This Is Falling(60)
I hate that she thinks this about herself, and I hate that she lost two years of her life to fear and obligation. But she has to understand how beautiful she is. I crawl up next to her and pull her into my lap, locking my arms around her so she has nowhere to go, and she melts into me.
This…this is what I meant when I said “I’ll wait.” I don’t need all of her, not all at once. I am willing to wait for whatever pieces she’s willing to give. And if I have to help her make each piece whole first, then so be it.
I wait. I wait while she slows her breathing down and stops her eyes from watering. I wait while she chews at the edges of her fingernails, her eyes entranced into nothingness while her mind sorts out whatever roadblock is standing in her way. I wait for her to finally look at me, breathe deeply, and tell me her secrets. And I would wait forever. But I don’t have to tonight, because she’s looking at me, trembling, but ready to face her demons.
“My body…” she starts, but pauses, moving from my arms to sit in front of me, facing me. “I live with this constant reminder of what happened. It’s…it’s why I don’t shower when everybody else does. It’s why I wear clothing that covers me just enough. And even when they’re covered…I know they’re there. I can feel them.”
She’s hugging herself again, and I’m starting to understand that this isn’t just something she does when she’s nervous. It’s something she does to remind herself of that day, of Josh—to punish herself when she feels guilty for forgetting.
“Show me,” I say, my voice almost a whisper as I keep my eyes to hers, willing her to trust me, to love me.
“You’ll think I’m ugly,” she says, the tears once again threatening to come.
“Never,” I say.
She leaves her eyes on mine for minutes, and I never break. I won’t break. And I will wait—for as long as it takes. Her squeezing of herself loosens, and eventually her hands find their way to her lap, and then the bottom of her shirt. She lifts and pulls the first layer away, but I keep my stare locked on her eyes. I don’t want her to feel frightened or ashamed, so I won’t look. Not until she tells me to. She’s still wearing a tight black tank top, but once she discards the first shirt on the floor, she begins to pull this one over her head too, her eyes telling me just how terrified she is.
Rowe is the bravest person I know. I still don’t know what it is she’s hiding from me, because I won’t look until she tells me to. But I can see this struggle playing out in her eyes while she talks to me without talking. All I can see from my periphery is the thin, black strap and lace edge of her bra, but I know other than that, her top is completely bare. Her breathing comes in fragments—almost as if she’s drowning. But I don’t stop her. I know if she had to, if she wanted to, she would stop. She’s testing herself, to see if she’s strong enough. And I have to let her see if she is.
She reaches for my hand, and I give it to her, still maintaining our gaze while she pulls my fingers close to her. She kisses my knuckles and lays her cheek along the back of my hand, closing her eyes, before she slowly moves my hand to her side until I touch her. Once my palm is flat along her skin, she places her hand on top of mine and looks back to me.
“This is me,” she shrugs. “I will have these…forever.”
I’m careful when I swallow and mindful of my breath, because I don’t want her to think I’m afraid to look at her. I don’t want her to misread a single movement I make. I reach up with my other hand and run my thumb over her cheek, drying the last of her tears, and then I let my eyes slide slowly along her shoulder and arm until I finally settle and look at the body she calls “ugly.”
The most noticeable one is deep and red—a line that runs at least eight inches along the side of her body, and I’m almost certain it’s a surgical scar. It’s surrounded by others, some small, and many deep, proof that bullets and metal did in fact penetrate her body.
She lets go of my hand, but I leave it there, careful not to move it too quickly. I can feel her eyes burning into me, just waiting for me to run. But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve never been more positive in my life of somewhere I’m supposed to be. I slide my fingers slowly over the rough skin, letting my thumb trace the long line up to the middle of her ribcage, and then I peel my hand away with caution. Her body jerks a little from losing my touch.
“Shhhhhhhhh,” I whisper, touching my fingertips to my lips to kiss them and then pressing that kiss back to her beautiful, scarred skin. When I do, she shivers, so I tilt my head and spare a glance at her face to see her eyes full of tears. I lean forward and kiss them away, and pull her head to my lips, carefully working her body back along the bed until she’s lying beneath me.