She had always wondered what it was about her that people enjoyed. It wasn't that she was being humble, she just couldn't see it. Sure, she was pretty, but she was so self-destructive that anyone close to her inevitably got hurt quickly and painfully. It wasn't like ripping it off like a band-aid, getting it over with and you can move on. She wasn't the kind of thing you forgot, another passing memory of time gone by. She stuck with you – her laugh tinkling out of lips reddened by the lies they had told, her warm body pressed against yours, seeking shelter and resistance all at once.
When you're with her, you wonder if the words coming out of her mouth are laced with lies, a poison meant to harm. You run your hand over your closely shorn hair and try to decipher the phrases, picking out the good from the bad. You mentally make a note of everything she says, knowing it won't be long before the web of lies she has spun for herself becomes too much and she is ensnared. You don't want to feel like this, this constant guessing, but it's become the comfortable routine with her. You smile and nod, outward appearances hiding your inner doubts.
The nights are cold and lonely, even with her breath warm against your ear and your arm slung carelessly over her waist. You lay awake, wondering what obstacles the next day will bring. It seems as though every day is an adventure with her; you never know what she'll do or say and it keeps you more alert than you ever are over a patient, vulnerable and exposed under bright lights that magnify every imperfection.
She mumbles in her sleep and you glance over, wondering what pictures are displaying in her mind, as real as the feelings that they bring. Knowing she would never share, you get closer and press your ear up close to her mouth, hoping to hear secrets imperceptibly passed through the still air, meant for no one's ears but her own. They're the secrets she tells herself when no one is around, the ones that keep her sturdy on her feet, a monument of beauty and lies, penetrated by none. The small details she shares are just that – details in a finely woven tapestry of tales. The details are what makes it real, makes it seem like truth, and she has perfected the art of details. What were you wearing? A sweater and jeans, my last clean pair. How hot was it? Oh, it was so hot I could see steam rising from the asphalt!
But you see through the practiced lines, like she was playing a part in a play, the mask so real you mistake it as her own face. Looking closely, you notice the little cracks and crevices getting deeper and deeper, closer and closer to exposing the lies that hide beneath. You wonder when everything will all come toppling down; it's bound to happen eventually. All the years of running had allowed her to escape – not only from the police sending out warrants and posting wanted ads in local post offices, but from herself. Everything had an excuse back then – leaving was her only escape route, a word synonymous with denial. If things got too rough, too emotional that it threatened her hardened demeanor, she could leave, citing various forms of paranoia as a reason. It wasn't that she was afraid of getting caught, it was that she was afraid of what or who she might have to face if she did.
And still, you love her, everything about her. And you suppose you're just as bad as she is – lying to yourself, thinking that going one more day without confronting her won't be bad. But it breaks her, you believing her. She knows she isn't fooling you – she isn't fooling anyone – but you letting her go only intensifies her need to keep up her façade. It's easier to believe the lies that come spilling out of her mouth, because it means you don't need to decipher what it means, how she is really feeling. Yet, you've never been good at letting things go. You're caught between your need for her and your commitment to the truth – one thing you've always sought after, needing to feel its dead weight in your palm. It eats at you, constricting your chest until you can hardly breathe, hardly feel her pulse racing rapidly against yours as she fumbles with the zipper on your jeans. You could stop her, ask her for the truth, I want the truth, but you don't – you cover her hands with your own, allowing yourself to fill her completely, knowing it's what she needs.
After, you cradle her in your arms, her delicate body molding to your solid one in ways human anatomy cannot explain. You stroke her bare hip with your thumb, tracing scars that go more than skin deep, and you wonder how you became this person. This person, whose overwhelming urge to fix eliminates the possibility for truth, because how can you first destroy and then expect to successfully repair?
The sound of the ocean lulls you to sleep, your dreams filled with running and falling – away from her, from your father, from everyone. As you jolt awake in the middle of the night, covered in beads of your own sweat, you realize what it is about running that keeps her feeling so safe. It isn't the act of running that allows her to escape, but simply knowing that it is there – that no matter where she goes, she always has the option to run, to just pick up and leave everything behind, forming a new life. This truth, one you can hold onto, falls deliciously onto your tongue as you roll the words around in your mouth, feeling the comfort surround you as you brush the hair from her eyes and let her know silently that wherever she runs to, whenever she decides she needs to go, you'll be right behind.