Lost

by Nadia Simonenko

  This is why I need to stay away from Maria. Dad’s not the only nutcase in my family... what if I lose control and hit her? I could never forgive myself.

  Besides, why would a girl like Maria want to deal with a mess like me?

  I wrap my hand in an ice pack and sit back down on the couch, trying to put myself back together again. Humpty Dumpty’s got nothing on me.

  “I’m not always a spineless wimp,” I think as I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling again. I knocked that snowboarder on his ass for harassing Maria, after all. That has to count for something, right?

  Samantha’s angelic smile flits across my mind, a memory from so very long ago. Somehow, I think she’d be proud of me.

  Friday, March 1 – 2:30 AM

  Maria

  My pulse pounds in my skull as I bolt upright in bed, screaming in terror. I’m covered in sweat, and my heart races at a million miles an hour.

  I’m in my own room. I’m in college.

  “Oh thank God,” I think, taking a deep breath of relief.

  I reach under the pillow and retrieve my green notebook. I have to write this nightmare down. It’s probably in the book a hundred times already, but one of these days, it’ll stay there.

  I hear Tina’s light footsteps running down the hall and the sound of my doorknob turning, but I pay no attention to her. I have to write.

  Darren won’t stop staring at me. I’m so uncomfortable, but he keeps looking at me.

  “You’re sure your brother isn’t coming home until tonight?” he asks, and a chill runs through my body. Something about his voice terrifies me even more than usual.

  “Um... maybe he’ll be back earlier,” I lie. I know he won’t. He said five o’clock at the earliest.

  Darren sits down on the couch and the cushion shifts beneath me. I feel as if I’m going to slide into him. I focus very hard on my book, trying to pretend that my heart isn’t racing and that he’s not staring at me as if I’m his favorite food.

  “How long are you here?” he asks. I can still feel him staring at me.

  “Just until tomorrow,” I say and then add, “That’s okay, right? Micah didn’t mention that you lived with him. I didn’t know he had a roommate.”

  I’d never have come if I’d known he lived here.

  “Hey, no problem by me,” he says, putting his boots up on the table and spreading out on the couch. “Cute girls are always welcome here.”

  If he meant that as a compliment, it didn’t work. All it does is creep me out even more. I’m acutely aware of one of his arms runs along the back of the couch behind my head. I’m starting to sweat, and my chest tightens as he yawns, stretches his arms, and brushes a hand through my hair.

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to shake. If he meant to touch my hair, he’s sure not giving any sign of it. Maybe I’m being too nervous. It could have been accidental.

  No sooner do I start to believe myself than he pulls his arms back and touches his fingers against my leg, just below the bottom of my skirt. His fingers barely lift the base of my skirt as he runs them ticklishly up my leg.

  “Oops, sorry,” he apologizes, snatching his hand back. He doesn’t sound convincing at all.

  My hands start to tremble so much that I can’t focus on my book anymore. There’s no way that he just accidentally ran his hand up my thigh. A touch? Maybe. Lifting my skirt? I don’t believe him for a second.

  I look up at the clock—it’s not even noon yet.

  “I think I’m going to go upstairs for a bit,” I tell him, my voice wavering as I get up from the couch. “It’s been nice talking to you.”

  Without a word, he gets up as well.

  I hurry up the stairs, but with each step, I hear the deep ‘thud’ of his boots coming up behind me. Why is he following me? Oh Jesus... Micah! Please, dear God make him come home early!

  I look over my shoulder at him, my legs shaking so much that I can barely walk, and see him following me down the hall. He’s still staring at me in the same disgusting, dehumanizing way he always used to—like I’m not a fifteen-year-old girl, but instead a delicious cut of meat he can’t wait to dig into.

  I fumble nervously with the doorknob to Micah’s room for just a second too long, and I can’t get it closed before he reaches it. He pushes the door open, comes in after me, and closes the door.

  My heart feels like it’s going to explode in sheer, abject terror as he locks the door behind him and turns back to me with that horrible smile of his.

  I’m trapped in here with him.

  Tina hugs me as I close the book, and I start to cry.

  “Talk to me, sweetie,” she whispers, squeezing me tightly.

  “Fuck you, Darren,” I sob, shaking and burying my face in her shoulder as she holds me. “Fuck you!”

  “Darren’s gone, Maria,” she whispers in my ear as tears pour down my face. “He was horrible, but he’s gone forever now. You’re safe again.”

  I shake my head, still unable to stop crying long enough to get a word out, but Tina already knows what I was going to say.

  “Owen’s not like Darren,” she tells me, her voice calm and soothing as she runs a hand slowly through my hair. “You can trust him. I know you feel like you can’t, but please believe me!”

  Darren still dominates my life seven years later, and I hate him for it. I hate him more than anyone else in the world.

  "I was a little girl!" I sob. My voice is hoarse and ragged from crying. "What the hell did he even want with me?"

  "It's all about power," answers Tina calmly, still holding me tightly. "He wanted to feel strong by hurting you."

  She runs a hand through my hair as she embraces me, and her touch starts to calm me down as the nightmare fades.

  "He hurt you just so he could feel like he controlled you, and I hope he rots in Hell for it," whispers Tina.

  Her voice is calm and quiet, but behind the whisper is a sharp, angry glint. I don't doubt for a second that, if Darren were here right now, she'd tear him to pieces.

  I don’t know when I fell asleep, but suddenly my alarm clock goes off and I wake up with a terribly stiff neck. I’m leaning back against the bed frame, Tina’s arm still around me and my head on her shoulder, and she’s stroking my hair as if I’m her daughter.

  “You okay, Maria?” she whispers, and I nod awkwardly and get up to silence the alarm.

  “Tina... did you stay up all night?”

  “You needed the company,” she answers.

  I feel even worse now.

  “How are you going to stay awake through class?” I ask in horror and humiliation. “You shouldn’t have done that!”

  She smiles at me before answering.

  “Hmm... do I settle for one miserable day of classes, or do I let you suffer all night? Not a tough decision.”

  I hang my head out of shame. I can’t believe she still stands by me after all these years.

  “I don’t deserve you, Tina. You’re an angel.”

  “You did it for me,” she answers weakly, her voice cracking. “You were there for me when Mom went away.”

  My eyes start to tear up and my throat tightens. She’s talking about the day her mother’s Alzheimer’s finally got so bad that she stopped recognizing her.

  “And I’d do it again if you needed me,” I croak, and then I turn and run to the bathroom.

  I need to shower before class, and more urgently, I need to get away before I start crying. If I start, she’ll start, and then we’ll both be miserable in class all day.

  ––––––––

  I worried earlier in the day that I would fall asleep in class after such a miserable night—and admittedly, my eyes did drift shut during lunch—but now that I’m in my statistics class, I have a very different worry.

  I’m worried about Owen.

  “So, um... we’re going to be taking the positive hypothesis in this one as the null. Wait... um... yeah, that’s it,” he stammers, sc
ribbling illegibly on the board. “No... that’s wrong. Ignore that. We’re going to...”

  This is the worst lecture I’ve ever seen him give. I can’t read his writing, he’s stumbling over nearly every word, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days! Not a single thing he’s saying makes sense, and I can tell, from the faces of the students around me, that it’s not just me.

  “Why is he writing with his left hand?”

  Just as the thought registers in my mind, he turns away from the board and looks right at me. He cradles his right hand—crudely wrapped in bandages—against his chest with an ice pack balanced precariously on top of it. His eyes are dark, and he grits his teeth as he adjusts the ice. It hurts me to see him in so much pain.

  I’m not even pretending to pay attention to the lecture anymore. My eyes lock onto Owen, watching as he stammers awkwardly and tries to write with his left hand. He gets so flustered that he has to stop and go look at his notes, and I feel terrible for him. I can’t pay attention to my notes, to the board, to anything at all except for the terrible misery radiating from him.

  What on earth happened to him?

  Our eyes keep finding each other every time he turns to face the class, and I feel my neck tense up each time. Strange, awkward feelings bubble up inside my chest, and I don’t know what to make of them.

  “Okay... I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” he sputters to the class, tossing down his marker in frustration. “How about I just take questions about the homework, and I’ll schedule an extra section and more office hours for anyone who wants the lecture material later this week?”

  An irritating, blond-haired girl chewing loudly on a wad of gum raises her hand on the far side of the room, and Owen points to her.

  “Like... umm, what happened to your hand?”

  Owen turns and looks directly at me without answering the girl, and I’m blown away by the look in his eyes.

  It’s as if I’m fifteen again, looking in the mirror at myself the next morning after Darren finished with me, trying to tell myself that I’ll be okay. I feel cold as I gaze back into the black pit of misery in his eyes.

  Something is horribly wrong with Owen, and I’m scared now.

  “I think we’re done for the day,” he says quietly, and he grabs his notebook and bolts out of the room.

  “Wait, what about the homework?” calls out a boy on the other side of the room. The rest of the class bursts into a confused uproar, blabbing back and forth with each other while I leap to my feet, grab my backpack, and chase after Owen.

  By the time I push past the crowd of students and get out into the hallway, he’s long gone.

  “Okay... now what?” I mutter to myself as I try to collect my thoughts.

  Do I just let him go? It’s none of my business what’s going on with him; maybe he wants to be left alone.

  “No way! Something’s really wrong with him!” my mind screams back at me. I’m really worried about him.

  Maybe Tina’s right... maybe I do have a crush on him.

  No. It has nothing to do with crushes and everything to do with that look in his eyes. I’ve seen it in the mirror almost every day since I was fifteen.

  Owen is lost just like me, and he needs my help.

  I pull out my cell phone, and this time it’s easy for me to call him. No fear or awkwardness is going to hold me back today—not when he needs help.

  The call goes straight to his voicemail, and I hang up without leaving a message. He turned off his phone.

  Tina is next. I pace nervously up and down the hall, dodging students as they wander out of the classroom, and she finally answers five rings later.

  “Hi Maria! I’m just about to go to class. Can I call you back?”

  “You have Craig’s phone number, right?” I ask, ignoring her question.

  “Umm... what?”

  “Tina, it’s important.”

  “Yeah, I have it,” she finally answers. "I have class, though. Can it..."

  “Call him. I need you to get Owen’s address and text it to me.”

  “But...”

  “Please! This is really important!” I beg, cutting her off again.

  “Maria, what’s going on?”

  Tina sounds nervous, and I wish I knew what was wrong so that I could ease her mind.

  “Everything’s okay,” I lie. “I’ll explain it tonight, okay? I promise.”

  Friday, March 1 – 4:30 PM

  Maria

  I hurry down the long, icy staircase toward my apartment, but this time, instead of going all the way to the bottom and turning left, I only go down two flights and then turn right.

  Owen and Craig live in apartment twenty at the far end of the row. How did I never once see him in the two years I’ve lived here?

  My knuckles ache from the cold as I rap on the door, and I stick my hands inside my coat pockets as I wait. Nobody answers.

  “Owen?”

  I bang on the door again and shift my weight back and forth between my cold feet. I’ll wait out here all night if I have to, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. It’s only four-thirty, but it’s already getting dark.

  Just as I’m about to knock again, I hear footsteps inside. The lock clicks, and then Owen opens the door. He has an ice pack wrapped around his right hand and he looks like he’s been crying.

  “Can I come in?” I ask as he stares at me in silence.

  He shakes his head indecisively. For a moment, I think he’s going to close the door in my face, but then he finally breaks down and invites me in.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, and I take off my boots and coat as he closes the door and silently walks past me.

  The downstairs of his apartment is exactly like mine, except it’s cleaner and better organized. With four girls living in my apartment, it’s hard to keep things tidy. Tiny potted plants line the kitchen window sill, and the living room walls are practically covered with framed photographs.

  “Um... do you want a drink?” he finally asks, heading into the kitchen.

  “No, but thank you,” I answer. “I want to know what happened to your hand, and I want to see it.”

  “I just hurt it a little,” he protests. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Bullshit it’s not a big deal!” I fire back at him.

  I don’t know where all this energy and confidence came from, but I feel like I could stare down even Tina right now. Maybe Tina’s a little bit of a stretch, but I’m doing really well by my standards, at least.

  “I’m fine, Maria,” he tries to tell me, but the pained look on his face gives him away.

  “Oh come on already! Show me your hand!” I snap, glaring angrily at him.

  He finally gives in and removes the ice pack. I feel sick to my stomach as I see the bulging bandages around his thumb. The swelling is horrible even with ice and bandages, and I almost throw up as I carefully unwrap it and see that his skin is turning black.

  “Can you move your thumb at all?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

  “That settles it, then,” I say. “Come on—I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “It’s just bruised, Maria!”

  “It’s fucking broken, Owen!” I shout at him, and he winces and shrinks back from me as if I’ve just struck him across the face.

  I back away from him and go silent, uncertain about what just happened. Did I just do something wrong? Nobody likes to be yelled at, but something about how he reacted doesn’t feel right.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve broken a bone. I’ll be okay,” he says quietly, trying not to look at me.

  “Owen... I’m not leaving until you come with me,” I tell him as gently as I can. There’s no way I’m letting him try to wait out a broken bone.

  He tries to argue, but I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer tonight.

  “You have to go to a doctor! I’ll even drive you. We can take Tina’s car,” I push, hoping he’ll give in to pressure.

  “Is this really
why you came over?” he asks after a long silence.

  “It’s a start,” I answer. “We can talk more later.”

  “Alright, I’ll go,” he finally gives in, and he sighs dejectedly as he fetches his coat.

  ––––––––

  The sun has long since gone down when I finally get Owen back to our apartment complex. It took the doctors less than an hour to set his thumb and get him into a cast, but we still had to wait in the emergency room for three hours before that.

  “How are you holding up back there?” I call back to him as I pull into the parking spot.

  “I... wow, really dizzy,” slurs Owen from the back seat. The doctor gave him some Vicodin to stop the pain, and it’s hitting him like a truck.

  “Don’t worry; it’s just the painkillers,” I tell him as I help him out of the car. He wraps his arm around mine and wobbles across the parking lot as I support him

  “This way. Careful, don’t trip,” I say gently, guiding him slowly, step by difficult step, down the staircase toward his apartment. I imagine that if I let go of him, he’d flop head over heels all the way to the bottom like a human slinky.

  It takes me almost half an hour to get him down to the door of his apartment and another five minutes until he figures out where his keys are. He’s so loopy from the painkillers that he’s practically helpless.

  Finally, he finds his keys. After the third time he drops them in the snow, I snatch them away from him, unlock the door, and then sigh happily as the welcoming warmth of the apartment washes over me.

  “You want anything to drink?” I ask him after getting him comfortable on the couch.

  “Um... any beer in the fridge?”

  “You’re on Vicodin. You can’t have any.”

  “I like tea... can I have tea?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Top cabinet above the stove.”

  I hunt through four cabinets before finally finding the one with all his mugs, and then repeat the process with drawers and spoons while the water heats up in the microwave. In goes the teabag, and then I head to the fridge to get something for myself while his tea steeps.