Even Heroes Have Scars

[59] Avalanche

Ansley's P.O.V.

Marissa came over to be a friend, to let me feel vulnerable for once rather than drowning myself in alcohol, absorbing drugs to numb the pain. Maybe she was right, I needed a good cry to get over Demi. But what was the point? Why would I, of all people, deserve to feel better when every ounce of me should rot in hell?

I shouldn't have let her get away. Jacob was right; I needed to find her and hold her and kiss her and not let her go. But I did let her go. I let her go so far that the miles that separated us would turn into three months, and the three months would destroy me. She would destroy me.

In the days that followed, Marissa arrived after work and pointed out that I was drinking beer underaged. I'd tell her to fuck off, then toss her a bottle of her own.

Now, Friday, a week after Demi's tour had started, we'd tried strategy after strategy to help me move on, and it felt awfully impossible to me, even pointless. Maybe time and space would help, but Riss wasn't giving me much of either. She meant well, but how could she expect me to move on when everything about her reminded me of Demi?

There was a tap at the door, and if I hadn't been waiting for it, I wouldn't have heard it. Usually Riss brought the racket with her, busting out my eardrums, but when she barely hit the door, it seemed as if it couldn't have been her. It was, though.

In sweatpants, a t-shirt, and bare feet, I answered the door, a cigarette in my hand. My eyes fluttered in a half-awake way, then widened at the sight of what was beyond the door.

Marissa, in joggers, a tank top, flip flops, and a messy bun, held a box of things I nearly sobbed at the sight of: band t-shirts, a blanket, magazines, pictures, and things she didn't even know she brought - memories. Memories that tore my heart from its spot in my chest and shred it into tiny little pieces. And pain. It all stung like the slap of my father's hands.

"New technique. Want to try?" she asked, stepping into my apartment with a fragile grin playing on her lips.

I shrugged, pushing the door closed behind her. "I'm not sure I do." I chewed on my lip in attempt to distract myself from the inevitable ache in my chest that was bound to get worse if I breathed in the scent of the items in the box.

As if I gave no reply, she waltzed farther into the living room, seating herself on the couch with the box on the coffee table. I hoped that if she was going to torture me that she'd get it over with. Whatever her intentions were, she was going about it the wrong way entirely.

"So," she began, holding the box open to show me the items inside while I sat down beside her, "I got the idea that maybe pushing all of your feelings away isn't the best choice. Maybe... Maybe realizations like this will help, you know?"

It didn't make any sense. She was absolutely ludicrous if she thought it would make a difference. The thought was what counted, but in all honesty, it seemed as if she hadn't put any thought into it at all.

I shrugged almost unnoticeably. "Doesn't seem like it'll work, but I guess it's worth a try."

And so I allowed her to begin removing objects from the box, one by one. An Ed Sheeran t-shirt was first. She placed it on my lap, nodding for me to do whatever I pleased with it. So I lifted it to my nose, closed my eyes, and absorbed the scent that I knew all too well. It smelled like her. Demi. The box itself smelled like her. My apartment smelled like her. My skin smelled like her. Hell, everything smelled like her.

The colors I felt and the images I saw with my closed eyelids painted a perfect picture: beauty. Pure, effortless beauty. A smile. Deep, brown eyes gazing into mine. Soft hands finding their way to mine. That was all for a while. And that was enough.