In Harmony(68)

When there was nothing left, she pushed me away and sagged against the wall, drained and tired and gasping.

I paced. Fire coursing through me, my hands balled into fists and my heart pounded hard. Blood thumping between my ears and clouding my vision red.

“Fuck.” I whirled and slammed my fist into the wooden mortuary sign, splitting my knuckles and scraping them raw. “I’ll kill him. Where is he now? I’ll fucking kill him.”

Willow spit a bitter laugh out. “Oh, will you? You’ll kill him? Or beat the shit out of him? Will that fix everything?”

“I just… I have to do something…”

“Will that make you feel better?” She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “Yeah, well, good for you. But what about me? When do I get to feel better? Never. I get to carry this memory in my brain and this filth on my body forever. A chronic disease and there is no cure.”

“It’s not your fault…”

“I know, but can’t you see? It doesn’t matter. It’s not my fault but it doesn’t matter. Because it’s too late. Too late. You can beat the hell out of him, or punch more signs until your bones break. But I’m still going to be right here.” She jabbed her finger at the puke-splattered ground, tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m going to be right here, for always. Right here.”

The realization dawned in her, like watching a horrible tragedy unfold right before her eyes.

“Fuck…” she whispered. The tears spilled over her red cheeks. Her lower lip trembled and her breath started to come in short puffs. “Fuck. Fuck.” She hurled her bottle at the ground where it shattered in glittering green shards, then left the path and began stomping unsteadily up the hill, into the cemetery.

I followed in silence. I had no words she needed to hear. She was going to release some of the rage and agony and my job was to let her do it and be there for her after.

“Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.”

Her voice rose louder and louder, clawing the sky ragged. “Fuck you,” she screamed. “Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!”

Her last cry imploded, along with her body. Her knees buckled and just in time, I caught her and held her, but carefully. Neutral. How could she want a man to touch her ever again?

But Willow dug at the lapels of my jacket, pressing herself to me, trying to get in. I wrapped her up. Pulled her close. Made my armor her armor. Her blonde hair spilled over my hands and I made fists in it, holding her so tight. Christ, I’d envisioned touching her hair a thousand times but not like this.

Never like this.

I held her, trying to absorb her pain. Even a little. I’d have gladly taken all of it. I could feel it shaking her bones apart. Even if her mind didn’t remember more than a few drugged flashes, her body remembered everything. It was in her cells. In her soul. Every moment of that violation was ingrained into her. Imprinted on her.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

She wept against my heart, sucking deep, ragged breaths between each sob. The sobs tapered to shudders. Then a deathly stillness with her voice a croak against my chest:

“I want to go home.”

I stroked her hair. “I’ll take you.”

“But where is home?” Willow wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt, looking around the cemetery. The crooked rows of old headstones, some canting to the side and smudged with age. “God, I’m so tired.”

She slipped through the circle of my arms, sinking to her hands and knees. She lay next to a grave, curled up on her side and pillowed her head on her arm.

“Willow…”

“You don’t have to stay,” she said, closing her eyes.

“But…here?”

“Yes,” she said. “Us dead people, we rest in graveyards.”

“You’re not dead,” I said, crouching down. “You’re not dead, Willow.”

I won’t let you die.

“Not all of me,” she said, sleepily. “But a part of me is dead and gone. And I’ll never get it back.”

And that hit me in the heart a thousand times harder than her screaming rage at the sky.

I moved closer to her and slowly, carefully, curled up behind her, spooning her. I moved as close as I dared, still hesitant to touch her. But she let me curl up against her, let my chest press against her back and my knees tuck behind hers. Her thick hair was soft on my cheek as I wrapped my arms around her. She melted against me and I thought she’d fallen asleep when her voice rose into the warm, quiet night.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Christ, Willow, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I can never be the kind of girl you want.”

You already are the kind of girl I want.

The words lodged in my throat. Wanting to spill out, yet they remained locked behind my teeth. A backwards stage fright. I had no problem letting playwrights speak for me when I performed for strangers. This girl in my arms made me feel closer to my true self than I could ever remember.

Willow heaved a final sigh. At last she slept, in as much peace as she could find on the ground between headstones. Only then was I brave enough to whisper it.

“You’re the girl I want, Willow.”

I said it as me, as Isaac Pearce. Not a line in a play written by someone else. Me.