by Sarah Buhl
She was holding herself back because she saw herself as unworthy and evil. She was so broken and it made every primal instinct in me want to take it away. But I wasn’t going to let her see that. She needed to remember she was strong. I saw her strength the first time I laid eyes on her. She didn’t need someone to pity her. She needed to realize her own strength and pull herself out of her despair.
I leaned against the wall of the stairwell before I responded, “Hannah I understand expressions well. I’m a collector of them.” I took a deep breath before I continued. “I told you my mom was a real bitch. I had to hide my emotions in blank expressions with her in hopes that she couldn't guess what I was thinking. So I understand the look you’re giving me and because of that I will give you your space.” I lifted my hand and ran it through my hair. “As much as I don’t want to, I will. You’re a grown woman and you can make your own decisions. But I will be here for you. In whatever capacity you need.”
“Are you going to be my whipping boy, Wynn—my little puppy dog? Or a guard dog is that what you think I need?” She spoke with scornful eyes and her words did hurt, but I knew angry words and I knew self-depreciating words. I had them thrown at me for years. I didn’t return the scornful look to her, but I didn’t give her pity or sadness either. My eyes bore into her as I wanted her to know I wasn’t going anywhere.
Hannah let out a sigh soaked in sadness. “I’m toxic, Wynn. I am someone that has trampled on love and family. I’m a person that doesn’t care about other people. You don’t deserve my shit.” Her tears began to fall again. She had an endless supply of them.
I stood from my spot on the stairs. “That sounds like bullshit to me. Your statements are contradictory. You can’t tell me you don’t care about people, and in the next breath tell me I don’t deserve to put up with your shit. You care, Hannah. You feel too deep not to care.” I put my hand toward her. “Come on, we should take you inside your apartment.”
“Fuck you,” she said as she kept her ass on the stairs. I leaned down and picked her up as she began to squirm and kick at me.
“You need to get in your apartment Hannah and I need to get home.”
“Fine, put me in my apartment, but I will turn my happy ass around and sit back on the freaking steps. I need the fresh air.” She gave me her determined, defiant eyes. I knew what she needed and it was the same as me, but she wasn’t willing to accept that she could need and want the same thing. In her mind, want was a curse word. She wanted with such intensity that it started her on this rollercoaster. Want was the source of her pain.
Her past had her so confused between her wants and her needs. Along her path she forgot that she needed people. That was something we shared.
I set her inside her apartment and shoving me away from her, she stood with vengeful eyes. “I don’t need you, Wynn,” she said and her voice broke. Her expression and tone didn’t match the words she chose as she inhaled. She pulled her lip in and looked to the ceiling with a tilted head as if to pour her tears back into her eyes.
I stepped toward her into the first genuine hug I ever gave anyone and as I wrapped my arms around her, she went slack. I lowered her to the floor and continued holding her as she began to sob. I continued to hold her despite the occasional hit she gave as if she wanted me to let go of her. But I didn’t. I was doing for her what no one ever did for me. I was accepting her pain as fact and not trying to erase it.
“Why did they die but I keep going on?” she asked after she cried for several minutes. “She was so free. We both were when we were kids.”
“Why do any of us keep going on?” I leaned back against the wall and she followed suit and kept her head resting on my chest. “We forget we’re going to get there someday, too. Why beat ourselves up because we’re still here and they arrived at our inevitable destination first?”
“I have to, because it’s my fault that they’re gone. I ripped it away from them.” She sniffled as she ran her hand across my shirt. I think the rhythmic pattern centered her and it wasn’t a sign of intimacy. It was an unconscious way to separate herself from her thoughts.
“You can’t blame yourself. From the story you told of your sister, you may have made wrong decisions, but she did too. You can’t blame yourself for what she chose to do. Why do you keep saying they, Hannah?”
Taking a deep breath, she responded, “It wasn’t just her that died that day. She was pregnant. She didn’t just kill herself, she killed her baby too. It wasn’t Two’s. A random guy got her pregnant. She slept with him to get back at Two. So yeah, it’s my fault they’re dead.”
I held her tighter, not knowing how to respond to her as she continued. “I killed my sister and my niece or nephew because of what I did. Because I needed to be a free spirit when it came to experiences and because of what I thought I wanted in life, I ruined theirs. I ended theirs. And don’t tell me that I can’t take the blame for that, because I can. It’s my fault.” She leaned forward onto her crossed legs. “My parents were angry when they found out she was pregnant. She took her life. If I hadn’t done what I did, she never would have done what she did.” Hannah looked at me. “You need to get away from me too. You’re too good for—"
“Don’t start that bullshit again,” I said with a pointed look. “You don’t know what I've done.” She sat up and met my eyes.
“No, you’re too good, because I like you and that means that you’re too good for me,” she said with rational sincerity.
“Hannah, my mom died when I was sixteen and guess what my first thought was?” I leaned forward and rested my arms on my knees. “I was grateful. I was thankful and excited that she was dead. I was free and alive for the first time. But that was brief. She still haunts me. I can’t go into a building without having a panic attack. I have to count my breaths to remind me that I am alive. I can’t be inside of cars without it happening too. Do you know why?” She shook her head.
“Because of what she did to me and because of what I did to myself. That isn’t where it ends with my chaos and lack of goodness. I used to beat the shit out of people after high school. From her abuse, an urge filled me to inflict as much pain on others. There are guys lucky to be alive after how bad I was at times. So yeah, I understand guilt and hurting others.”
“But you didn’t,” she said.
“Didn’t what?” I gave her a slight scowl.
“You didn’t kill them. You can’t understand. You weren’t the force that took another life,” she said as she straightened and met my eyes with her usual defiance.
“No, I wasn’t. But neither were you. I can repeat that over and over to you and you won’t understand. I don’t get it when people say I should ride in a freaking car and not use my fire escape to get into my home. We have our issues and our minds made up on what the truth is. But what we need to both realize is that our perception is skewed. One thing I do know is this—people are assholes and they always will be. Your sister was one too.”
Her eyes widened as she gave me a shocked expression. “What? How can you say that?”
“She was an asshole for telling your parents about you and your boyfriend. Your parents were assholes for treating you like you were a piece of trash for being who you were. Granted, you could experience all the things you wanted with the right person and not how you did. But they were still assholes. And I’m being an asshole for what I just said to you. But the point is. It doesn’t matter that they’re assholes or that I’m an asshole. It’s not your business. What matters is that you aren’t an asshole to yourself. You have to choose to make your thoughts your bitch remember. What better time than when they start to be assholes?” I laughed.
“I number men.” She lowered her head. “I number them and collect them. I lose their faces and don’t ask for their names. I let them take a piece of me with every screw to make me as hollow physically as I feel emotionally. That’s my penance. I’m an asshole.”
“I know,” I said and she gave me a stunned expression.
“Well, not about being an asshole or the numbering, but that you let them use you. Is that why you went home with Blake?” She nodded and I sighed. “Okay. What do you want to do now? Do you want to continue as you have or do you want to make your issues your bitch?”
She laughed at that as she used her sleeve to wipe her nose. I found myself seeing it as both gross and cute. “Make them my bitch.” She laughed through tear filled eyes.
"I need to remind myself to do it all the time. My mom was an asshole. She did horrible things to me, things that I haven’t even gotten into with you yet. But yeah she was an asshole. But I have to focus every waking moment on not letting her rule my life. I have control of my own life now. You have control of your life and you can find other ways to cope with the emptiness and blame from the loss of your sister. We can choose not to let our pasts run our lives."
"I want to hope for better things, but I just feel like I’m beating myself," she said with sad eyes as she leaned into her hands. “I fucking hate hope."
“Might as well give up and continue as you are then.” I laced my comments with sarcasm. “Who wants hope anyway? Can it ever be accomplished? It’s always out there teasing us. There is always something else to hope for in life. Talk about an asshole. Hope is an asshole,” I said as I turned her chin so she was looking at me again.
“The word yet is better.” She gave me a scowl. “Okay, I’m being serious now. It's a little cheesy but serious. Sarcasm aside ‘yet’ is a far better word than hope. Yet means that it will happen, it just hasn’t… yet.” I raised my eyebrow at the last word. “I mean, when we say yet, it means it will happen at an undetermined point. For instance, I haven’t really kissed you, yet.” I continued as I pulled her closer to me, she gave me a wide smile and it was the most wonderful smile I had ever seen, even through her tear stained cheeks. I smiled back. “That holds more than saying, ‘I hope I kiss you someday.’ Hope has that open-ended possibility of not happening. But yet does not, because I have every intention of making it so.”
She interlaced our hands, “I have never felt loved, yet.”
I sat for a few moments and thought of her confession before I responded. “Neither have I, yet,” I said and kissing the top of her head I felt closer to peace than I had in a long time, if ever.
16
Hannah
“Hey,” Wynn whispered in my ear to wake me. As I listened to the fast staccato of his heart, I must have fallen asleep. He lifted me from his knee and as I sat up, I tried to focus on his face. I held no embarrassment in my expression. I cried my eyes out to him tonight, several times, and I was sure my makeup smeared over my face. But instead of embarrassment, I felt empowered being near him. He pushed hair behind my ear and spoke, “You should get to bed. It’s getting late.”
“I don’t work tomorrow, so I’m good,” I said with a half-assed smile.
“I’m sure you are, but you can’t sleep on your hall floor, can you?” He gave me a genuine smile.
“Sure, I can. It is possible, but I won’t.” He laughed at my response and my smile was no longer half-assed when I looked at him.
He stood and put his hand toward me. “Come on, I’ll put you to bed, and be on my way.”
Reluctance filled me as I took his hand and stood next to him. My reluctance wasn’t because I didn’t want to touch him; it was because I didn’t want him to leave. I kept hold of his hand as I led him into my room. “I’ll be right back,” I said as I gathered my pajamas to go change in the bathroom. I stopped and looked at him as he sat on the edge of my bed. I pulled my bottom lip in as I willed myself to voice what I had to say. “Please don’t leave yet.”
He met my eyes and gave me a small smile as he lay back on my bed. “Okay.”
I ran to the bathroom and changed. I looked in the bathroom mirror at my puffy eyes and black streaks leading from them. I looked a mess and washed my face in a rush. I breathed the scent of the eucalyptus in and began to calm. I could do this. I didn’t have to give physically. We could just be. Why was that so difficult?
Physical was easy for me, but the anticipation of sitting with him without repercussion was scary as hell. As I looked at my uncovered face, I realized I gave him something far greater than my body. I gave him my walls. Piece by piece he was taking them and I could taste my freedom on the horizon.
I leaned forward onto the sink and looked closer into my eyes. I searched for myself in them. “You can do this, Hannah. Be yourself. Give yourself. Love yourself,” I said as I laughed at my reflection as I pulled my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head. I looked so much younger this way. “Okay, now go,” I said with a smile.
When I came back into my room I found Wynn lying back in my bed with a book. It was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and I smiled as I climbed into bed next to him and took the side near the wall. “I love that book.”
“I remembered,” he said as he laid the book down on his chest and looked over at me. His eyes were hypnotic as he met mine and I melted into my bed. “It’s a good book.” He lay on his side and looked at me and pushed on the poof of my bun as one would a button. "I like seeing you this way, you're stunning.” He looked up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “I should get going.”
He raised himself from the bed and set my book back on my nightstand in such a rush I thought I imagined the compliment he gave. As he turned to leave, hollowness started to form inside me and for the first time in years it was unwelcome. All the tears that fell tonight caused a switch to flip in my mind and heart. I still held so much guilt, but his acceptance pushed me to want to stop continuing as I was.
“Please stay here with me, Wynn. I need to be held by you tonight.” I needed the closeness of him. I needed the life his arms wrapped around me gave.
Without a word he laid back into bed with me and stayed atop the covers. He pulled in close behind me and drew me closer to him by putting his arm across my abdomen. I pulled his arm up and wrapped my fingers with his. I traced his tattoos with my other hand falling into a relaxed state where it was just us and this moment. The world disappeared and neither of us had pasts to haunt us.
“Do your tattoos cover everywhere?” I asked with a smile.
He laughed behind me and the low rumble resounded through my back making me relax even more. “Not everywhere, but I have several.”
“How many?” I asked, knowing my expression lost to the dark, but hoped he heard the smile in my voice.
“I lost count. They are so interwoven they are like one big tattoo,” he said with another laugh.
“Well, how many quotes do you have now?” I loved the ones displayed and wondered what other ones hid below his clothes.
He took a deep breath, “Seven. I have seven quotes, each one for every year after my mother’s death.” He sighed as if annoyed by something. “Can I open your closet door?”
Why the hell does he want my closet open? “Sure, that’s fine,” I said as he stood from the bed to open the door.
“Can I open the door to your room too?” he asked in another annoyed rush.
“Of course,” I said trying to keep my questioning tone to myself. I began to figure out that his annoyance came from himself. He had his reasons for wanting to be in open spaces and I wasn’t going to judge him for them. Who was I to judge? I had ways that would make other’s cringe, I’m sure. “We have our own unique ways of coping don’t we?” I chose to say aloud.
He settled in behind me again before responding. “I’m sorry. I want to be able to relax with you and I can’t with closed doors.” He pulled me closer to him and wrapped his arms around me once more. I was safe when he held me and I wondered if holding onto me caused the same effect on him.
“You’re right. No one can relax when they keep their doors closed.” I laughed at my play on words and enjoyed the resonation of his laugh through my body again.
“Thank you, Wynn,” I said as I settled back into his arms. “Thank you for staying here with me.” I took a deep breat
h as he traced my arm, mimicking how I had his. We were connecting. I couldn’t get enough of him. He wasn’t consuming me and it wasn’t an addiction, but it was an understanding. It was as if coming home from a years' long voyage.
I wanted to help him as much as he was helping me. “Sorry to pry, but why do you need open spaces?” I asked in a rush.
He cleared his throat before speaking and the action caused his arms to pull me in closer. “You can ask me whatever you want, Hannah. My mom used to put me in rain barrels if I made her mad,” he said and I breathed out as if his confession forced the air from my lungs. I couldn’t understand how a mother could do that to her child.
I tensed in his arms and with hesitation asked, “What do you mean?”
He sighed, “If I didn’t take care of the lawn or pick up my toys outside, she flipped. My punishment was to sit in a rain barrel for ten minutes for each offense. Now, I hate circles and closed doors. Hate isn’t a strong enough word, yes I do hate them, but they scare the shit out of me," he said and I noticed that as he spoke, his traces on my arm turned into circles. His tension heightened through every repeat of the motion.
“That’s horrible, Wynn,” I said as anger enveloped me at the thought of his mother and I was thankful she died. I looked toward my window and took in the city lights that flickered as the wind blew. It’s a sick realization that no matter what goes on in homes, the world still goes on outside without issue. People continue with their lives and the world keeps turning, despite the pain inside the walls we build.
He gave a pain laced chuckle. “Hey, don’t feel sorry for me,” he said, pulling me closer to him. “I've made it this far, haven’t I?” he said the last part in a quieter voice and I tightened my fingers around his. His tension was a reminder that getting this far had been an unspoken struggle for him. I understood waking each day to battle the twenty-four hours. Each one of those hours is like a noose tightening around a neck. The minutes and seconds tick by and we are that much closer to the inevitable everyone faces, but some people's nooses are tight from the beginning.