I'm lying down on the hotel bed, eyes shut but not asleep. The whole episode in the store with Tom has been making me think like crazy about my little brother. I mean, it's been a couple of weeks and... well, should I be feeling any better? I don't know since I've never lost someone this close to me, nor have I ever known anyone go through that kind of pain. We don't really talk about grief at Havenwood because death is usually celebrated as getting close to the Lord. It's like a reward or something. There's a bittersweet sadness in the community because while that person is gone, they are in heaven. Or at least that's what everyone believes.
I don't know if Max is in heaven. I'm sure if there was one, he'd be a shoe-in to get there. But I don't know if there's a heaven in the Biblical sense, so I can't be positive that he's in a better place. I can't imagine he'd find anything better than being free down here. I honestly can't- if I had been the one killed instead of him I wouldn't be happy. No matter how perfect a place I end up, it couldn't possibly be better than enjoying the freedom I've earned. After going through years of what probably is considered torture, to earn that freedom is so much more rewarding than having it being gifted to me by some higher being. Maybe that's my personality. I don't know.
Margaret and Tom decided to give Mitchie and I some alone time to work out whatever troubles I still keep having with Max. So far, we haven't done much talking. It's not really awkward or anything; I think both of us just need to figure out what exactly it is we need to say. She was staring out the window the last time I opened my eyes, singing quietly to herself. It didn't sound like one of the hymns we had at Havenwood, but I don't know what else it could be. Maybe it's one of those Christmas jingles Margaret was trying to get us to listen to. I found them kind of strange and silly. We didn't have much in the way of music at Havenwood.
I'm still not terribly sure about the whole Christmas thing. It seems kind of like a foreign concept to me, which I guess it is. I have no good memories associated with the holiday. However, there are certainly plenty of bad memories and even a handful of horrible ones. Everyone here, though, seems to love it so much. Like there's a magic surrounding the entire season. I can't figure out why. It must have something to do with the memories being tainted by childhood that I can't seem to get past. Why can't I get past this! Everything! Mitchie's having such a fucking easy time of it, getting over all this stuff when we got out of Havenwood. She's well adjusted and happier than I've ever seen her. I haven't had to endure half the shit that she has- nothing like it all. And here I am, complaining and sulking and just being an idiot. I mean, come on, Alex! She can get over Max, get over being raped, and you can't get over a damn thing!
Everything is crashing down on me now, when it all should be working out. I'm free, for God's sake. Finally, and all I want to do is mope around. What is WRONG with me? What the hell is WRONG with me?
I let out an anguished cry and slam my fist against the headboard, completely forgetting that Mitchie's also in the room. Predictably, she turns to give me a concerned look. "Alex, what's wrong?"
"Who the fuck knows?" I mumble grumpily. I try not to look at her face, because the adorable concern will probably turn me into a gibbering mess of tears, which is not what I need right now.
Sighing, she sits down on the bed and I move away, flinching. "Then why do you think something is wrong?"
"There's nothing wrong. It's not a problem," I reply.
"You're certainly acting like there is," she shoots back.
I groan, thrusting a pillow over my face. "Everything's wrong, OK! I can't I'm even having this conversation."
"Alex, if you don't want to talk to me, then just say it. But don't act all sad and expect me to sit by and do nothing," she says, slightly upset. I don't think I've ever seen her upset- sad, depressed, disappointed, but never upset in an angry way. And the worst part? I have no idea how to fix it, short of telling her what's on my mind, and I don't know if I want to do that.
I grumble at her, "Fine. I don't want to talk about it."
She looks kind of hurt, a smidgen disappointed, but definitely not upset or angry. Not anymore. It's not like those other emotions make me feel much better about myself, though. I don't want to hurt her anymore, yet I can't seem to talk about these emotions because I don't understand them! So fucking frustrating.
"I can't just whatever's on the top of my head, you know," I say by way of explanation and maybe a tad defensively.
She looks at me with a sad smile. "I do know. It's fine."
"Just because you always know what's going on in your head doesn't mean we all do."
"I know."
"You really have no idea what's going on in my mind, Mitchie."
"Maybe I don't." She appears so nonchalant, not reacting to anything I'm saying. And it's annoying the fuck out of me! I need to know what she's thinking.
"Of course even I don't know what I'm thinking!"
"It's fine, Alex. I'm not asking you to tell me anything."
"Good!" I shout at her, jumping off the bed, trapping myself between it and the wall. "'Cause I don't even know what to tell you!"
"You don't, do you?"
"No!" I kick at the bed, only serving to make my foot hurt but in a weird way it feels kind of good. "How am I supposed to know what to feel! Shouldn't I feel happy, because I'm free, and then, and then- shouldn't I be sad, because Max is gone? But then- I should be happy because we have such a fucking good life here! And I can't let go of my goddamn useless childhood, and you can and I should be able to! I've been through nothing compared to you and I killed my brother- FUCK!" I scream the last word as loudly as I can, letting the pitch echo through the empty apartment like a crackling gunshot.
Without warning, Mitchie launches herself off the bed and directly at me, mashing our bodies together, colliding us into the wall. Her arms hold me tightly, like they're squeezing the air right out of my lungs. Never before have I been held as though I'm the only thing allowing someone to cling onto life; simultaneously, I want this moment to happen every day and never to occur again. It's terrifying and stimulating, the way she has herself pressed against me in the most needy, desperate of ways.
She kisses my neck- not like she's trying to get me to do the same to her, but like her brain has gone on overdrive and she must provide as much comfort, as much love as she possibly can. "Sometimes the brave need the most help because they have suffered the most," she whispers. "You're the brave one, Alex; don't be afraid to ask for help."
I try to respond to her words, but all that comes out are dry sobs that wrack my body whole, sending shivers down to my core.
After my breathing rate slows down, Mitchie figures that it's time to have a calm talk with me. She's probably right. "Alex... I don't know where to start."
"Neither do I. All of this is so confusing right now, but I'm just too emotionally spent to get worked up about it again." That's true. I feel like I'm ready to collapse right about now even though I can't physically sink any further into this bed. Mitchie's lying next to me, both of us on our backs and staring up at the ceiling, not touching at all.
She sighs deeply, smiles a little. "Good. Then we can get through this easy. You're being way too hard on yourself, Alex. Nothing will come to you without self-respect and self-esteem; I thought we discussed this back at Havenwood, that one time?"
I shrug as best I can. "It's hard not to beat myself up after something like this. I'm not perfect, but I feel like I have to be for everyone around me. Any show of weakness feels... wrong."
"You're a person, Alex, not a god. Everyone around you? We can fend for ourselves every once in a while," she says with an adorable smirk without looking at me.
I swallow over-dramatically, chewing on my lip as I think. "Maybe... I don't know what to be anymore. All I ever knew, everything I was-" I stop, not terribly sure how to go on and place thoughts into words.
"Everything you were was defined by the society you lived in. You rebelled against things you thought were wrong and fought to protect people you love. Now, there's nothing left to rebel against, nothing left to protect us from." She flips over to her side and slides her hand over to touch my cheek, forcing my teary eyes to stare into her steadfast ones. "We hold on to what we know, and you- your whole existence was defined by getting out of there. Now that you're here, you don't know who you are any more. And that's why you can't let go of who you were."
I force my eyes away from her, drawing them to my hands fiddling with the bottom of my shirt. "What if I can't find someone else to be?"
She actually lets out a small laugh at this. "There will always be someone, somewhere who needs someone to fight for them. You just have to keep looking."
"And what about until then?" My voice barely cracks a whisper.
"You're always my love, Margaret's new best friend, and Tom's most exciting person ever. And even more, you'll always be Alex. I think it would be pretty hard to get away from that." She giggles like a small child, finding humor in the most unlikely and unintentional places.
I'm not thoroughly convinced, my brother's death still lingering in my mind. "And Max... how does he fit into all of this?"
Her smile fades and her hand finds its way into mine. "There's no deep explanation for that, no real words of encouragement I can offer you. Nobody can save everyone, Alex. And that's just something you're going to have to understand yourself."
I don't know what else to say, mostly because no more words see fit to crawl out of my mouth. I realize that I still have to make Mitchie pancakes, though I'll have to talk to Tom about that because I have no idea how to cook at all. My parents always thought that I was tempted by fire because of all the Satanic symbolism, and by that I mean they thought I was attracted to it because of the fires of Hell. Whatever. I'm over them. Sort of.
"I love you, Mitchie. Really." I hope she understands that even though I can't express that, I mean it with all of my heart.
She leans over and kisses me on the nose- it's so cute that I have to smile widely at her as she mutters, "I love you, too, Alex. Really really."
At that moment, Margaret bursts in, her eyes happy. "Who wants to go on a field trip?"
Tom's house is very nice from what I can tell. He has a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bathrooms, and three bedrooms. He's invited us to stay with him for Christmas because he doesn't think that our hotel room is good enough. Margaret brought the tiny little Christmas tree she bought early, though it looks kind of pathetic next to Tom's giant one. It's huge! It goes almost all the way to the ceiling with a cartoon character named Snoopy perched on top. Tom tried to explain to me who Snoopy is, but I don't really understand. He promises to get me some of the old comic strips some day, even though I'm not quite sure what those are.
"Hey, Tom?" It's almost bedtime and I've just caught him on his way out from the bathroom.
He looks kind of really tired but is ready to help anyway. "What?"
"I was just wondering if you'd help me with the pancakes in the morning. I've never used a stove before."
At this, he smiles widely. "Sure, kiddo. No problem." He ruffles my hair- which appears to be a sign of fondness- and stalks off to bed with a huge yawn. I, too, decide to go to bed, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep. I'm too nervously excited for tomorrow: both nervous and excited to give Mitchie her present, both nervous and excited to find out what Tom and Margaret's Christmas is really like. Because honestly part of me is afraid that someone will ring the doorbell in the morning, commanding us to go to chapel and pray silently, and then paddle us every time we make a movement. And I know that I won't be able to stay still because I've never been able to stay still, and I'll be beyond angry because-
Breathe, Alex. Just breathe.
I manage to get into the room in one piece, Mitchie already curled up on the bed. Smiling, I just look for a moment. Somehow I always find a certain form of peace in watching Mitchie sleep- not in some creepy way, but it relaxes me as though something has clicked in the universe and we're alright. I don't know why or how; it just happens.
"You know I'm not asleep, Alex. I see you staring," comes from the bed, followed by a twinkling laugh.
I blush red as hell at this. "I wasn't staring."
"Yeah, you were."
"Well, only because you're absolutely beautiful," I reply smugly.
"What did Margaret call this?"
"Flirting, I believe." I've moved over to the bed now, sitting on the edge and pushing her body over a little so I can wriggle in under the covers.
She grabs onto my pajama shirt, drawing me in with an intoxicating mixture of scent, sight, and touch. "I think we're doing quite a good job of it." Her voice has dropped to a lower growl almost, a husky quality I've not really heard before. My mind doesn't really understand why but my instincts do, creating a passionate and undeniably sexual tingling all over my body- it's nearly a hum.
"Really?" Our bodies get achingly closer to each other, legs and feet touching at the end of the bed, hands worming their way toward each other.
Her face comes right in front of mine, just inches away, so near that I can't tell if I'm breathing air or her. "Absolutely."
And we meet in a kiss, slow and loving, but still tentatively building. Everything about it- from our moving lips to our roaming hands- feels like it's on the brink, ready to explode into something more if one of us would just push it over the edge. I know it can't be me. Definitely not me.
But it doesn't need to be me since she climbs on top of me, legs straddling either side of my hips, just barely brushing against them. Her hands drift from my shoulders down along my sides, running the length of them all the way down to my waist. And she stops. "Alex..."
I see the pain behind her eyes, the confusion, none of it dimmed by the darkness. I take her hands in mine and remove them from waist. Bringing them up to my lips, I place a kiss on each one. "You lead, and I'll follow." It's all the encouragement she needs.
Her lips fall back onto mine, still feather light to the touch. But the animal instinct inside of me takes over, and I wrap my arms around her neck to pull her down. She lays down totally on top of my body, everything touching and pushing and rubbing together in a mismatched sort of rhythm. We're not experienced by anyone's standards, but even so I can't imagine ever feeling any better.
Boldly and slowly, I move my hands over the smooth cream of her back, causing a gasp and a moan and a throaty, "Keep going." I let my fingers dance up further timidly, fumbling around the straps of her bra. But I'm not going to take it off. That would be too much for me right now- I can't imagine what it would be for her.
I have no time to think about that, however, as her hand slips under my shirt and begins to rub my stomach in small circles causing a sensation that feels like she's tickling me, only it doesn't make me want to laugh. I slowly try to move my mouth to her ear, kissing the spot behind it that she absolutely loves. And it this heightened state, it appears to make her lose it as well. Her breathing speeds up and more moans and indistinguishable words flow from her mouth as I move from her ear to her jawline, south to her neck. I reach her shoulder, her collarbone, the edge of her shirt. I'm about ready to give up, to return to her lips, when I hear, "Keep going."
My hands frighteningly move up from her waist, taking her shirt along with them. It slides over her head and lands needlessly onto the ground beside us. Doubt clouds her eyes, but it's mixed with the same desire I fill up mine.
"Wait," I say, using my hands to lift up my own shirt and throw it on the floor as well. "Now we're even."
I watch her eyes rake over every inch of my body, and I do the same to her; we're both still wearing our bras, but I can't help but notice absolutely wonderful the curve of her breasts look in that bra, the smooth skin on her stomach expanding and contracting with each quick breath she takes. And I can't help but feel self-conscious as her hands explore my stomach, wordlessly questioning me about the batch of scars there.
"Sometimes the whip... came around front," I explain, voice cracking. For a second, it's just like the old days; instead of responding with words, she responds with touch. At my statement, Mitchie moves back on the bed, drifting so that her hips rest between my legs and her face is over my stomach. Her warm breath bounces off my skin, chilling it to the point of shivers.
"Don't worry; you're safe now." She kisses my stomach, kisses and sucks on each scar as my hands tangle in her hair and shallow moans escape from my mouth. She continues back up, kissing each patch of skin, the area right between my breasts and then a kiss on each one, on each part she can reach without removing my bra. We're not ready for that yet.
She's afraid to do it, I can tell, as her hand just hovers in the air right over my chest, but I'm not afraid. My own hand reaches up to grab hers and lowers it down over my chest. At first, she's not really sure what to do, but after trying a couple of different things, she starts to squeeze and pinch and rub. And I can't believe my brain is even functioning anymore, the pleasure erupting everywhere and causing me to move under her touch.
Then- even more great- she takes one of my hands that is resting on her back and moves it right over her chest. We stop kissing for a moment, stop everything, my hand just resting there. "Are you sure...?"
"You trust me; I can trust you." She hungrily attacks my lips as I repeat the same motions on her breasts as she did on mine until at last our fatigued bodies fall back onto the bed and into each others arms.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Christmas morning dawns with Margaret playing those annoyingly catchy songs and yelling at us all to get up. Groaning, Mitchie and I move from the warm safety of our bed, not realizing we're still in just bras. We stare at each for a moment, and then start to laugh. Last night will always play in my memory like a beautiful song you have stuck in your head but never want to get out.
"Are you excited?" I ask, almost bouncing with the same trepidation I felt last night as I put on my pajama shirt and get ready to exit.
Mitchie's words are muffled by the shirt she's pulling over her head, but I can still understand them: "More than ever."
"Then let's go."
In the hall, nothing has changed, but once we enter the living room, it becomes clear that either Tom or Margaret did some extra decorating in addition to putting the gifts out. There's now golden streamers all around the ceiling, the tree having more ornaments than it did last night. While Mitchie goes to gush over the decorations with Margaret, Tom snatches me up and into the kitchen.
"Hey," he says quietly so as not to attract their attention. "I mixed the batter up- you didn't miss anything; I just added water. Also, the stove's ready to go."
I so don't get what he wants me to do. "Tom, when I say I haven't cooked anything... I mean that as literally as it sounds."
This doesn't deter him; if anything, he grows a wider smile. "OK, well, it's easy. All you have to do is put the batter in this pan and then arrange it into whatever shape you want. Did you come up with any good shapes?"
"I think I want to spell 'LOVE' with four pancakes," I reply. Even though it seems slightly cliched, it just seems to fit. I don't know why, but I'll feel very proud when I present her with the pancakes of love. I know I will.
Tom and I have quite the time trying to spell that out properly considering how neither of us really have many cooking skills. In the end, the "L" is a little crooked, the "O" looks a little more like an oval, the "V" is lopsided, and the "E" looks like its missing the middle stem. But it's the best we got while Margaret was distracting Mitchie. Apparently Tom set up that part of the plan without my knowledge. Thank God for that.
Finally, we call Margaret and Mitchie into the kitchen. Margaret looks like she's about to burst to laughter and the horrible craftsmanship/undeniable cuteness of the gesture while Mitchie's eyes are filled with tears- happy tears- as she runs to hug me.
"Thank you." She pecks me behind the ear and pulls away. "Shall we eat?"
The pancakes, surprisingly, are actually good. Tom claims that this is because it's impossible to screw up pancakes that come from batter, but Margaret and Mitchie both assure us that it's from my intense cooking skills.
We retreat to the living room and exchange some more presents. Margaret gets both Mitchie and I bracelets, though mine is made from black leather and hers has some sort of charm thing on it. She gets Tom a set of salt-and-pepper shakers that look like lobsters because he's from Maine and lobsters are a staple up there or something. Tom had no idea what to buy for three girls, so he gives us all toothbrushes and then says that offering us his house is the real gift, to which we all agree.
And then it's time for Mitchie's gift to me.
It's a small box, just big enough to fill up the palm of my hand. Curious, I lift the lid off the box to see a cross on silver chain bearing the words "Who are you?"
"It was Max's," she mutters quietly. "The night we escaped, he asked me to put it in my pocket while he went to change clothes. He carried it every day, and I never gave it back. I thought it belonged in the family."
Choked up, I let the tears fall from my cheeks as she hooks the necklace on. But they're more serene tears now, because I know where he is now. Well, I don't really know, but I've got an idea.
In this moment, I know that there's something more than us out there, some other entity that allows the spirits to live on. Because I can feel him in this very room, like a wind on a tranquil summer's night. Somewhere around us, somewhere surrounding us, there he is.
Here he is.
