When Time Ran Crooked

5 hours, 56 minutes and 29 seconds Until

"Bea?"

I had washed my hands three times, and yet I still felt her blood on my fingers. I no longer saw the crimson glimmer, but its sticky touch still clung to me like another layer of skin. And I felt it seep into me, into my own blood and veins and cells, until her scarlet sadness was mine, too. Maybe it had always been mine.

"Please, look at me."

Then there was her face. I couldn't stop seeing her in my mind. Her black eyes had been hazy and distorted by the wild need to find an end, a limit, a closing. It clouded the rest of her features so that, even with tears streaming down her cheeks, even in her frenzy for all her pain to be over, she looked calm. Like the eye of a hurricane. That moment before everything went to hell. Before I saw all the blood . . .

"Bees."

And then I was looking into the sky. Into heaven, into hell. Into dreams, into nightmares. Into Claude Martin's eyes. And I blink-blink-blinked before I got too lost in them, until I was just a girl squeezing the earth, squeezing sheets, beneath her fingers. A girl underneath the cool moonlight and not an astronaut scared of heights.

"Tell me she's going to be alright," Claude implored. We were in his room-- I don't know how I got there. One second I had been staring into his sister's dead eyes, and now I was here with a boy who looked so scared to be alive. Time had flashed by, struck hot like lightning, passing by crooked and skipping the miniscule moments until I couldn't count all the stolen seconds anymore. "Tell me she's safe."

I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that she was alright, that she would always be okay because there was something timeless about her, and time never died. But as I looked at him, I felt other words stir along my tongue, words that had nothing to do with Annalise. Like a song lost in my lungs that wanted to find its way home to the open air. A love song. I wanted to tell him that I lov- no, I didn't know what I wanted to say. I didn't, I couldn't, know what I wanted. So I didn't say anything.

"I'm always so scared," he muttered to his hands now. "For her. Always for her. And I can't protect her because how do you protect someone from themselves? How do you save someone from their shadow?"

I choked on his name. "Claude-"

"Bea," he said, and then he said it twice more like my name was the chorus of a familiar song, an important anthem.

"I'm sorry," I told him.

"You shouldn't be."

"What I should or shouldn't do doesn't change what I feel," I replied. I hadn't meant for it to sound bitter, but that didn't change anything.

"Change how you feel what?" Claude demanded, looking up at me again. "Sorry for me? Like you always feel sorry for me, for this sad, pathetic loser. Like you owe me something."

I tried to sound tender, but impatience seeped into my tone. "Claude, you're not a loser."

"Wasn't what you were saying a couple of hours ago," he snarled, darkly.

"And I fucking lied!" I hissed. "Big surprise."

"You . . . lied?" Claude questioned, puzzled, the steel melting from his voice.

I felt my nostrils flare as I exhaled, sharply. Because seeing him like this, having him stare at me with that darned expression . . . I was breathless. Yes."

"You said you didn't want me." He paused. "Was that a lie?"

I hesitated. He had stolen the air from my lungs, what else could he possibly want?

"Bees." I felt his fingers on my chin, tugging my head up. Claude's gaze so soft. "Did you lie when you said you didn't want me?"

But I couldn't say it. I couldn't say anything. I was wrong to think that Claude had stolen my breath-- he had ignited it. Fire needed oxygen to survive, and he would have to burn down the whole damn world if he ever expected me to tell him the truth.

And when he realized that, he groaned. "Damn it, Bea, why do you keep doing this to us, to yourself? If you want this, why can't you just say it? Bees, I'm crazy about you. I want to experience everything with you. Is that not good enough for you?"

"It is," I found myself mumbling, before I could stop myself.

"Then just tell me you want this," he pleaded, gently.

"I . . . can't."

"And why not?"

The words escaped my lips like a ghost coming to life. "Because I don't deserve you."

"What are you talking about?" His tone was still so, so gentle. "This deserving crap is shit. I want you and you want me. We deserve to be happy."

"No, I don't." I felt the tears welling in my eyes and I tried to look away, as best as I could, but he still held onto me. And Claude watched me cry, all while cupping my chin.

"Sweetheart," he said, on a sigh. And then he pulled me towards him and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I was drawn in between his legs, tugged against his chest, Claude's face pressed into my hair. And I couldn't help but grip his shirt, to let the tears pour out. "It's okay, sweetheart, let it out."

His shirt was soft against my face, and it smelled like so many things. Like cheap beer and vomit and something that was inexplicitly Claude. Like home. I couldn't help but whimper, even as he was already attempting to comfort me, "I'm . . . sorry. I'm not the one who should be crying right now."

"Let me focus on you right," he insisted, running a hand through my hair. "Besides, you were the one who just said that your feelings weren't going to change because of me. Stop trying to act like you aren't sad, Bea."

And maybe it was my turn to cry for both of us. Maybe I cried so he didn't have to.

"You carry a sadness everywhere you go," Claude continued, his voice muffled in my hair. "At first, I just thought you were crazy. You laugh so much, so loud-- but I realized that your laughter is like the wind in a storm, used to hide something much more sinister. I see it weigh you down. I see it in the bend of your shoulders and the slope of your neck, your spine. I see it in your eyes, and I hear it in your voice, even when you try to mask it. But you won't talk to me about it. Why? Why won't you tell me what hurts you so much?"

I felt tense. This was so much, so fast. I had only known Claude for a couple (albeit fantastic) days, and he seemed to have figured me out more than people who had known me for years. I didn't know if I was ready for him to know.

Claude leaned back slightly, cupping my cheeks in his hands. It was like being engulfed in clouds. "I'm not trying to pry, Bees. I just want to understand. Can't you help me understand?"

And that's how I told him the truth.

The truth about a bright September morning when I was a young girl. About a business trip that was supposed to last a couple of days, but never ended. About my parents who decided to get an early flight back from Boston so they could see my ballet recital, but never got to leave the sky. I told him about how I hear them screaming in my dreams, and the smoke still stings my nostrils, even though I wasn't there. I told him that we buried empty caskets because no one could find their remains, among the thousands of others who were lost in those matching commercial buildings, those Twin Towers. I told him about living with my relatives until they decided they couldn't handle me. No one could handle me those days. I told him about moving from foster home to foster home. About meeting Aiko, the teacher who changed my life forever, who believed in me and loved me like I was her daughter and not just another failing student.

I told him everything.

And then I cried more, because once the words started bubbling up, the emotions did as well. So Claude pulled me in close, and he ran his fingers through my hair, as if he could detangle the mess that was my life. He murmured sweet nothings, and the soothing sweep of his voice wrapped around my like a blanket. Claude was warm, and soft, and so, so gentle.

I fell asleep.