Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  I let out a ragged breath and stare into her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she begins.

  “I’m sorry,” my voice wavers.

  “Please forgive me.”

  “Please forgive me.” My eyes veer to the side.

  “Eye contact.” She waits for me to look at her again before continuing. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.

  I look away again. “Mikayla.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to forgive him.”

  “Don’t think about him. This isn’t about him, it’s about you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “It’s a simple phrase.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not.”

  “Mikayla, have you ever spoken those words?”

  “Sure.”

  “To?”

  “My mom, I’m sure.”

  “You’re sure?” Her eyes are compassionate as she repeats my words. “Mikayla, forget this exercise.” I exhale audibly. “Don’t feel relieved yet. Before we can get to this, I want you to look at your eyes in the mirror each day and say something positive about yourself. Look into your eyes and tell yourself ‘I love you.’”

  “Where do you get this stuff from?”

  “Mirror work is actually a very powerful healing technique. I’ve worked on it through my degree. Although, I was already familiar with it before I began my master’s.”

  “So this stuff is real? Like, therapists are using this daily?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “And the other stuff?”

  “I learned separately. There’s research to back it up, if you want to read it.”

  “No, I believe you.” I agree to try the mirror work and update her on it. It can’t be that hard to look into my eyes. The I love you worries me more. It’s not a feeling or phrase that is present in my life.

  I can’t help but wonder if Tyler is taking therapy seriously or if he’s letting the days pass. Based on the songs he’s shown me, he has stuff to work through with his dad—deceased or not. I don’t dare ask him, even if we have gotten to know each other better. He’s the first person I have a friendship with.

  I watch him stomp out of a room and think that maybe things aren’t going too well for him.

  “Ty . . .”

  “Not now, Red.”

  “What?” He cuts me off with his hand as he rushes by me. “You’re a hypocrite!” I call out. That stops him.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re all firm on me getting the help I need, and you’re not doing that for yourself.”

  “Our situations are different.” His eyes blaze with anger. I roll mine and put my hands on my hips.

  “If I need to take this shit seriously, then so do you.”

  “Do what you want, Red.” He walks away from me. A few people are watching us and whispering. I walk outside and ignore everyone. The sun is covered by clouds and I stare up, willing it to rain so it can wash everything away.

  With the first drop of rain, I walk back into the center and sit with a notepad. My mirror exercise has turned more challenging than I imagined. Mainly because I realized that it has been a very long time since I have told someone I love them, even longer since I felt love. I’m sure my mom loved me the way a mother loves her child, but we didn’t have much time together or never bonded much.

  I put down the pencil and stare ahead. I’m annoyed. Tyler didn’t have to snap at me. I want him to get better. After hearing him sing, he’s proven to have such potential. The rain has picked up outside and it sounds like the wind is howling as the water falls.

  I walk towards a big window and stare out. The fury of the storm has taken over the sky. I jolt when thunder rings loudly. At the same time, a few people scream. I continue to look out the window. I find the chaos in nature oddly comforting.

  “This storm is big,” an employee says as the lights flicker. I count Mississippi’s between lightning and thunder to calculate the miles like I learned in science class when I was younger. Then, the lights go out. I look around the dim room, thankful it’s still day time so some light comes in.

  “Please stay calm. The generator will kick in soon,” a therapist says. Well, there goes having to sit in a group and share my emotions.

  “Well, this sucks.” I look over at Tyler and shrug. “Sorry about earlier.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Nah, you’re right. I’m all preachy to you about getting help, but I don’t take being here seriously. Must be a reason they keep bringing me back.”

  “Ya think?” I don’t hide my sarcasm. Tyler chuckles.

  “Yeah.”

  I look away from the window to look at him. He looks defeated. “Did you always want to be a musician?”

  His green eyes stare down at me. “Pretty much. I mean, when I was like five I wanted to be an astronaut, but doesn’t every child dream of that?” I shake my head. “I was in a band in high school, but had been taking guitar lessons since I was ten. It kept me busy and out of trouble. Ironic how that very thing keeps gettin’ me into trouble.”

  “Did you play at parties and stuff with your band?”

  “For the most part. Other times we tried to go to local bars, but since we were underage it was harder to get those gigs. It was fun.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What about you? What did you always want to be?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Red, there’s gotta be something.”

  “No. I’ve never aspired to be anything, only staying busy enough to not be home. Sorry.” I apologize when I realize that was a fucking depressing thing to say.

  “Don’t be. I get it. Music kept me out of the house, but sometimes I was too afraid to not be there to defend my mom,” he admits.

  “It fucking sucks.”

  “Yes, it does,” he agrees, and we admire the bolt of lighting that lights up the sky. “You must’ve had some interests.” He doesn’t let it go.

  “Reading, but I didn’t put much thought into my future. It wasn’t a priority.”

  “How about now? What would you want to do?”

  “Not sure yet. I guess when I’m ready I’ll have to brainstorm options.”

  “You could be an artist.”

  “I highly doubt the stuff I sketch would be of interest to anyone.”

  “I’d buy it.”

  “Because you’re morbid like that.”

  “Eh, it’s good stuff. You’re talented.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How about parties and stuff? You had friends you could have stayed with.” He continues.

  “No . . . I was more of the timid outcast. Didn’t interact with anyone. It’s scary, you know? If someone found out, what would they think of me? Would they say something and get me into trouble?”

  “Red, I gotta show you how to live.”

  “No, no. No offense, Tyler, but your lifestyle is not for me.”

  “You know nothing about it.”

  “I can imagine. The party life where you drink until you lose self-control is hazardous. I need to be in check.” I’ve never done drugs. It never appealed to me. I’ve never had a drink, either. I’ve seen what alcohol does to people—turning them into vicious demons, or maybe they were already demons, and the alcohol brought out their truth. No, thank you; I can live without that.

  “It’s not ’til you lose control. Actually, you can have fun sober. It’s about interacting with people. Living life instead of shying away from it.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I guess.”

  What I lived through marked me, and while it was happening it created a barrier between the world and I. The only reality was what was happening at home. Although people knew who I was and I knew who they were, we didn’
t mingle. It’s how it was. I was the weird one, but if any of them understood why, they would change their opinion. Or maybe not. Maybe they wouldn’t care enough.

  Tyler cares. It’s weird. I never had many friends, let alone a male one. Are we friends? We’re two people stuck in the same place because our actions brought us here, but in the outside world we would be nothing more than strangers. The clock is ticking, and I know once I’m released I’ll need a plan and Tyler Hunt is not part of that, no matter how much I’m beginning to enjoy his friendship.

  I look at Mikayla and smile to myself. She’s so different than when I first got here. I’ve had the urge to wrap my arm around her, but don’t because I know that would be weird. I felt guilty for snapping at her earlier, but hypocrite kept replaying in my mind. She was right. I’m all about pushing her, but too damn stubborn for my own good. I want to pull her in and tell her she’ll be okay. It’s weird. I can’t remember the last time I hung out with a girl and didn’t fuck her in my changing room or over my bike.

  Mikayla’s not like that. She’s gone through shit. Fucked up shit. When I think about it my blood boils, so I try not to and focus on getting to know her. Maybe make her smile or laugh like she did the other day. I wanna protect her from the world, you know? Thing is, I’m probably just as bad for her. We’re safe while we’re in here, but the real world is harsh. And as soon as I’m out of here, I’m getting back on the road and going on the tour that was put on hold for me so I could clean up my act.

  The therapist today told me I was repeating my dad’s pattern. I sent her to hell, bitched, and then stormed out. Afterwards, I realized she was right. I’ve tried so hard not to be him, that in context I have become him. I won’t hit a woman, but I drink like a fish and anger like a deadly beast. I can’t think about that now.

  “Are we going to stare out the window?”

  “I like storms.”

  “How about I play some music?” Her eyes light up and I smirk. She loves listening to me play. She’s like a small child at times, her emotions rolling off her without a second thought. Mikayla is beautiful in a simplistic way—porcelain skin, big, brown eyes, and pink lips. But she’s scarred, inside and out.

  “Come on.” I grab her hand and drag her with me to get my guitar. We sit in the hallway where the lighting is a little better, and I begin to sing one of the songs from my first album. A few other people stop to listen as I play, but my focus is on the strumming of my fingers and Mikayla.

  She’s starting to recognize some of my songs. I see her lips barely moving, but her eyes are focused on my hands. I’m not sure what it is about her, whether it’s my want to keep her protected or the fact that I’m locked in here and she’s the most normal one, but I feel for her. Now that I’ve spent more time with her where she actually speaks, I’ve been able to gather more about her. She doesn’t push away like she used to, and I find myself wanting to grab on tighter.

  “I have no idea how you do that,” she remarks, her eyes shining with awe.

  “It’s not that difficult.”

  “Coming from the person who’s been playing this for how long?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “Whoa . . .”

  “I guess I have gotten my share of practice.”

  “And it’s your job, so you have to be good at it.”

  “Thanks,” I chuckle. “Wanna try?” I hold out the guitar, but she shakes her head. “Come on, it’s not that bad. Besides, no one expects you to jam out like Johnny Cash. I can show you the basics.” I hand the guitar to her and show her how to place it. “These are frets. They divide the fingerboard. You’ll hold down the strings on this part to create the sound you want.” I point to each section in the neck of the guitar. “They’re numbered, starting with one here,” I start at the beginning of the neck closest to the tuners and count down.

  She looks at the guitar intently, taking in every detail. “What are these?”

  “That’s the next step. Those are inlays. They’re dots on this guitar, but can have other designs as well. They mark certain numbers in the fretboard—three, five, seven, nine, and twelve.” I point to each one.

  “Hey, the spaces become thinner.”

  I try not to laugh. “Yeah, it changes the sound. Anyway, you hold down the strings in the different frets then strum with the pick over the sound hole to create music.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that easy.”

  “The strings are lettered,” I continue. “E, A, D, B, G, E.” I point to each one from top to bottom. “Every Adult Dog Barks Growls Eats—I use that to remember the order.”

  “Why are there two E’s?”

  “The last E is minor. It’s a lower sound.” She shrugs like she has no idea what I’m talking about. “Hold this string down with your ring finger.” I press her finger in the A chord. “Now strum here with the pick.” She does what I say and scrunches her face.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Make sure you’re only holding down the A chord and your finger isn’t accidentally touching another string.” She repositions her hand and grimaces.

  “This is uncomfortable.”

  “So you must be doing it right, then. It definitely takes training to get your hands adjusted to the positions. Usually, it’s more than one finger holding the strings down as you strum. Then you slide across the fretboard in order to change the sound.”

  “Complicated,” she whispers but strums the guitar again, creating a smoother sound. “I did it!”

  “Here, let me teach you this riff.” I grab the guitar and carefully teach her how to place her fingers and which frets she’ll work with. “So, you’re going to hold down only the A chord.”

  “Okay, the second one.”

  “Yeah,” I smile. “You hold it down in this order—seven, seven, five, seven, three, two. Listen.” I play the riff for “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes, which is an easy riff for any beginner. “Your turn.” I place the guitar over her again and position her fingers where they need to go. “Remember, seven, seven, five, seven, three, and you end with two.” She nods.

  I watch as she taps down the chords and strums at the same time, moving her fingers. It’s choppy, like any beginner, but the sound is there.

  “Not that great.” She shakes her head.

  “It takes practice to be nimble with the movements. Lots of muscle memory.”

  “I can see that.” She tries again, this time the ending smoother. “I got the ending,” she exclaims. Then, she goes at it again. By the fifth time, she’s a little smoother in her transitions from fret to fret.

  “I’ll have to practice.” She removes the guitar strap from her body and hands it back to me. My fingers brush against the scars that are almost faded and I notice her pull away.

  “Sorry,” I murmur.

  “It’s okay. I gotta go.” I watch her stand.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah . . . bathroom.” One word explanation that leaves me cursing at myself and watching her walk away.

  Fuck. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be reminded of that shit. It was an involuntary movement. They caught my eye and I reached out, wanting to feel it. Curious as to why she would hurt herself when she’s already gone through so much pain. It makes no sense, but then again, I’m one to attack the outside world instead of myself. It gives me power. It makes me feel invincible.

  I play the riff I taught Mikayla on repeat and look up when someone stands in front of me.

  “I like that song.”

  “Thanks, Sam, but it’s not mine.”

  “Oh, I know. I’ve become more familiar with pop culture.” I snort. “You good?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Cut the act with me.” She takes a seat across from me on the floor. “I’m tired of seeing you in here every few months.”

  “I’m tired of seeing you, too,” I echo, but she smiles. “I’m good, Sam. Promise.”

  “You’re too good for this place.
”

  “You’ve told me every other time. Yet, here I am again.”

  “We make choices. They lead us down one path or the other.”

  “Well, I keep making the same choices apparently. Because here I am, again.”

  “I think this time may be your last. Things happen for a reason.” Her smile is knowing.

  “And?” I wait for more from that vague explanation.

  “And I think you had to come in at this moment in order to finally let go. You needed to meet her.”

  “Seriously? You’re getting all sappy and shit?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “But people influence us. They make us aware when we connect with them.”

  “I don’t like her,” I snap, defending myself for no reason. It doesn’t matter what Sam thinks, but a part of me feels the need to protect the reputation I have. It’s what keeps me going without breaking down.

  “I never said you did.” She raises a brow and smirks. “But I’ve seen you look at her. I’ve also seen how she’s changed by being around you.” She stands to leave in typical Sam fashion, causing you to reflect on what she says after she’s walked away.

  I don’t think Mikayla has changed because of me. It’s her opening up and talking about what happened that is allowing her to change. There’s someone beneath the dust of her past that’s wanting to come out, and I have a feeling she’s unfamiliar with that side of her, but I can tell it’s an amazing woman. If I do look at her a certain way, I’ll have to stop. Being locked up in here is making me soft. Or maybe it’s Mikayla.

  The power comes back on and people begin to move around again. Crazy how a storm stops people from moving forward. It’s an automatic reaction. I get up and change to go to the gym. It’ll be more therapeutic than group therapy.

  I’m half way through my push-ups when I see feet sneak up under my face. I hold myself in a plank and look up. I puff and stand.

  “Can you train me?” I notice a flicker of fear in Mikayla’s eyes.

  “Train you?”

  “Yeah. Teach me how to defend myself?” She looks down, embarrassed.

  “Okay.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widen.

  “Yeah, every woman should be able to defend herself.” She nods in understanding. “Do you want to start now?” I notice she’s wearing leggings and a t-shirt.