Aching honesty that spills like bruises and almost'sMature

It wasn't the first time. He knew it wouldn't be the last. He remembered the first time quite clearly. It was hot and he couldn't see past the glare in his windshield, pounding the steering wheel and yelling until he was hoarse, He almost wasn't there in time, she seemed so small then so small and weak, more so than she'd ever been. A crumpled body on the floor, red hair splayed like shattered porcelain and he didn't stop to wonder what she'd done, he'd run for the phone, begged them to get there as quickly as they could.
It was then that he understood why people told him she was dangerous. She glazed past consequences and reasoning and logic, only knowing and understanding what shouldn't make sense, but always made sense to her. He sat for hours waiting to understand what had happened. She didn't speak. She didn't speak while in the hospital, she didn't speak for three days when he took her home. She laid in bed and stared at the wall. The fourth day she sat up, and she said "I'm sorry." he stared. He got up from the chair he was sitting in and sat on the bed, pulling her to him.
They stayed that way for two hours, in utter silence. He never asked her to explain.
She stayed out of the hospital and "out of danger" after that. Just laid in rainy streets with alcohol soaked veins and drug abused heartbeats. She only ever said she was searching for home.
He always carried her inside and thought; he wanted her to find home soon.
Last night was a door opened into understanding. She didn't know who she was and she wanted to find out. But she knew who he was and wanted to hold on tight. He was home. She led blind, drug-induced searches for home when he was right in front of her. She shared more that night than she thought she was capable of sharing, no matter how much she wrote trying to spill truth across the pages. She stopped her aching searches. She let her bones settle down and took a deep breath, letting the danger flee her veins and promising to herself that things would get better from here. She was choosing to be better. She chose to live.

The End

0 comments about this work Feed