Mess You Made

57.

Malibu.

It's cold. Quiet. My cheek against a hospital mattress, and some sedative in my veins and a numbness sitting under my skin. I can feel Cristian's palm in my own and that's about it.

I can feel the warmth of his palm against my coldness. I can feel him stroke over the back of it every now and then as I stare at nothing.

It's strange— to feel as if you've floated away from yourself. But I've found a haven here, and I've made myself at home in the vacantness for this moment where I don't want to return home.

I don't want to go back there. To my body. To the mould I left behind and crawled away from that feels misshapen now. I don't believe I would fit into anymore even if I wanted to. I'll stay here. Away.

My eyes shut when Cristian's palm runs over my cheek, tucking strands of my hair behind my ears gently.

I lift my gaze away from the tiled floor, say it again quietly though my voice echoes against the tall walls, "I want him."

"I know." He says quietly, nods, "He's still here. Waiting. We just need to let them look after you, Mali."

"Will you tell him I'm okay?"

Cristian's jaw goes all tight— it does that when he fights not to cry. It tightens like he's angry but his eyes give him away. Redder than I've seen them in so long, and soft, and so sad. I hate the sight of him sad. I'm so far away and through it all, seeing Cristian sad is the same kick to my ribs that it was when I was six, and ten, and fifteen.

He didn't cry at Maya's funeral but cried when he came home that night we found her. When the ambulances was outside, and paramedics in the bathroom with bags of medicines they didn't need to use. Blood all over me and my clothes and my hands where I sat on the couch. His jaw tightened, his body tensed— he stopped breathing for a moment just before he cried as hard as I was.

His eyes always give him away. And all this pain he feels for me that I can't feel myself, I hate it.

A small wave of dizziness hits me. From whatever they're putting through the IV so I shut my eyes for a moment, letting it pass. I wasn't co-operating, I wasn't happy when they wheeled me in here further away from him so they tried some sort of sedation. Lethargy's starting to seep into my bones.

"Will you?" I breathe out.

Cristian nods, clasps both hands over one of mine, "Whatever you want."

"He was crying." I say quietly.

Cristian swallows and drops his head and breathes. And maybe I should be trying to fall back into my own body. Maybe I should try to crawl back to myself but wrong hands touched that body. Large palms plastered over my thighs, and hips, and stomach so I don't want to return there. I'll feel the hands again— they'll touch me again, have reign over me again, that body was theirs.

But here, it's quiet. The wrong palms drowned out by a very stilling buzz in my mind. A vacantness where I can think about the peace instead— so I do. I have, again and again.

Forest eyes. Skin like silk. Thirteen tattoos.

Until it doesn't hurt anymore but I can still see him when they rolled me away— the forest's all torn, roots ripped from the ground, broken branches everywhere. That's where I hide. What do I do if it's all unearthed? I've never seen him cry like that. As if he's breaking. It's the worst thing in the world.

"I don't want him to cry, Cristian." I say, sluggish. It's starting to hurt to keep my eyes open.

"I know, Mali—" He nods a couple times, "He loves you. He's just worried about you."