It Starts With Him

25

I grip the cold ceramic edges of the toilet bowl and heave up the rest of my breakfast, my stomach being emptied into it. I breathe heavily and lean forward, resting my forehead against the cool, raised lid. My hair falls in a curtain around my face, and I slowly pull it behind me to the nape of my neck and put it in a messy, low ponytail. Anything's better than getting puke in it again. That already happened yesterday, and it was hell washing it out.

"Are you dying or something?" Lucas's voice calls out from outside the bathroom store, his hand rapping violently on the wood. I groan, and lower myself onto the chilled tile floor, resting my arm over my sweaty forehead.

"Only a little," I answer, trying to think about anything other than the churning in my gut.

"Do you want something? Like... I don't know, a stuffed animal?"

I roll my eyes and shake my head as if he can see me. "Just some saltines, okay?" I moan, and I hear his footsteps retreat down the stairs. I roll onto my stomach and let my cheek press against the tile, the chill feeling like heaven against my hot, flushed skin. I don't open my eyes. I know if I do, the room will be spinning like I'm on a carousel. That always happens when my stomach gets sick, and especially after this past week, I would know.

I stay still on the bathroom floor, even while the door cracks open and a bag of saltine crackers land near my head.

"Drink some water too, will you? Smells like death in here," Lucas says in a nasally voice. I assume he's pinching his nose closed, and he leaves just as quickly as he came. I wish I didn't have to move, but I carefully move my hand and open the bag. I gnaw on the edge of a cracker and try to think of something else. Anything else. But soon, I picture mom's face, brightly lit by headlights, as a scream rips from her throat -

I jolt up just in time to empty my stomach yet again, my forehead and neck slick with sweat. This poor toilet has been abused so much this week.

I think that's how long it's been at least. I haven't been keeping track of the days. Ever since the truth was revealed, I haven't been myself. Not even close. I think dad and Lucas are starting to get more than worried about me, but at least I think I've been able to convince them the vomiting is just a stomach virus. I was able to tie not eating or showering to it too, but I don't know how much longer I can keep that jig up.

I've been trying to find ways to keep my food down, but it's impossible. Every time I see mom's face in my mind, or see Ace in the passenger seat as she was struck... My stomach turns and the next thing I know, any small amount of food I'd eaten that day is in the toilet.

And through everything, through all of the things that have happened and all of the secrets that have been kept from me, I have still craved Ace. This time away from him, I've found myself desiring his touch. Desiring his arms around me to comfort me, or his hands to hold back my hair when I vomit, or just his hand gently resting on my knee, his thumb caressing my skin so delicately as if I were made of glass. These desires always end in one of two ways: I force out the thoughts by shoving my head into my pillow and let myself cry, or scream - whatever I feel at the time, or I feel my stomach start to churn and I find myself draped over the toilet again.

I feel guilty wanting him. I feel as if I'm doing mom a disservice to actually be desiring someone who kept her murderer's identity a secret all of this time. No, he didn't kill her, and no, it wasn't his fault. But he never told anyone. She hasn't been avenged. She hasn't been brought justice. She's been forgotten about, while her murderer has been free, and high, and drunk, allowing him a permanent escape and distraction for what he did. For what he should be paying for.

I thought about turning him in. The whole drive home after learning the truth, I thought about driving to the police station and telling them it was Aaron Crawford who killed my mom. But I couldn't. Something strong and something compelling kept me from doing it. I knew what that something was, of course, but didn't let myself think about it.