these troubled bones | s.m.

viii. savior

viii. savior

MY MOTHER WATCHES soap operas every day. They're always on right when I come home from school - I'll set my backpack down against the wall of the foyer and she'll be sitting on the living room sofa, feet propped up and eyes intently fixed on the screen. Aaliyah and I always tease her for her fascination, but sometimes, I'll sit with her and watch, wanting to see those fucked-up, perfect-looking people and their insanely unrealistic lives.

The craziest parts are when characters come back from the dead - just miraculously reappear and weave themselves back into the storyline. Sometimes I envy them that. They get to reverse their mistakes, get to put things behind them, get to keep living new stories day in and day out. Me? I'll just get up off the couch, go lie down in my room, and then replay my mistakes over and over again, because I know that people can't come back from the dead.

Unfortunately, most of these mistakes occurred in 28 Lilywhite Lane, just across the street. 28 Lilywhite Lane, which is where I'm headed right now.

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My Uber driver is some thirty-year-old guy with a neck full of tattoos. He raises an eyebrow at me when I slide in, but either's he's incredibly tired or I must pass for twenty-one because he doesn't ask me anything but the address. I give him a street a block away from the house so nobody, especially Aaliyah, will hear the car and think to look outside.

Once he drops me off, I walk toward the Knight-Summers house. It still looks the same on the outside: blue wooden facade, white shutters on the windows, that old birch tree standing tall like it's reaching for something. Realization slowly dawns that I'll be back in the house where so much happened for the first time since... well, since it all happened. This makes something unpleasant lodge itself in my throat. It's uncomfortable, but my injuries are even worse and demand attention.

Squaring my shoulders - stop being a coward, Mendes - I knock on the door.

It takes a while for her to answer (no doubt she was in the middle of some Netflix marathon), but soon enough I'm standing in front of a wary Willa Knight who's dressed in pajamas and gripping the edge of the front door.

"Mendes?" She peers out at me. "You took your time."

God, those shorts are tiny. God, her legs are long. God, God, God.

I bite the inside of my cheek and it hurts like fuck. When I take a step closer, she gasps: evidently the porch light hit my face and she can see everything.

"I might need more help than just a place to sleep," I start, wincing at how vague and shady it sounds.

"No shit, you dumbass," she scoffs. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Same Willa, shorts or no shorts. "What the hell happened?"

"I just... had a disagreement with someone. This is why I can't go home. My mom'll ask questions."

"Was it a drug deal gone wrong? 'Cause that's what it sounds like."

"No." I pause to consider. "Though, I think Tommy might actually have been stoned, so."

"Tommy Sullivan did this? But you guys are friends." Her eyes widen, even as I shrug evasively. Taking a glance behind her, she finally opens the door wider and steps back. "Fine. Come in already."

Stepping into the foyer gives me both relief and anxiety. My footsteps make a floorboard creak, which inexplicably makes me think of Anna. I clear my throat.

"Um. Would you know how to treat injuries, by any chance?" I ask hopefully.

She sighs. "No, but Google will. Come on; the First Aid kit's in the bathroom, I think."