The Other Side of Me
Chapter 7
Edward's apartment was on the fifth floor of his building in the East Village. It was five streets and two avenues away from my old one. And right there, inside the apartment, five floors up on East Seventh Street, was where I remained for four days. The only time in those four days that I stepped outside was when I walked through the sliding door of Edward's bedroom onto his balcony, overlooking the cobblestone courtyard—trees growing full and green, flowers planted with purpose and segregated by color in grids, much like Manhattan. Life. Overlooking life, I would think before I stepped back into the apartment, closing life behind me. Blocking it out.
My recovery was mountainous, seemingly unreachable, and my first few weeks at Edward's were the steepest. I wanted to sleep in the comfort and safety that Edward offered me, but I couldn't. Whenever I tried to sleep in his arms, I awoke in a panic. I woke up to a man holding me down, touching me, and even when his hands were soft on my stomach or my face, he was James. It took too long for me to recognize Edward and it hurt us both. So, we just lay next to each other, my back to him and every-so-often I would reach behind, feel for him, make sure he was still there.
"Edward?" I'd say, hating the timidity in my voice. He'd do this thing with his finger, rub it against the back of my hand, letting me know he was there, he was Edward, and I could close my eyes again.
Edward was home a lot. He had meetings Uptown a few times a week, but he worked from home most of the time, painting in the spare bedroom. I followed him in there on my third day at his apartment.
"I'll clear this out," he said, "if you ever want your own space."
On the floor, leaning up against the walls, were dozens of finished paintings, all familiar to me. There was a neatly made bed covered in a brown faux suede comforter that matched Edward's, and the only other furnishings were a couple of easels and a small desk that housed his painting supplies. There was no desk chair. The two easels each held up an oil painting, both new ones, both abstract. The first one, the one closest to the door, was light in color and I swore I saw a river in there, blue-gray, the color of a thick, overcast sky. It began at the left side, skinny at the base of the canvas, widening toward the middle and then opening into swerves and curls of a bluer sky. I saw flowers along the edge and then what could have been buildings, although they weren't standing vertical; they were slanted or curved and only had the impression of windows; none of them lined up. There were quite obvious music notes in the top left corner that seemed to float up and off the canvas.
"I could easily move all of this into my room," he said. He came up behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder.
"Is that the river?" I asked, motioning toward the painting.
"What river?"
"Is that where we had lunch by the river? Sushi?" I pointed to a small black oval that seemed to be partly in the river and partly on land in the shadow of one of the curvy buildings looming over it. There were matching swirls next to the oval that appeared to be chairs. I looked closer but that didn't help, so I stepped back.
"I painted this when I got home from our tour a couple weeks ago."
Our New York tour, that had only been two weeks ago. Two weeks and two days ago. It felt like months had passed.
"So, that is where we had sushi?" I turned to him.
He nodded. "You're very perceptive. I can't believe you can see that."
"But there weren't flowers there." I pointed to his river's edge at what I thought were flowers, anyway. "There was a vine but no flowers."
He laughed a little. "It's not science, it's art, Bella. When I paint for myself, when I don't have hoops to jump through, there's no objective, really. I just follow my emotions."
"Like that children's book, the bunny who follows his nose?"
He shrugged. "I guess I was happy that day and maybe you were, too. That's why you see flowers."
"So, they're not flowers?"
He gave me a half-smile. "They are if that's what you see."
"You're not going to give me a straight answer?"
"There is no straight answer; it's subjective."
I turned back to the painting. "But those are music notes, there." I pointed.
"Yeah, or birds."
I squinted, and then they were birds, some of them flying in doubles or clusters. They had beaks. I had to readjust my eyes to see them as music notes again. I turned to him, looking up into his eyes. They were smiling just like his lips were.
"Only you and I would even recognize what this really is," I said.
His smile grew and he put his hand on my back, pulling me slowly into a hug. "The music notes, as they flow up? They're in the order of the song I played that night."
I sighed against him, feeling relaxed for the first time in... I wasn't sure how long, seventy-two hours? I hadn't even been that relaxed in my sleep. This painting was something that was just ours, a kind of intimate secret, and somehow, that gave me a moment of peace.
"What about this one?" I walked to the easel in the other corner. That painting was dark, almost all black with very thin lines of deep colors. I saw burgundy, mahogany, violet, navy, no brightness to it at all. I took a step back and looked at the straight vertical lines, the deep, hair-thin colors close together, but not touching, not quite blending. As simple as the painting may have looked, it was actually very intricate. Each brushstroke had to have taken a lot of patience and concentration, and a steady hand. It looked like a wall to me. I thought it couldn't be a wall, so I didn't voice that opinion.
"Um, that one…" He paused. I looked at him, wondering if he was going to continue. He shook his head. "That one's shit."
"Why do you say that? It's your emotions, right? How can it be shit?"
He shrugged again. He seemed uncomfortable talking about this painting, but I wanted to.
"What?"
"I painted that on Monday… after I gave you your pill. Once you were relaxed. I couldn't sleep, so…"
"Oh." I don't know why I had assumed he was in bed with me the whole time. I did sleep through an entire day. How could I have assumed that he stayed in bed? What would he have done for a whole day while I slept? Just lie there, staring at me? I couldn't expect him to do that.
"Anyway," he said, "this room is yours, if you want it."
I thanked him and told him he didn't need to clear it out, told him that I wouldn't mind sleeping surrounded by his art. As it turned out, I never moved into that room, anyway.
That third day, that had been one of my better days. We learned quickly, though, that it was presumptuous to think each day would get increasingly easier.
The first day he left to go Uptown for a meeting, my first Thursday at his apartment, I was tempted to tag along. I could wait in the lobby, safe around people coming and going, not alone in an apartment. I forced myself not to mention that to Edward. I forced myself to stay behind.
Edward hugged me goodbye. "Call me for anything, Bella. Anything. Even if you just need to hear my voice. It won't be an interruption. Okay?"
I nodded.
I kept my hand on him, fingertips on his shirt until I could no longer reach him. Then I double locked the door. I kept checking it to make sure it was still locked, as if I had perhaps imagined locking it, or hadn't completely turned the lock, clicking it into place.
I tried to read or write to occupy my time and my mind, but my mind couldn't focus on anything; it kept drifting, kept reminding me that I was alone, kept focusing on the silence. I put some music on, but that made it worse. If someone knocked or broke in, I might not hear it. I shut the music off, turning the silence on again.
I sat on the sofa wondering where James was, if he was still in New York, and if he was, if he'd try to see me. What would I do if I was ever face to face with him again? Would I crumble and cower? Would I attack him? Would I run?
I could no longer stand where my thoughts were taking me so I took a sleeping pill, pulled Edward's covers over my head, and hoped I'd sleep until after Edward was home again.
When I awoke, the covers were still over my head. I was draped in blackness, and afraid to come out. I lay there, stiff, frozen in my tunnel, scared of what I might see if I let myself emerge. I heard a light knock at the door, just a knuckle.
"Edward?" I asked in a whisper no one would have heard. My heartbeat was probably louder than my voice.
"It's me, Bella. It's Edward. Are you awake? I have to come in, okay? I need to change."
I sat up, freeing myself from the darkness. Light spilled from the windows, and I blinked, my eyes adjusting. "Change for what? Where are you going?"
He sat at the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, as if he was about to give me really bad news. "I tried to get out of it but I have to go to The Lounge tonight. It's my night to play. If you need me to, I'll stay, but I'd risk losing my job there."
"No, you go. I'll be fine. I'll-I'll take another sleeping pill."
He frowned at me. "Is that what you did today?"
I nodded and then shook my head. "I had to."
"I wondered, because you've been sleeping all day. I wanted to take the blankets off your head, but I was afraid of scaring you." He reached out to caress my face. "Any nightmares?"
My eyes closed. "I don't remember."
"What if you come with me tonight?" Edward asked. "We'll take a cab, go straight to the club. We'll be there early, before the crowd, and you can sit with me at the piano until I'm done. Then we'll come straight back here. It could be good for you. To get out."
"Edward, did you…" My eyes fell to the bed. "You never told James you play there, right?"
"No, he never knew. Are you worried about running into him? Because I promise you that won't happen. There's no doubt in my mind that James is gone. He's not in New York, Bella."
"How can you be sure of that?"
He held his hand out for mine and I gave it to him. His fingers squeezed. "I went by his apartment earlier. All of his stuff is there, untouched. There are old dishes in the sink, there's money, cash in an envelope he'd made from his catering job sitting on the counter. After that I went by his school, asked about him. No one's heard from him and they tried to get out of me what happened, said the cops had been there looking for him too. I think he ran out of your apartment that day, Bella, and kept running. He's never coming back. He'd be stupid to come back. You know?"
I nodded. "You're right. He wouldn't come back, would he? They'd catch him and give him what he deserves, and the coward will run from that, won't he?"
We both looked down. James was gone, which was what we wanted, but that also meant that catching him, finding him, would be difficult, and if he had the help of his father and his money, he could be anywhere, free, which was what we didn't want. Free James.
But I couldn't let what James did to me take away my freedom. I couldn't expect to sleep my life away just to escape reality.
"I'll go with you," I said, climbing out of bed. I went to the closet Edward now shared with me and grabbed my jeans. It smelled of cedar in there, and all the clothing hung from wooden hangers. It was neat and orderly, nothing like my closet with its plastic hangers and clothing that was hung in no particular order. Some of my skirts had joined Edward's closet too, something I may have typically chosen to wear for a night out like this, but never again. I wanted to burn all my skirts. I changed in the closet, thinking about the joy I might feel in watching my skirts burn.
"Too bad you don't have a fire place," I said, leaving the closet, closing my skirts in.
"It's ninety-seven degrees outside." Edward wore black slacks and was buttoning up his white shirt. He left it untucked and grabbed for his wallet, sliding it into his pocket.
I let out a small laugh. "Never mind."
"Bella, before we go, I want to give you something. A gift. I hope that's okay. I don't know. I don't want to upset you."
"Why would a gift upset me?" I walked toward him and sat at the edge of his frazzled bed.
"Because of what it is. It just might." He picked up a small box from his dresser and handed it to me. It was light gray and velvety. I looked up at Edward before slowly lifting the lid. Tucked in white satin glittered a pair of small, round, ruby earrings.
"I saw them in a window Uptown. They reminded me of you."
"They're beautiful. I love them." I removed them from the box and put them on. "Thank you."
I wondered why he thought this might upset me. Perhaps because when he'd mentioned his desire to get me earrings we were happy. We were normal. I was untouched by Hell.
He tucked my hair behind my ears. "Come check them out." He took my hand and started pulling me up. I yanked it away, knowing his intention.
I shook my head. "I know they're pretty. I don't need to look."
"Bella?" He lowered his face to mine, his eyes narrowing. "You don't want to look in the mirror?"
My face fell to my lap; I didn't answer.
"When was the last time you looked at your reflection?"
"I don't."
"But you did. Before."
We were silent for a while. The day coming through the windows was deepening.
"Come with me," he said. "Please?"
I let him lead me to the bathroom, and when I looked in the mirror, I avoided eye contact with myself, only looking at my ears, and then I forced a smile, my eyes on Edward through the mirror.
"Why don't you want to look at yourself?"
I turned around. "I'm afraid of what I'll see."
"You'll see you, Bella. Try. I'll be right here."
I turned around again, my eyes closed. I counted to three in my head, and still I didn't open them. I counted again, then opened my eyes a few counts after three, and I let my eyes meet their own reflection. I saw brown, skirted by a little bit of red. Faint shadows had settled beneath them, and I knew what was in those shadows. I blinked that thought away and rubbed my fingers under my eyes, trying to move the shadows from my face. My skin was still pale, the freckles on my nose were still there. My lips were still pink, though dry. I could see lines in them. I licked their roughness. I hadn't really known what I expected to see. But he was right. It was just me in the mirror, only maybe tired looking, a bit worn down. I smoothed my hair.
"What do you see?" Edward asked.
"Just me."
"Just you?" He brought his hands to my shoulders and stood directly behind me in the mirror. "I see beauty. I see strength."
I shook my head.
"You can't argue with what I see." He smiled. "And I do see strength. I see the strongest person I know. And you'll never know how beautiful that is."
"I hid under the covers, Edward."
"You're facing life, Bella. You've prosecuted. You've faced police officers, doctors, your memories, and not because you had to, but because you chose to. And you're going out with me tonight. That was your decision. Strength and fear aren't opposites. Strength is what you use to conquer your fears. To come in here, willingly, and look yourself in the mirror, that took strength. You see? Do you see your strength?"
I turned around, wrapped my arms around his waist, and put my head on his chest. His arms came around me, strong in their hold, just like at the hospital, just like whenever I needed it. Those arms were the arms that had yanked James off me. Edward was the one who'd stopped me from facing a fate far worse than I had. He was the strong one.
But with that thought of James, I had to pull away. I couldn't be touched. And, as always, when I pushed against Edward's chest, he let me go immediately.
~::::::~
The Lounge was bright when we walked in. We shared free appetizers at the bar, and as I ate potato skins, I looked over at the table Edward and I had shared a couple of weeks earlier. How different everything was back then, and how new Edward and I had become, even though we weren't new to each other. All the possibilities that had opened up between us that evening... Were they gone? Would they ever find their way back to us?
Edward's hand came to mine, as if he knew what I was thinking, and as my eyes met his, I saw a small smile land on his lips, a contradiction to the sadness in his eyes.
Patrons began to arrive, and Edward and I took our sodas and made our way to the piano before the place grew packed with people. The piano was in a corner near a bay window, and an open space. So much room around us, and only Edward and I would share it.
I watched his fingers move along the keys, never faltering, never stumbling. I watched his face as he stared straight ahead at the sheet music. I wondered if he thought about what he was doing, told his fingers what to do, or if they just moved where they needed to be on their own accord. Did his fingers read the music?
I was okay there next to Edward, the people seated at their tables, only moving to and from the bar as necessary. I kept my eyes away from them, never letting my gaze land on a face, lock with any eyes. And after Edward finished his last song, he put an arm around me, led me out of the club, not stopping for anyone who called his name, and he pushed me into a cab, his touch never leaving me. I looked up at Edward as we sat in the cab, making our way to his apartment. How long would he feel he had to reassure me with his touch? How long would I need that reassurance?
"What?" Edward asked, feeling my eyes on him.
"Just thank you. Thanks for taking me out. I'm glad I came."
"You're welcome." He kissed my cheek. "I'm glad you were here, too."
The Sunday after James had become an unwanted and irreversible part of me, I lost it completely. My bruises had faded, hardly noticeable anymore, but James hadn't faded from my mind at all. Behind my closed eyes, he was there as clear as if I could reach out and punch him. And sometimes, when my eyes were open, he was still there, coming around corners, and I was frozen. Healing from an attack like mine is inconsistent, slippery at best. And just like in everyday life, I never knew when I was going to slip and fall until I was already mid-tumble. I was grateful that Edward hadn't been there to see it. He saw the aftermath, of course, came running out of the shower, shampoo still in his hair when he heard the crash. But he hadn't seen it happen, hadn't seen me all crazy, and for that, I was thankful.
Earlier that morning, in my sleep, I had rolled over onto my back. In his sleep, Edward had rolled toward me. His arm wrapped my chest and one leg rested over mine. My eyes shot open and everything was black. I pushed on his arm. It was heavy. He was James on top of me again, and my squirming, my whimpering woke him up.
"Bella, it's me," he said, and even though it was Edward, I heard James. It's me, Bella, it's me, just me.
Edward was hovering over me, his palm soft on my face. I felt it, James touching my face, and I started pummeling Edward's chest like I had James's, shouting, "Stop!"
And then he was off of me. I didn't feel him anywhere, and just like before, I tightened into myself, eyes, legs, jaw, until I heard the quietest whisper.
"Bella, I'm not going to hurt you."
I opened my eyes and the room was bright with morning sun. He was kneeling all the way on the corner edge of the bed. Edward.
I covered my mouth, then reached out for him. He held just my fingertips. I tugged on him and he inched closer, still hesitant. I tugged on him hard, moving my hands up his arm like it was a rope until he was on top of me again, and I practically strangled him, my hug was so tight.
"I'm sorry." I kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry. I thought you were… I thought you were… him. I know you would never hurt me, Edward."
I felt him let out a deep breath when I said his name. He was relieved that I'd said his name, which made me hold him tighter.
"Please," he said, his voice muffled by my hair. "Don't apologize."
I ignored his request and apologized again, kissing his face.
"Please," he said again. "Don't. I'm sorry. I am so sorry that you have to go through this. You don't deserve any of this. You deserve so much better." He gave me one simple kiss on my mouth, then sat up, pulling me into his lap and just held me. "I think… I think you should talk to someone."
I looked up at him. His eyes were worried and pleading at the same time. I wondered what he was pleading for: my understanding? My compliance that, yes, I would seek therapy?
I moved away from him and sat on my own. "I can't." I shook my head fast. "I can't talk about it yet. Look what just happened when I remembered it subconsciously. Imagine what could happen if I really think about it and talk about it. I just can't do that. I hate thinking about it." I saw James in my mind and my eyes teared up.
"Okay," he said and kissed my temple. "Okay."
It took a lot of convincing and reassuring and lying on my part before he believed that I was fine, and he could take a shower. Once he was out of the room and I was alone, I couldn't help but think about James. Thoughts flooded my mind and drenched me in James. I paced the room, back and forth, drowning in the James that hurt me so bad. I walked the length of the room, sandwiched between Edward's bed and his dresser, suffocating myself with memories of the James that had been my friend. The James I missed. The James I actually missed. I began to hate the part of me that missed James. How could I? I had cut James in half, sliced him right down the center. There was the James who hurt me, who scared me, who scarred me. Then there was the other James, the old James, the only James I wanted ever to have existed.
I remembered the last time the three of us were here at Edward's, in the living room, trying to decide how to spend our night, where to go, and none of us could agree so we just ended up talking about it all night —where we could have gone, what we could have done, and laughing. We were always laughing, usually at something James had said, or at his expense. He kept suggesting strip clubs that night, without calling them that, trying to trick me into agreeing with names like "Club Indigo" or simply "Silk." I told him that if they wanted to see strippers, they could go without me. He'd taken the ends of my hair, giving a slight tug saying, "Never." They'd never leave me home alone for a night out at a strip club, he'd said.
I wanted that James back. How could I want him back? My hands came to the sides of my head and just pressed, squeezed, and I didn't even realize I was turning in circles until I saw the floor spinning beneath me. I stopped, and there was James standing against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, a smirk on his lips. I picked up the first thing I saw and threw it at him as hard as I could. It crashed against the wall and shattered over the floor before I even knew what it was.
It was the sculpture Alice had made for Edward in high school. The sculpture of a hand, an arm made into a vase, the hand shaped as if holding flowers, but it had been empty, no flowers. Edward had told me that when she gave it to him for his nineteenth birthday it was the only time he'd ever seen her shy. She couldn't look him in the eye. She had always bought gifts for him, but this one was the first she'd ever made for him. I ran to it and started picking up the pieces. Maybe I could fix it, glue it back together.
"Bella? What was that?"
I turned to Edward, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair full of suds. "I broke it," I said. "It wasn't even an accident. I broke it on purpose." I was shaking my head. "I'm sorry. I know what it means to you. Can we fix it?"
He moved the trash can over and started filling it with the ceramic shards.
"Don't," I said. "Don't throw it away."
"We can't fix it. It's in too many pieces. Don't worry about it."
I sat there for about twenty seconds watching him clean up my mess. He looked unhappy.
"I can do it. I'll clean up my own mess. Go finish your shower. Go!" I shoved on his arm.
He left me to clean up, returning minutes later with a hand-vacuum, handed it to me, and let me vacuum up the rest. Then he turned me toward him, both of us kneeling on the floor.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I didn't sleep well last night. I just need to lie down for a minute. I'll be fine. I promise. Finish your shower." I stood up and pulled him back to the bathroom where the shower was still running. I waited for him to get in, and then I went back to lie down, keeping my promise.
I tried to control my thoughts, lock James out and swallow the key, or whatever. I wondered how Edward would recreate the scene I'd just made if he painted it, if I had hit a nerve hard enough to evoke the emotions to paint. "Still Life with Crazy," I thought and closed my eyes. There was sure to be a lot of black but there would be an awful lot of color, too, I imagined. A turmoil of swirls and circles and pieces of every bright color in existence. Colorful had two interpretations: good and bad. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the back of Edward's finger on my hand.
"Go back to sleep," he whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't sleeping." I pulled him to sit on the edge of the bed and wrapped my arms around his waist, my head resting against his side. He was wearing jeans but no shirt. His skin felt soothing against my arms, like ice on a burn. "I'm sorry about Alice's sculpture, really. I can't believe I did that. I shattered it."
"Why did you? Tell me why."
I sat up and looked at him for a minute. The question wasn't leaving his eyes. I shrugged. "I threw it at James," I said, as if it was the most normal thing ever to throw something at somebody who wasn't even there.
I saw his jaw clench and his lips tighten. He blinked at me. "Bella, you see? Even if you don't want to think about him, you can't help it. You should think about talking to someone who can help you."
I stared at him for a few seconds. "I told you. I can't. You have no idea what thoughts are in my head. I'll never say them out loud. Never." How could I? How could I admit to anyone that there was a part of me that missed James? What kind of person did that make me?
"You're right. I don't know what's going through your mind. I can't even imagine it. But talking to someone who understands what you're going through might help. They can do more for you than I can. And you don't have to talk about everything, you know? You'll just say what you say. Whatever you're comfortable with."
I was shaking my head the whole time he was talking.
"I won't force you. I'm only suggesting. Just think about it, that's all. At least think about it."
"I'm scared."
"I know you are."
"I'm a freakshow."
"No you're not." His hand came to my cheek. "A lot of people go through this. You're not alone and a therapist could help you see that."
I knew he was right. Many people faced what I was facing, or worse. How did they survive it? Go on with life? I tried to picture my future, a sight that would normally include my dreams as a writer, perhaps a book published, but now, there was nothing. I couldn't even picture myself returning to school in a couple of months, let alone where I'd be in five years
"I'll think about it," I said, and watched Edward's eyes water up. I reached over and ran my fingernails through his wet hair, around his ear and down to the nape of his neck, and then I repeated the action. His eyes closed. He was letting me soothe him. I wanted to hug him, give him the kind of hug that maybe he needed, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I broke his sculpture, but was I breaking him, too? Was it fair of me to do this to him? Put him through whatever I was going through? I dropped my hand to his lap and his eyes opened.
"Maybe… maybe I shouldn't stay here. Maybe this was a mistake."
"What?" He shifted on the bed to face me. "Where are you going to go? Back to your apartment? Back to Jessica? She's still away. You'll be alone."
I shook my head. "I can never go back there. I could get another apartment. A new roommate. I know some girls from school I could ask. This isn't fair to you."
"Fair to me? Bella, you are welcome here. I want you here with me. You may be scared of being hurt again, but so am I. Nothing scares me more than thinking of you being hurt again. I couldn't care less what you break; it's just stuff. I'll help you break everything if you want. I'll break it all. It would probably make me feel better."
I couldn't help but laugh at that: Edward willing to join my crazy.
"I'm serious. You mean more to me than anything in this apartment. Forget about the sculpture, okay? It's nothing. Will you stay?"
I reached up and touched his face because he was worried. I saw it in his eyes. Worried about my safety, or about my leaving, I couldn't be sure. I nodded. "The sculpture wasn't nothing. I know what it meant to you, the memory it held. But I won't break anything else. I wasn't thinking clearly, but I'm fine now."
"You keep saying that you're fine. But I don't see it. You're not fine. And I don't know what to do. I want to be here for you but I don't know how to help you. What can I do?"
How could I answer that? He knew I wasn't fine and he hadn't even seen me at my worst, when I wasn't even aware of my own actions, my own head. He hadn't actually seen me throw the sculpture—without even thinking about it, without even realizing I was doing it until it was done. What could he do? I put my racing head in his lap, let him brush my hair from my face again and again until my eyes closed. Maybe all we could was just live our lives like this, take turns comforting each other. Maybe this was it, all we had left.
"Just be you, Edward. That's all you can do. That's all anyone can do."
A/N: I appreciate each and every review. :)
I know Bella is experiencing major ups and downs, and some self-loathing/self-deprecation, but she did take some important steps here.
In the research I've done, it's sometimes advised not to coerce a rape survivor too hard in seeking therapy, that what's therapeutic for some people (talking it out) isn't for others. Do you agree with that? Disagree? What would you advise Bella to do? (The story is written and events won't change based on these thoughts, but I'd love to know what you think.)
Also, Bella wanting to burn her skirts, this is a hint that she's still putting some of the blame in the wrong place. :/
