Crazy Girl(81)

“Words have no power to impress the mind

without exquisite horror of their reality.”

-Edgar Allen Poe





Skin.

The thin layer of tissue forming the natural outer covering of the body of a person or animal.

Our bodies are covered in it, our insides packaged within the soft feeble, yet durable layer of tissue. Most probably don’t take the time to think about how awing skin is. I hadn’t thought about it either, until I lost him. Or pushed him away. It was only when my body wanted to mimic my mind and melt into nothingness I realized how resilient skin truly is. There I was, the hurt I felt so crippling it pained me physically, but skin held me together, kept me packaged, kept me whole.

What was it like to lose Wren? What was it like to have felt a man like that and know you’d go the rest of your life without feeling him again?

It was an endless goodbye. It was pressure, unrelenting heaviness upon me, weighing me down so deeply I felt like it was hard to breathe.

Two weeks went by.

No word from Wren.

My friends had called, attempting to coax me out, but I feigned hitting a creative streak, telling them I couldn’t get away from my computer because I didn’t want to lose my writing streak. And in part, that was true.

I believed Ernest Hemingway was quoted as saying “We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it—don’t cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist.”

I wrote everything I thought and everything I felt, and I used Alex and Katrina to play out every bit of it. I knew with certainty much of what I had written would later be deleted because the story would sound too depressing, but I also knew there were good parts. There’s something about losing someone you love and having a broken heart that makes every memory you shared with them seem so much more intense; incredible.

In my solitude I found myself falling into a little bit of madness. Hurt can twist us sometimes. My little hand notes turned darker and I started writing words other places too, like my legs and my arms.

You fucked it up, Hannah.

You’re an idiot.

You deserve to be alone.

Brigham texted and called, blasting me for missing our last games, but I didn’t respond. Not until he sent a text one night that was completely out of character.

Brigham: I’m the friend you can be your worst with. You know that, right?

I reread the text several times, wondering what provoked him to say that to me. How did he know I was at my worst? And even at my worst, did I really want to be around Brigham? But I refused to go to my amazing friends with my stupid problems anymore. I’d avoided them for weeks and now, when I was ready to talk, it seemed selfish. I wouldn’t tarnish their happy lives with my mistakes, failures, and misery. But Brigham, I could do that. I could purge my woes on him. He was the only person I could go to now. And I knew I had to go to someone at some point.

Me: Meet for drinks?

Brigham: I’ll text you the address. Just be there at six. I’ll bring the booze.



It was a park, one a bit off the beaten path, but only twenty minutes from my house. We met in the back where several picnic tables were lined up in an area that didn’t have anything particularly grand about it. There was no water or epic view. Just old wooden tables in a small, open space surrounded by woods.

When I approached him, he’d already broken the seal on a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and had it placed beside him. “Why in the hell did you pick this place? You planning to murder me out here or something?”

He snorted as he twisted his neck to look at me over his shoulder. “Well look at what we have here. She is alive and well after all.”

Something tickled my arm and I smacked it. It was a mosquito. “Brigham, why meet here?” I asked again. “Why couldn’t we meet at a bar?”

He scoffed as if I was the most impotent person in the world. “Why would I take you to a bar? I’m not trying to sleep with you.”

I rolled my eyes as I plunked down beside him and took the bottle, twisting the cap off, wondering what in the hell told me meeting with him was a good idea. He always said something terrible. But it was too late to really let myself overthink it. I was here. There was booze. I would just go with it. “Here’s to life,” I toasted before taking a long swig, wincing when it burned my throat.

He leaned back, giving me a good hard look. “You’re heartbroken,” he stated before facing forward. “It’s written all over ya.” He waved a dismissive hand at me.

And that’s when it happened. I purged. It all came out in a long emotional seam of angst and heartache. I told him everything, things I’d never told anyone. I knew with certainty he had to be wishing he’d never asked to meet up, but I didn’t stop. He’d used me once one night not so long ago as his confessional, and tonight he would be mine. When I’d said it all, told him everything about Wren, he shook his head.

“I fucking told you, man,” he mumbled. “I told you not to mess with a guy like that.” Then turning to me, his brows lifted, he jabbed his own chest with his finger. “I told you not to mess with a guy like me.”

I nodded, my buzz making my motions slow and heavy. “You did.”

“And now look at you, Hannah,” he motioned a hand down me. “You’re even more fucked up than you were before.”