Page 12 of Only the Small Bones
I exhaled and closed my eyes briefly before opening them and offering him a deeper look inside me, a peek behind the curtain no one else had ever gotten before. “I’m constantly trying to outrun the unrest inside me because I know what happens once it catches up to me.” Flashes of blades and blood filled my mind. I shook my head to clear it.
“I spent a good chunk of my adolescent years in therapy. Some of my adult years too. One therapist suggested running to help reduce my stress levels. With nothing to lose, I tried it and fell in love. I can literally see my demons in my mental rearview as I race through the streets at breakneck speed. If I get far enough ahead of them, I earn a couple days worth of peace before they’re biting at my heels again.” Peace might have been an exaggeration, but I didn’t want to scare him with the unfiltered truth.
“Wash, rinse, and repeat. It’s been a week since I ran. I hope you can appreciate what that means.”
Ryan’s breathing evened out at a gradual pace. The only sign that my honesty might have gotten through to him.
“I should’ve waited until you woke up and explained all this before leaving. I should’ve invited you. I should’ve done a number of things to prevent this.” I looked around at the destruction again. “I’m not a perfect man, Ryan, but I’m doing the best I can.”
I grinded my molars together as I listened to the drops of blood hit the floor behind him. Time ticked by, and I thought I might scream, but then he began to relax. His eyes softened first. His jaw unlocked next, then his shoulders lowered. With some hesitance, he held his left hand to his side, letting me know it was the injured one. He snatched it behind him again when I stepped forward, a warning that I’d taken it too far.
I nodded. “I’ll get the kit for you.” Racing into my bathroom, I searched under the sink until I found the red first aid kit. In the kitchen, I filled a bowl with water before placing it and the kit on the coffee table. It was the only area that didn’t need to be sectioned off with caution tape.
Sitting on the arm of the couch, I watched as Ryan lowered to his knees across from me. First he dipped a hand in the bowl of water, clearing some of the blood away. The small gash at the center of his palm became visible then, already clotting. He must have cut himself with a piece of glass during his tirade around the apartment. The superficial cuts surrounding it scabbed over days ago, the ones he’d received during the struggle at the hospital.
“Sorry,” I murmured, sitting back when he glared at me. I hadn’t realized I’d leaned in to get a better look. I fisted my hands in my lap, hating that I couldn’t help him, biting my tongue to prevent offering him unsolicited verbal assistance. He hovered his hand over the red water before dousing his palm with peroxide, gritting his teeth as it bubbled over the wound. There didn’t appear to be any glass or porcelain splinters stuck in it.
Ryan worked as though patching himself up was second nature. I held back my questions as to why that was. I had enough heartache to work through at the moment.
By the time he finished bandaging his hand he looked exhausted, the adrenaline from his rampage fading. Still, he left and returned with his shoes on before retrieving the broom and dustpan from the pantry to start cleaning up the mess he’d made of the apartment.
“I can do that,” I said, jumping up from the couch. Ryan ignored me, taking careful steps though the kitchen, hyper focused on the task.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” I said, scrunching my nose up as the stench from my sweaty workout clothes suddenly hit me. “I’ll make us some boiled eggs after.”
He didn’t answer me, and I took in his bloody clothes, making a mental note to order him some more things. Maybe some running gear too, in case he decided he wanted to join me one morning.
Ruminating in my thoughts, I took way longer than I should have. I hurried to pull my t-shirt on as I headed for the hall. Two hard boiled eggs waited for me in the silent kitchen, shelled and cut into halves. I didn’t have the opportunity to revel in the fact that Ryan had cooked for me. Not when I couldn’t take my eyes off the torn sheet of paper resting near the bowl.
With an unsteady hand I lifted it, mouthing the one word written in a barely legible chicken-scratch. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve said a child penned it. He’d scribbled it out and tried again numerous times.
I leaned back against the counter behind me, needing the support as my chest split wide open.
It wasn’t the apology that killed me, but that he’d spelled “sorry” with one “r” and two “e’s”. A mistake a typical six-year-old might’ve made.
William
As a boy I was prone to intrusive morbid thoughts. I’d see an old lady walking her dog, and out of nowhere visions of having my arm chewed off while I screamed bloody murder would overtake me. I’d fall down a rabbit hole of survival planning, thinking of ways to pry the dog off me, as the macabre scene took shape in my head. My insides would twist and turn imagining all the blood loss.
Picturing my future family was another favorite. Envisioning playing in the park with my kids—at least three, because I was an only child, alonelychild. Somehow, gazing at my children playing in the sandbox always ended with me throwing myself on top of them as gunfire erupted from somewhere close by. The random visions were detailed, down to their ages and the color of their hair, who would survive and who wouldn’t. Sometimes the visions would be of me looking up from my phone to see that they’d been taken. I’d end up mourning these make-believe children for the rest of the day. Maybe my psyche had been preparing me for the unimaginable nightmare to come.
There were dark periods throughout high school. Days when I couldn’t get out of bed, when fighting the bad voices became too tiresome. They’d tell me I wasn’t a good person, that I didn’t deserve the life I wanted, that I was a liar. I knew not to believe them. My mother and my therapist told me that. But sometimes it was hard not to listen to them. Not to trust they knew best.
For every negative statement the voices tossed at me, I came back with a positive one.
I am good.
I deserve to be happy.
I’m honest.
Some days the voices were stronger than me, though. Some days it seemed like their evil gave them strength, while my fight to push them back exhausted me. Sometimes I needed a moment to rest, to regroup and recharge. My weakness brought them joy, and in those moments, they pulverized me. Sometimes it took days—weeks even, to recover.
Through it all I had my instrument. I had music, and a stubborn determination to make things right. My resolve got me out of bed most days, and helped me to excel in school. It gave me purpose. A reason to fight, to survive, because what happened to me had to have been for something.
Jackknifing upright in bed, I slapped a palm over my mouth to catch my scream, gaze flying to my bedroom door. I wondered if there were any words shouted that I hadn’t intercepted. Words I wouldn’t want Ryan, or anyone else, to hear.
I lowered my hand, breathing hard, blinking into the dark room. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Last thing I remembered was cleaning up the pieces of glass Ryan missed, and scrubbing down the rest of the apartment while doing laundry and waiting for him to come out of his room. He hadn’t, so I’d made him a late lunch before coming to my room to think.
