Further Up & Further In

Darling, Come Back

You chased the storm to the end of the world,

And you fell off the edge,

And you were just gone.

Darling, come back.

You ran from your fears until you hit the wall,

And Darling, you bled.

You're not too far gone.

Darling, come back.

* * * * *

Susan's anger was obvious. Overwhelming. Overpowering. How could they leave her like this? How did Peter - once so bold and noble - turn so cold? He was like the sun; he was the embodiment of strength; and now he hid behind his fairy tales as if they were a shield stronger than paper. No, they were less than paper. They were dreams; imagination; words that fluttered out of his mouth like butterflies, but fell to the pavement as soon as his breath stopped pushing them along. Peter could never build a castle out of his stories, so why did he try? Or Edmund, wise Edmund, who wasn't content enough to be just Edmund. Just or just? There was a difference, and Susan no longer knew it. He hovered next to her, like a ghost, or a mirage, and though he would hold her if she started crying, she would never start crying, and so he was never close enough to touch. He was gone, too; caught up in the same silly games as Peter; ever chasing his older brother, and trying to please his younger sister. Ed was supposed to be the smart one. Susan didn't believe that anymore. And then there was Lucy, who was supposed to be sweet, but lost her temper more than she used to; who was supposed to be innocent, but spoke of war with the boys as if she could know anything about it. Of course Lucy would hold on to the fairy tales they'd made up as children. She would never stop being a perpetual child. And Susan, oh, she wouldn't have cared, of course, if that was all! But it was never all. It wasn't enough for them to play their games without Susan. They spent all their time trying to invite her in, but pushing her away every time she dared to say, "no." They were gone, all gone, and all Susan really wanted was for them to come back, but she'd learned long ago that she couldn't use force, and they didn't like reason. They were just gone.

As gone as she was.

She never saw it all through Peter's eyes: how he longed to hold her, protect her, laugh with her once again. Peter wanted to fight for her, but in England he wasn't supposed to fight with weapons, (they didn't like it any better when he used his fists,) and in the end there was nothing physical for him to fight, unless he wanted to punch a wall. He did want to. Maybe he even let himself once. Because he could knock on Susan's door, and dial her number into the phone, and write "Dear Susan," on the top of his letters until the rest of his hands bled as much as his bruised fists, but none of it would make Susan come back home. He was helpless. It was something he wouldn't mind being if his family was safe, and it was something he hated to be when they were in danger. Helpless. Totally. Completely. Out of control. Susan's walls weren't material, and his shield wasn't paper, but his sword was spirit alone, and swords aren't made for breaking walls. He couldn't reach her. He tried to reach her. It was like he was watching her sink as he stood on the shore, and as much as he offered her his hand, she wouldn't take it. Susan was a good swimmer, he reminded himself. Susan could drown if she wanted to.

She never felt the way Edmund did: lost and almost paralyzed at the thought of his sister being further gone than he had ever been. He'd wasted days, maybe, at most, and then he'd completely turned around. But days turned quite quickly into years, and Edmund couldn't hold them down, though he fought tooth and nail to. One year would pass, and Susan would be angry. Another would pass, and she would be flippant. Another, dismissive. Another, confused. Another, and she wouldn't remember at all, and then suddenly, come full circle, she'd be angry again. But Edmund, oh, Edmund, just wanted to make her see. How couldn't she see the knives in his chest, (never his back, he always saw them coming,) every time she said she hated the one thing that made him love? How couldn't she the thorns on his head as she forgot the one thing he stayed awake dreaming about? How couldn't she see the grimace on his face, and the paleness of his skin, and the ghosts in his eyes when she spoke as if everything were nothing, and nothing meant anything? He didn't hate her, couldn't hate her, never would. But sometimes he almost wished it. Sometimes we almost wished he could shut her out and lock the door, and never hear her disbelief echo in his ears again. Instead he kept answering her calls, and knocking on her door. Maybe one day she'd see. Maybe one day he'd let her.

She never wondered about Lucy; how she could shine so brightly, and burn more brightly still. Susan never wondered why Lucy cared what she did at all. She didn't know that while Lucy may have been dancing, it felt like hot coals under her bare feet, or gravel roads, or arrow-strewn battlefields, because as hard as she tried to keep a brave face - (courage, dear heart, she kept reminding herself,) - everything hurt, and she didn't have the power to heal it. Lucy was a queen, and her sister was a queen, but Susan wouldn't be a queen any longer. And, oh, if she wouldn't be a queen, could she really be her sister? And how else do you feel when your own flesh and bone denies who you are? When the same blood that courses through your veins tells you that you faith is merely stardust, and your hopes are merely dreams? How do you keep reaching out, closing the wounds, and healing the scars, when all the love you have is pouring onto the floor in a catastrophe you can't stop? Where does the love end and the hatred begin, when you are a childlike heart in a war-torn world? Lucy was strong to carry on as long as she did. Lucy was brave to keep coming back as words like fists flew in her face, and glares shot through her like arrows. Strong, and brave, or maybe just lucky. Maybe she was lucky to be blessed with innocence before she was cursed with a temper, and maybe she was never going to fix anything by her own strength anyways. Maybe the thought terrified her. Maybe it broke her down.

And it didn't matter at all what any of them would have said, because they never would have said those simple words in a way that mattered: "Come back." Forget your pride, they thought, and come back. Forget your hatred and come back. Forget your fears and come back. You're drowning, they thought, you're sinking, and we can't save you. Take hold. To something, anything. Just hold on, for God's sake. By the Lion, Susan, hold on.

And just as they watched her head disappear beneath the waves; as they watched her slam the door, and they watched her stomp away, Susan thought, "There's no use. It's too late. They're gone."