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Eighty Five

TW// VIOLENCE

Aubrey Hart

I've been staring at Elora for nearly five minutes now, unable to speak, move, or even breathe since I said her name when she appeared in the doorway.

I've been crying to the point of wetting my face and clothing for what feels like the millionth time since I got here, but other than that, I can't find anything to say right now. What does one say when they realize the person they grieved for and nearly harmed themself over losing has been here the whole time? I'm extremely grateful that she's alive, more than I can even begin to put into words, but I can't help but feel like my mental health was thrown into the dirt for no reason.

Thomas moved her a bit ago, leaving her in a sitting position on the floor across the room from me, her hands tied behind her back and wrapped around the tubing of this basement. Her back is to the concrete wall, her face coated in tears like my own and making me feel incredibly guilty for allowing myself to show emotion like this when she's the one who's been missing for nine months.

I still can't comprehend the fact that she's alive.

I'm starting to convince myself that it's too good to be true. This can't be real. I haven't eaten enough food for over a week. I'm hallucinating. Maybe I passed out and all of this is a sick and twisted dream. It's impossible for the person I spent so much time grieving to be here after all of this time away. I read her note, I saw her body, I watched her closed casket be lowered into the earth to never be seen again. I saw it all with my own two eyes.

The looks on Ian's and Thomas's faces are the only things convincing me that this is more than some kind of fever dream due to malnutrition. That and the fact that it isn't miraculously easy for me to break out of my restraints behind my back and get out of here.

This is real. She's right in front of me, feeling as much as me in this intense moment. She's alive. Not okay in the slightest, but alive.

She seems to be just as shocked as me, being void of any sort of explanation right off the bat. I can't stop taking in her every feature, noticing the dried blood on her face after staring hard enough in the dim lighting of this room. She has some severe bruises on her twig-like arms, bruises that can be perceived even with her darker complexion. I've never seen her look like this, though. She's worn down. Who once was an extremely happy and carefree artist living off of things like old vinyl music and a new fruit smoothie concoction every morning now looks like someone who barely has it in her to keep fighting. Someone who has seen more than I think I can compare my trauma to. Someone who put my life above their own and got into much more of a mess than she bargained for.

I don't know why she would be willing to do something as extreme as she did for the sake of my protection. Why put her own life in jeopardy for the simple reasoning of saving mine? Why would someone ever put my life before their own like that?

She was convinced she was going to die at her own hands that day. She said goodbye to everyone, made up a bit of a lie in terms of mental health to make things more believable for all of us—once again, to protect me—and was ready for her story to be over in order for my own to continue.

If we ever make it out of here, though, she's definitely going to have some real mental health issues that will need to be navigated through in any way she can. The healthy one of our pair will now need just as much help as me, and if not, more. I don't know exactly what she's been through, so I don't entirely know what to expect. I have a good idea, though. There will be therapy, attempted self-isolation, unnecessary guilt, PTSD, so many other anxiety-related effects to nine entire months in this basement. It's inevitable.