entire time.
He shared it all so fast, I felt as though I missed an important part. His fingers started tapping across my skin again as if he were doing measures on a piano. He moved me off him and leaned his elbows on his knees. His shoulders lifted up and down in a quick motion as his skin began to turn an ashen color. I recognized this pose well. He was fighting a panic attack.
I sat on my knees on the couch next to him and rubbed his back. I rested my head on his back between his shoulder blades and willed his breathing to match mine as I took slow deep breaths. No words passed as I rubbed his back for about ten minutes until I heard his breathing slow. His heartbeat slowed and I felt tension escape him.
“I can’t tell you the details, he said and when he spoke I heard his voice echo through him and into me.
“I don’t want you to,” I replied. I cared, but I didn’t give him all of my details either.
“Who’d of thought a meatloaf would have led to this?” he asked in finality trying to change the subject.
I laughed as he leaned over and pulled me toward him until he hugged me around the waist and his head rested against my abdomen. We had switched positions now and I caressed his arm running my fingers along his many tattoos.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you. It makes my issues pale in comparison, because mine came from my own choices. Yours were inflicted upon you.”
“Stop, Hannah. I don’t think anyone’s issues can compare to another persons.”
“Okay,” I simply said, as I felt the determination in his statement. “Do you believe time is going to make the pain easier?” I asked. “I mean, I lost count of how many people told me Lily's death will get better with time. I’m sure people would say something like that to you too. Time separating you from the starting point of the pain doesn’t make it go away. If you are walking somewhere and you leave your starting point to walk to another one, your point of origin is still there. It never goes away. It is the same with time. It is still there just like the starting point and you can go back to it anytime. So how can pain change?”
“I don’t think time will help,” he said. “I think time might make the memories not as frequent, but the feelings will remain. Something triggers a memory and you’re right back there. The feelings rush back pulling you into the moment as if it were happening right now,” he said with surety. “But maybe there's more to it and we are both still at this standstill, not letting time change things. It’s a scary place—moving forward.” His shoulders and abdomen lifted as he inhaled a deep breath.
"I should confess something to you,” he said as he ran his hand through his hair.
“What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted more confessions tonight, but the look in his eyes as he sat up showed his determined need to share.
“You said just friends and I accept that. But I have to say this,” he said as he turned toward me on the couch. “From the moment I saw you on that bench, you’ve invaded my thoughts. I wanted nothing more than to hear your voice. You had this look on your face that day that took in the world, but didn’t let it affect you. Life was swirling around you, but you didn’t pay attention, you just were. You stood out among all the chaos and you were the definition of peace.” He turned away and scratched his chin.
“I know you didn’t see any of that, but I did. Everywhere I go, it's as if waves are crashing against me, but that day when I saw you was different. I tasted freedom. When you refused to go through that door, I was hooked.” He laughed a quiet laugh as he ran hands back through his hair.
"I’m telling you this because the last few weeks have been hell. I wasn't avoiding you, I was avoiding the inevitable. There's a war going on inside me and statistically, I know I will win.” He gave a smug smile as he continued.
“But I’m afraid to find the end of the battle and discover which part will win. The part that always runs and hides, curling up in a ball could win or this new stronger Wynn could be who comes out ahead. Which one will be stronger, the Wynn who will accept that you want to be friends or the Wynn who want
s nothing more than to be consumed by the girl I saw that day on the bench.” He leaned back against the couch and looked at his ceiling.
As I listened, I imagined my walls crashing down and I hated it. I was not the girl he described. I could not be the girl he described. I was at one time, but not now.
I stood from the couch and grabbed my purse. “I’m sorry, Wynn. It’s been a long day and I need to get home. This has been fun and I like our talks, but I can’t do this right now.” Now who was running?
He stood from the couch and said, “Okay, let’s get you home.”
He didn’t speak with an annoyed tone, but he seemed to understand why I needed to leave and that pissed me off more. He didn’t piss me off, but my fucking feelings and the possibilities I saw every time I looked at him did.
Possibilities of something better cannot happen. I know the emotion eating away at me every time I looked at him. It was hope and I couldn’t believe how horrible it felt. Hope annihilates from the inside because it can never be achieved. It taunts with expectations always on the horizon, never to be reached. Hope was fucking evil.
I’m supposed to not feel anything. But looking at him now, I felt a whole hell of a lot and it had nothing to do with being friends. I was lying to myself. He was so much more than a friend to me. I wanted to be as consumed by him and he had the potential to remove walls that I built with expertise and experience. I looked into his eyes and without a doubt he saw those feelings going through my mind.
He didn’t try to hug me or comfort me and it made the hope grow. Why couldn’t he use me and send me on my way? Why did he have to get to know me? Why did he have to be so welcoming and rip down my walls?
“No, that’s okay. I’ll call a cab.” I looked away from him and headed toward his elevator. “Thank you for dinner,” I said as he nodded and the elevator doors closed between us.