Pretty Little Bones

Let me Save You, Hold this Rope

Let me Save You, Hold this Rope

Had she never gotten sick, Ava probably would have taken her secret to the grave. The very young grave.

In a panicked haze she came clean about her destructive habits, but it was all in vain. Coming clean didn't just fix her like she dreamed it would. The pressure in her lovely little bones wasn't relieved by telling the truth. All the things that had remained unspoken for so long didn't heal the bruises and fractures.

She had more problems than that, whether she chose to acknowledge them or not. More than just that one little lie was eating away at her insides, hungry for what energy she had left to hide them all with. At least something got to eat if she wouldn't.

And when one came to life, the rest started to tumble down and slip out so easily, like ice sliding down a bluff, suspended and stuck in it's escape. I've never seen her so ashamed, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop them. One moment of weakness and fear had betrayed the years of silent suffering. All the time she'd spent crafting fanciful fibs about her happiness was wasted by four words.

I don't eat anymore.

I don't eat.

For weeks after the truth came out she wouldn't look me in the eyes and she awkwardly avoided conversation when we were in private. I'd drive her to doctor's appointments and she'd sit in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window, worrying about how to take back those four words. The contrast of her whitespace and the light gray interior of the cab was painful. As much as she belonged next to me, she didn't exactly fit in the picture.

At night, we'd lounge in her bedroom, finishing end-of-the-year projects and she'd pretend that nothing was wrong and nothing was right. Wrapped in piles of blankets, eyes drooping in exhaustion, makeup smudged with time, she was beautiful in a strange, broken way. She would pull her long, blonde waves back into a loose ponytail and glance up at me through her heavily painted lashes to force a grin. Then she'd put her cheeks--full yet hollow--into her palm, the long fingers caressing the soft curves of bone, and she'd bite the inside of her thin, pink lips. And I'd smile and run the side of my hand across her other cheek and watch her close her heavy gray eyes for just a moment of comfort.

Ava was always beautiful in a strange way, even though she spend her days in a state of discomfort. I guess I was probably the only one to see that too.

But as uncomfortable as the situations left her, she continued to trust me. Sometimes I even made guesses as to why to pass the time.

Why me?

Nothing I came up with was symbolic enough for someone like Ava. All the reasons didn't align perfectly. I couldn't analyze things the way she did, but I tried. I thought maybe if I knew why she chose me, I'd know why she hated herself so much. But the best answer I could come up with occurred as we sat in the waiting area of the emergency room the night she told me her secret.

Under the flickering fluorescent lights, her feet tapping madly at the gray and white tile of the floor, she began to panic again. It was the same panic that caused her to speak the truth and the same fear that bred paranoia.

With shaking fingers, she prodded her arm, scratching at the blue veins under the porcelain skin. "They're gonna move, Carter," she whispered frantically. "They're gonna keep stabbing me and they won't catch them."

The nurses.

Always the nurses

She was afraid they wouldn't be able to find a vein. She was terrified of them and their endless array of gadgets and experiments. It wasn't so much the needles that bothered her. It was the idea that she wasn't the one controlling her body.

I rolled my eyes to the tile on the ceiling and batted her hands to her side, listening to the two rings rattle as they collided with each other. If she had been in the right frame of mind, she would have been embarrassing herself, but I understood.

There was something wrong with Ava. Something very, very wrong.

With desperation, she forced her gaze to my chin, too scared to continue upward. Too ashamed to look me in the eye. "I can't do it," she said, clutching tightly at my fingers. "I don't want them to keep stabbing me, Carter."

She was terrified and to her, I must have been the picture of composure. Always the strong one. Always the one to laugh things off. Emotions didn't come easy to me; not the way they came to Ava. But it wasn't for lack of trying. I came by it rather honest, unlike her.

Although it hurt, I didn't pull my hand away when she squeezed my knuckles together between her thumb and pinky. It was my job to take care of her. I was the one that was supposed to make everything better.

I was the only one that could make her smile.

And if anyone could find a vein in her arm, it was me, so I did just that. Just like she knew I could. Shooting heroin for two years hadn't left me useless. Shooting heroin hadn't made me anything but sorry. Sorry and good at finding veins.

That was the best guess I had: once I had been just as destructive as she was being.

But I got help.

Maybe that's what she wanted. Maybe she wanted me to tell her how to ask for help. Except, I couldn't do that. I couldn't want help for her. And apparently, for almost three years, she hadn't wanted it badly enough.

Or maybe she had. I just hadn't wanted to help her enough.

For almost three years she'd only taken her jacket off for me. Nearly three years she put her trust in my hands and I never noticed. Until the words came out, I didn't see her the way she thought I did. It was like she'd spent three years drowning, waiting just under the surface for me to pull her head out of water.

And like a coward, I ignored her, because I didn't want to believe there was anything wrong with her. I might as well have been holding her under.

You always think that you'll be the hero when the time comes. You'll be the guy that puts his life on the line for the good of someone else.

But it's so much easier to stand back and watch someone drown.