Always, Abby: Freshman Year

by M. Boothe

  He told me that he knew I was Dawson’s girlfriend, but that Dawson had told him not to mention it to me. So, I realized that not only has he been hiding it from me, but he also obviously knew how wrong it was if he was taking the time to warn people to keep it quiet.

  I must have made a sound or maybe it was just the betrayal that I knew I could feel taking over my face, because he reached out and touched my hand, telling me he was sorry. I don’t know even know why he was the one saying sorry.

  We sat in the classroom for about twenty minutes. I tried to tell him that if he needed help studying or trying to manage his time better, that I could help him. I was good at making lists and graphs. He laughed, but said he’d think about it. I told him to ask me anytime.

  When he stood to leave, I grabbed his arm. He stared at me for a second before I had the bravery to speak.

  I begged him, Dear Heart. I begged him to reach out, to ask for help, instead of putting something dangerous in his body. I pulled every card I could think of to show him. Getting kicked out of school, his future, his family. I even told him to think about football. He told me not to worry, and that he’d be okay.

  I feel like one of the most useless things you can do is to tell somebody not to worry. If somebody’s already talking about it, they’re already worried. You can’t just sweep that feeling away with the dust on the floor.

  I didn’t even really know this guy, but I knew drugs. I knew addiction. I knew the twisted, winding path that never ended, full of snakes and rabid beasts, that convinced you into making friends and staying with them.

  I told him that. I told him that I didn’t care that until that day I had never talked to him. I cared, and I worried.

  He never responded. He just looked at me for another second and walked out the door. I was glad he at least shut it behind him. I needed the privacy to think about what was happening right then.

  Dawson had lied to me. He had kept this from me. He had flat out told people not to tell me he was doing it. But why?

  Do you know that when somebody’s been hit one too many times, when they’ve been hurt too often, they can turn themselves off? When you’ve been living in the darkness for so long anyway, you learn where the switches are. There are monsters in the darkness that can feed on you and your feelings. You have to learn pretty fast how to flip that switch so they can’t smell the fear cooking inside of you.

  I felt that today. I felt that very tangible flip of the switch, and I just didn’t care what else happened. I knew I couldn’t stay at school because I didn’t want to see Dawson again between classes. I already knew he’d probably be looking for me since he knew I was supposed to mediate today.

  I called Mom from the office and asked if she could get my grandpa to come pick me up. I told her I had gotten sick during lunch, and I just needed to go home. She complained about the effort it was going to take to make the call and that she didn’t want Grandpa to come in, but she agreed anyway.

  It takes about half an hour to get to the house from the school. The entire trip there was an awkward silence. I barely talk to my grandparents as it is, and I couldn’t start today. I think Grandpa knew something was wrong, so he just stayed quiet. I wanted to yell at him that he’s been quiet for too long. He knows what’s going on at home. Everybody in the family must know. They never say anything.

  I’ve been hiding in my room ever since. Mom has this rule that if I miss school, no matter the reason, I’m not allowed to use the phone. So, at least I have that as backup for not answering when Dawson called three times tonight.

  I don’t even know what to say to him, or how to tell him that I feel like he’s broken something. He knew how I felt. He knew about Mom. He knew about the bruises. He knew that I was scared. But he did it all anyway.

  Is it selfish of me to be mad? To be angry? To feel this hurt?

  Is it wrong of me to want somebody to finally put me before their vices? To finally show me that I matter? Am I asking too much?

  Have I always asked too much?

  I wonder sometimes if every other kid at school has these horrible, hidden secrets at home. If they have addicts for parents, parents who neglect them, parents who abuse them, and they’ve just grown used to keeping it buried like I have. At the age of fifteen I’ve lost count of how many lies I’ve had to dish out to fill the empty plate I was served at birth.

  I wish you could talk to me. I wish you could show me what I’m supposed to do, give me some kind of advice, because I obviously haven’t been able to figure anything out so far.

  I’m already trying to come up with an excuse to give Mom so that I can stay home tomorrow. I don’t want to face Dawson at school. I don’t want to have that conversation in front of people.

  I don’t want to do anything.

  Always,

  Abby

  March 20, 2004

  Dear Heart,

  I broke up with Dawson yesterday.

  I don’t have a lot to say yet other than breaking up with him also broke me, too.

  Mason told me that it would be okay, that he'd help me figure it out. I don't know if I can. I really don't know if I want to.

  Mom saw that I was upset and offered me one of her orange pills to help put me to sleep.

  How nice.

  Always,

  Abby

  Tainted

  The thing stained her

  Like the glass in church windows

  Deep inside her sad soul

  April 1, 2004

  Dear Heart,

  April Fool’s Day is one big asshole. One big, smelly asshole.

  Do you know it was invented hundreds of years ago as a way to make fun of people who forgot that the calendar had switched? It just seems mean to me, to ridicule somebody for not knowing something. I don’t know how it shifted into what it is today, but I hate it.

  Nothing specific actually happened today. My life is already a joke.

  Have you ever made a decision about something and instantly regretted it? Like, you absolutely know you made the right choice, that it’s what’s best for you, but you can’t convince yourself to stick to it? I’m having that problem right now.

  I’m so twisted up inside that I’m staying sick to my stomach every single day. What am I supposed to do? Can I forgive Dawson, knowing how easy it was for him to lie to me? I’m used to trying to forgive people who do bad things. I’m used to bad things. Can I forgive myself, though, if I take him back when he’s taking the same route I said I’d never walk on? Can I trust him not to turn out like Mom?

  He tried to talk to me today at my locker. Mason had to tell him to back off. He tried to argue with him, and it ended in a shoving match. I had to get in between them to stop it. I stole a look at Dawson when my hand hit his chest. His whole body was shaking. I’m not sure with what, if it was anger or frustration. But he laid his hand over mine before he walked away.

  It feels like he’s almost stalking me now. Every time I leave a class he’s right there. Most of the time he doesn’t even talk to me, he just watches as I walk to another one. He also stares at me during lunch. Somehow, it’s made Drew even angrier at me. Whenever I find Dawson looking at me, I see Drew staring daggers in my direction. His deep black eyes have started to pop into my dreams at night, matching the darkness that consumes me while I try to sleep. I wish I could tell him that I didn’t do anything wrong. That he should ask Dawson what happened, because he’s clearly not paying attention to his best friend.

  I think Mason is almost as worried as I am. He's been trying to stick close to me at school so that he can see if anything happens.

  I’ve found a handful of little notes from Dawson stuck in my locker, begging me to talk to him. I don’t want to tell him that it’ll hurt too much. I don’t want to tell him that I’m seconds away from giving in.

  I wanted him to be different. I wanted him to look at me and think I deserved better. I wanted him to look at the distractions he put in his life, in his body, and stil
l see me, pick me, choose me.

  Love me.

  I know that he looks almost as miserable as I feel. A part of me rejoices in that. I never cause pain or retaliate. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. But, where I don’t participate, I know Karma can tag herself in.

  I’m lying on my bed while I talk to you, listening to music. I wonder what he’s doing right now, if he’s thinking about me. If he wants me back as much as I want to forget about finding out the lies he’s webbed together to catch me with.

  The thing about webs, though, is that after time they deteriorate, much like the secrecy that built them.

  Always,

  Abby

  *Dawson*

  Abs,

  Please talk to me.

  I know that what I did hurt you, and I promised never to do that. I’m not that person. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t want to talk about it in a letter that I have to hide in your locker. I want to tell you to your face so that you can see how much I mean what I say.

  I can’t tell you how sorry I am if you won’t talk to me. You have to talk to me.

  I’m going crazy thinking about how much I messed up with you. Fuck, Abby.

  Please.

  April 14, 2004

  Dear Heart,

  I was sitting outside today under the willow tree in our backyard. It’s one of the only pretty things about where we live. Sometimes I take a blanket and sit under it for as long as I can until the bugs start their feast on my skin. I love being under it sometimes when the wind starts to move its branches. They feel like pieces of the sky reaching out to me.

  There was a story Dad told me once about an old woman who lived down the road. She was believed to be a witch. She had silver hair down her back, and according to him, she always walked with a stick. She didn’t need the stick to walk with, she just always carried it with her. Part of the story says that whenever somebody upset her, or she felt like avenging someone else who was upset, the person who was guilty would feel like they were being hit with something whenever they passed her, whether it was in a store or on the street. She supposedly planted this tree as a reminder that, even when she’s gone, her powers will still hang around the town.

  I wish I could talk to her, because her powers are obviously failing right now. But I like the story anyway.

  From the edge of our backyard, if you look really hard through the trees, you can see what’s left of her house. It was really more of a shack than anything. When I was little, I used to wander back there and just stare at it. It was so dilapidated that I never tried to actually go inside, but sometimes I’d walk up to the pieces of porch that were left and touch them with my fingertips. I’d rest the palm of my hand on the splintered wood and breathe really deep, trying to suck in any spirit that was left of her, gather the remains of her strength.

  I don’t really think I ever felt anything, like a presence or something, but like I said, I liked the story anyway.

  Whenever I try to talk about it, Mason always tells me to stop being weird. I know that he believes in spooky things, too. I think he's just worried about upsetting the witch.

  There was a weird feeling following me around all day at school today. It felt like I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t figure it out. I double checked with people in every class, but I hadn’t missed any assignments and there weren’t any tests this week.

  I got to lunch, and Justin came up to me. He told me that he had talked to his mom and admitted that he felt too pressured at school. She found a tutor for him, and he’s decided not to play football this fall. Apparently, he doesn’t think he’s good anyway. Truth be told, I don’t really remember him playing in the handful of games I’ve been able to watch. So maybe he’s right.

  He thanked me, though, for the help I’d given to him. I don’t know if we’re going to be friends or not. School cliques are weird, but I couldn’t be happier for him. He squatted in the floor beside where I sat and talked for a few minutes about classes. I offered to help him with a couple that I thought I was okay in. He told me he’d think about it. I told him again how happy I was because I could see how much better he felt.

  I was not happy, however, when he walked away, and I made eye contact with Drew. He stared me down until I couldn’t take it and looked away. I wish I could figure that out, too. I don’t know if he’s angry because I wouldn’t talk to Dawson, or if it’s something else. But it’s been driving me crazy.

  But, having that happen made me realize I hadn’t seen Dawson up to that point. My eyes roamed the cafeteria for him. It was odd for him to miss school. Something about it didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t want to admit that I was worried about him, but I was. I knew firsthand how badly you could be altered from chemical influences. I thought back and forth about calling him, but I didn’t know what to say or how to ask if he was okay. It could all be nothing, anyway.

  When I got home the house was a mess. I don’t know what she was trying to do, but for some reason Mom had decided to rearrange all the furniture in the living room. I had to climb over the couch just to get down the hallway to put my backpack in my room.

  She accused me of being rude at dinner because I didn’t say anything while we were eating. She made me sit in the living room with her while we ate. I don’t even know why she wanted me there. After her yelling at me for twenty minutes, Dad told me to take my food to my room.

  I called and talked to Mason for a little bit after that. I was trying to find something to distract me from all the crazy things bursting inside my head. He ended up having to go pretty quick, though. He said he had family stuff to do.

  I had been sitting here for a couple of hours after we got off the phone, working on homework and watching something on T.V., when I heard a noise at my window. I knew before I looked that I would find a boy standing there with sandy hair and sad blue eyes. I knew he’d look miserable and that he’d want me to let him in. What I wasn’t prepared for was the complete mess that he was.

  I opened the window as fast and quiet as I could and moved out of the way. He climbed in and just looked at me. He gripped my shoulders with hands that were shaking. I looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot above huge black patches showing he hadn’t slept in who knows how long. I didn’t know what to do other than let him hold on to me. That is, until he started to try to talk, and his words slurred together.

  He came through my window drunk.

  I leaned forward a little and realized I could actually smell it. I may have been too shocked at first, but it hit me hard when I took a breath in front of him.

  I told him he needed to be quiet and asked what he was doing here, why he’d come here plastered.

  He cupped the side of my face, telling me that he couldn’t make it another night without talking to me. He said he was finally able to talk Drew into bringing him. He was parked outside. My skin started to crawl thinking about him sitting outside my house. Not just because I didn’t want Mom or Dad to find him, but also because I didn’t want him to assume what was happening in here after the last time. He already hated me enough and now he would think he had more ammunition to blast at me.

  I asked if he was on something, and I swear he started to cry. He told me he hadn’t touched anything other than the alcohol he swiped from Drew’s mom’s house. He told me he was finished with anything that pushed me away from him. He told me that he could feel me slipping further and further away as the days dragged on around him. He told me he couldn’t breathe, he felt like he was suffocating.

  I told him I couldn’t trust him, and that I doubted if there was a way for me not to question every little thing that happens. He told me that he didn’t care how we had to do it, but he wanted to try. He wanted to make it up to me. He needed to breathe. All he wanted to do was breathe me in and know that I was there with him, living inside of him. He said he didn’t even care if we were just friends, but that he needed me. He’d always need me.

 
He told me not to give him an answer tonight, but to think about it, really think about it and he’d be waiting for me. He promised that he wouldn’t go anywhere. I brought up how he had already broken promises before.

  He put his palm on my chest, above my heart, and told me that he knows for every promise that’s been broken, a piece of me, of my heart, breaks. All he wants is a chance to mend me, us, back together.

  I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t even sure I had a real heart at all by this point, just a pile of puzzle pieces, bent and frayed, that had given up holding themselves together.

  He leaned forward and kissed me on my forehead. He said he’d never let go. He called me his Rose. I tried to hide the disgust on my face while I held my breath because of what he smelled like.

  I watched through the window as he climbed into Drew’s car and leaned back in the passenger seat. Drew looked out the windshield, and I could have sworn he looked right at me. His eyes were so cold, breaking shivers out across my skin.

  I’ve been sitting here ever since, just looking out the window into the darkness. I keep trying to rationalize the situation in my head. Dawson is doing bad things. Having done bad things does not necessarily make him a bad person. But he’s been doing the same things that Mom has been doing. Mom definitely is a bad person. She’s a bad person for not only her habit, but for what that habit makes her do to other people. Dawson has a habit, but his habit does not make him do horrible things to other people.

  Does any of that make sense? Am I hypocrite for accepting him and what he does when I will never be able to accept Mom or her abuse no matter the amount of apologies she may one day give?

  Do you think, Dear Heart, that after so many times of trying to be strong, of trying to be brave, that it’s finally okay to just be weak? I know I’ve been strong. Am I weak if I give in to him? What he does is wrong, but how he treats me isn’t. Why does it have to be so confusing and hard?