But Too Well

XXIII : Crazy

Rosalyn says she sucks. Agree, or disagree? Oh, and who trusts Natalia? Anyone?

***

THAT NIGHT, I can't sleep. I know it's the guilt, the uncertainty, that keeps me awake.

There's a nagging possibility of something better, the hopelessly idealized notion that me of all people will be able to put an end to this. Will be able to do something about it all.

And at 1 in the morning, wide awake, I stare at the ceiling and curse at the world and then go completely crazy. I know I'm crazy, because what sane person would do what I'm about to do?

Standing up, I wash my face and brush my teeth. I make sure I'm fully clothed. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and then I open my door and walk out into the corridor.

Do you ever get that feeling, like you can't move a single muscle, take a single breath? Like your mind is cotton candy, and your stomach churns and your breaths slow (and quicken somehow, simultaneously), and your heart races, and you have no idea why?

In the hallway, my feet plastered to the ground, my entire being protesting because I should be asleep and I'm wide awake, I start shivering. I start shivering because there is only so much one person can take, because I think I have reached my limit and now I am about to do something I'm mostly hazy about, and I've tried to convince myself out of it, but there is no other way to deal with this. This mess that everything, everyone, has become.

Yeah, I'm sleep deprived and hormonal and I am most definitely not thinking straight, but this has to end.

Tomorrow (today?) Caleb and Daniel and my dad are gonna do something terrible because they think they have no other choice.

And if I think, even the smallest, tiniest bit, that I could give them one, there isn't a doubt in my mind about what I should do. Even if I think my entire soul will be condemned forever.

Dramatic, yes. But I don't care anymore.

I knock and my arm feels like jelly. My gut still tosses, but I force my chin up and my chest out and I stand tall.

And when he opens the door, I know that the universe is messed up because it's 1 am in the middle of the week and he is awake, not rubbing sleep from his eyes or battling fatigue. He's wide, wide awake. Probably not planning on sleeping anytime soon.

And of course, he is very surprised to see me. I'm pretty surprised myself, actually.

And he sees it. He sees it on my face and in the curve of my hip and and the arc of my back and his features melt into understanding. A tired—so, so tired—kind of resignation. Like he knows. But how can he possibly?

And then I just give it to him.

He doesn't even see it coming. My face turns red and I push him and hit him and pound at his chest. I curse and spit and we are in his apartment and he closes the door and just stands there and takes it, and I kick and punch and scratch and wail and scream and huff and cry. There are tears. I am hysterical.

And he just takes it.

And then, after who knows how many minutes of me railing my bitter, exhausted, violent, petty angst at him, I collapse against his chest, sobbing, and he holds me.