Paper Wings and Missing Things

Part 9

Jonas had fallen into the habit of writing letters by hand again, even though he knew it was stupid and old-fashioned. The freedom to use his social media, email, and phone had suddenly been restored, but he found something almost therapeutic in sitting down by a window and writing. If he was still a teenager, he would probably keep a journal, he thought.

The only problem was when he found himself doodling ballet slippers on the page or filling the margins with music notes and ribbons. His pen, almost of its own volition, would trace the letters of her name in the air just above the paper. His therapist had suggested that writing a letter to her might give him some sense of fulfillment, even if he could never deliver it. And yet—Jonas had spent hours agonizing over his last words, over what he could have said and done. Sometimes those thoughts spilled onto the page, sometimes they stayed trapped in his head. At least writing gave his hands something to do, creating instead of destroying.

So he sat by the window, absently sipping his coffee, and stared at a mostly blank page. A new pen rested on it, its blue ink still fresh and gleaming. All the letters started out the same—Dear Brianne, I'm really, truly sorry—and they all seemed to trail off halfway through. Normally he got farther than this, though. Normally he made it past the first three sentences.

The job's going well. Good thing I opted to take those extra college classes in prison. The weather's nice. It's getting toward winter, but it's still warm.

Do you ever miss me?

He stopped and let the pen drop from his fingers again. With a sudden movement of his chair he rose and took the paper in his hands, holding it up to the light.

The thin page of notepaper crumpled easily in his hands, crackling as he squeezed it into a ball. He tossed it toward the trash, but it bounced uselessly to the floor.

His joints groaned a chorus of protest as he bent over. It felt like his skin was the wrong size for him now—too battered and shapeless to properly hold his aching body. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his legs and forced himself to stretch, reaching for his toes.

Someday, the doctor had reassured him, he wouldn't feel off-balance every time he ran. Someday, the misshapen bump above his knee would disappear and his bones would heal the right way.

With a groan, he collapsed to the carpet and lay on his back, blinking at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he forced himself back onto a gray highway, banked by scrubby bushes and dead grass, his foot nudging the accelerator. As his body tensed, he dredged the memories back into his mind—the shattered windshield and dampness of his sleeves, weighed down by blood, the raging pain in his temples and the sickening crack as his leg bent backward under him. But this time, in this dream, he was not hunched over the unfamiliar steering wheel of a car that did not belong to him. This time, the keys in his hand were his own.

His eyes opened and he automatically put his hands behind his head, straining into a sit-up. Again and again, he lowered his head toward the ground and lurched up, until his stomach curled and his shirt was clammy with sweat. Ignoring the weakness of his muscles, he kept going. Again, the tireless taskmaster in his mind hissed. Again.

Gasping, Jonas flopped over onto his stomach and lay there, waiting for his nausea to subside. Again. He had to push himself harder, had to make his body pay the exact price required of him. He had to break through the numbness and make himself hurt.

His phone vibrated. Maybe—

Jonas reached out and grabbed it, turned it on. His heart sank as he saw the name on the front, the altogether-too-cheery message. Saturday at 7 still good?

Another wave of dizziness branched through his body. Stubbornly ignoring it, Jonas dropped the phone again. Right now, the last thing he wanted to do was to meet with his therapist again. As if calm, clinical words and the room hedged in by seashell curtains could set him free from the turbulent ocean of his mind. Yesterday, he thought—hoped—it could bring him peace, but now, the only thought in his mind now was a golden-haired girl and dirty ballet slippers, somehow intact in the mangled wreck of a car's trunk. And how, how could he ever find peace as long as she followed him?

Jonas abandoned the coffee on the table and went to change into running clothes.