Bad Blood

Sleepwalking Awake

The next morning is muddled and confusing. I eventually work up the energy to sit up and away from Andrew, who's still slumped over asleep on the couch. I can't help but wonder if he dreams like a normal person, or, better. I feel like it's probably better, because everything about Andrew is better. His voice is better, his smile is better, and I honestly hope his life is better. 

I head into the kitchen, start the coffee, and go upstairs to shower. Andrew had recently informed me that I smelled like "sopping wet death". So I showered twice as often. I don't know that he notices. 

I stare in the mirror for a solid minute before wanting to cry. Its a pitiful, self-absorbed feeling, and I hate it, but it's smothering and difficult to ignore. It's the dumbest thing I can imagine, in that moment, worrying about what I look like. It's not like I haven't looked that way my entire life. I look almost corpse-like; my hair is ratty and tar black, and my eyes are the same sunken, sad yellow they've always been. I can feel myself starting to cry, so I step into the shower as quickly as I can. The water is scaldingly hot, and the pain helps draw my attention away from the world outside the bathroom, if only for a few minutes. I sit under the stream of water, hands tangled in my hair, and chest rising and falling erratically with small sobs. 

Once I'm finished with my own personal pity party, I dress again, in clothes borrowed from Andrew. They're too big, and kind of worn, but they smell just like him, and it's better than anything I've ever owned. I slump over onto my bed, sighing deeply, and wait for Andrew to wake up. 

It must be hours later when he finally starts to wonder where I am. He knocks on the doorframe lightly, giving me a look that's somewhere between concern, and caring. "Do you want to go for a drive, or something?" he asks after a moment, "It's not really healthy to stay cooped up in your room all day". The look I give him must be enough, because he immediately realizes what he's just said to me. The two of us burst into laugher, albeit bitterly, and it feels right to see Andrew happy like this. It's a warm, fading feeling, thats only around for a moment, but it's hard to miss. 

Andrew's car is incredible; namely because it smells like him- like trees, and black tea, and a little like smoke- but it's also the first place I really got to breathe, and move, and think. It's a memory that I dont plan on letting go. 

He drives further out of town, until signs start flasing by for another town entirely. I remember vaguely driving into town with my mother once, when I was still young enough to think she loved me. She'd gone to visit her mother, and taken me to the botanical gardens for the evening. That's when I noticed she was different- messier, quieter, sadder- and being an idiotic child, I asked her why. She'd sighed, and gave a sad, small laugh. "I'm sad that my baby is a monster, and my husband blames me". I asked her why my father was upset with her. She started to cry, but held me around the shoulders, and told me something I think is incredibly important. 

"You know we didn't do this on purpose, right sweetheart? We wanted you to have a good life. Not this. I'm so sorry," 

"And that was the last thing she said to me before I found her," I sigh, turning my attention back to the window. Andrew thinks for a minute, before quietly adding. "So she loved you. She was scared." The rest of the drive is silent, although not an awkward one. I think, and Andrew hums along to the radio, eyes on the road. It's the best weekend I've been able to remember in years. I wouldn't trade it for anything.