It's okay.
The first step is slow. The second one is uncomfortable. I take the third with a ragged breath. By the time the wood under my feet is replaced with the worn, patchy grass, I stop again.
You’re being an idiot.I can hear Brett’s voice in my head say it clear as day, like he’s the devil on my shoulder, and he is not impressed.
Well, I’m not very impressed either, okay?
The walk back sort of feels like a walk of shame. Well, I think maybe itisa walk of shame. Every step is heavy, and I’m scared to look anywhere but at my feet. Scared that if I take my eyes off them, I’ll be running back to the van and seeing the lake in my rear-view.
Running when shit gets hard is so much easier.
Burying it under the cloak of alcohol.
Denial.
There is a plethora of choices for a skilled runner like me. It feels unnatural to fight that urge. Which tells me that's exactly what I need to do.
Nothing about healing is easy.
It’s fucking messy. It's been messy for five years, and I’m sure it will still be messy some days five years from now.
It aches, and burns. Some days, my skin doesn’t feel like it sits right on my body. Some days, I want to curl into a ball and pretend that the world paused its movement for a little while so I could catch my breath.
Most days, it's choosing to take that step. And another.
Another.
Until you’re standing at the bottom of the steps of a cabin full of memories, looking up at the figure sitting at the top.
Smoke tendrils curl in front of his face. My eyes stop at the hoop in his nose, and I swallow thickly.
“I can leave.”
I watch his lips close over the butt of the cigarette. They’re the same lips they always have been. The bottom is full and soft; the top has a deep cupid’s bow. There may or may not be a few renderings of them scribbled into sketch books back home in my bedroom.
The smoking is new.
My heart races. He blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’m well aware of what you’re capable of.”
It lands exactly like the blow he wanted it to be. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“Are you at least planning on stopping to see your parents on yourpassing through?” He continues after a pause.
“Yeah. Yes, of course.” I croak out and clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “I… Yes.”
Bowen takes another drag and blows the smoke out with an audible breath. He’s irritated. At me.
It’s okay.
“Stay. Go.” He shrugs, then points with his fingers holding the cigarette between them towards the other cabin. “Small cabin is off limits. Guest room is open.”
He puts the smoke out under his black boot, pocketing the butt when he stands. I feel like a peasant under him. I feel raw and exposed and so incredibly inadequate.
The van creaks as I shift onto my back to switch from staring out the windshield to staring up at the ceiling instead. The soft yellow twinkle lights strung up around the perimeter of the back of the van are the only light now, have been for a while. Except for the glow of the moon, anyway. That comes and goes as the clouds move across the dark sky.
The bed is digging into my spine, but I ignore it like I have for the last two years. Nothing about living in a van has been comfortable. I didn’t do it because it wasinor trendy. I did it because it was my last idea for survival. I did it because my life needed a drastic change, and I didn’t know how to heal in the place that broke me.
Mountain quiet is different than city quiet. Nature never fully sleeps, and it's singing to me a lullaby now, but fat chance of me sleeping.
