Pretty Little Bones

You Can't Sleep in this Box with Me

You Can't Sleep in this Box with Me

Ava had a way of haunting everyone that noticed her.

She had a way of haunting me. When I wasn't with Ava, I was thinking about her. She was always the first and the last thing on my mind. 

It all started when I got "sick". Every night I saw visions of her, smiling with those thin, pink lips and twisting locks of blonde waves around her long, pale fingers like they were her rings. She brought her haze with her, living in the smoke and mirrors even in my imagination.

Where ever I went thoughts of her surrounded me. They lived in my muscles and crawled across my skin. When I didn't see her, I felt her. Her laugh was in the walls of every building, echoing off the wood and running through the cracks in the paint. Her scent drove down highways with me, chasing the dust and swimming in the moonlight. The sound of her hairbands snapping against her flesh played through the radio.

Suddenly, she became an obsession. I couldn't get away from her no matter how much I tried to distance myself. While I was struggling to get away, I could feel her grip tightening. The long, pale fingers she used to trace veins in my arms grabbed at what little bits of myself I gave her. I could feel myself slipping, falling, and she was holding on to the ropes, watching them run across her palms until the flesh burned and bled.

She didn't want me to be like everyone else. She didn't want me to become part of her past. And I didn't want to go. But the idea of her ending up like me was repulsive. I had to let her go.

I was always on the edge of failure and I couldn't drag such a sweet, innocent girl with me. She was something special. So I kept trying to push her away. Every bit of the coward I was shoved against her, trying to get her out of my mind.

That's when I learned that you don't just forget Ava. People like her don't just fade away into nothing. They become memories. Strong, deep, vibrant memories. The memories of her would sit in the passenger's seat of my truck, watching me down pills with a miserable little grin on her face. Her gray eyes would stare at my neck, feeling the way they stuck to my throat and made my mouth dry.

She'd laugh at the way they messed me up. Anywhere I went, she came along, filling the atmosphere with her fear. And at first it wasn't so bad. Kind of strange, but not unbearable. I knew she wasn't really there, but it sure felt like she was.

Sometimes I'd talk to her. Tell her things would be okay. I knew what I was doing. I could take care of myself. Except memories don't listen. They don't just believe what you tell them, because they aren't real. Even when they feel more real than anything else.

Sometimes, I'd find her with me in the shower, standing under the streams of water, glaring at me. I'd tell her to go away. I was busy. And she'd pinch her lips together before saying "You can't wash the bad things away."

She was right. She was always right and I resented her for it. I tried to apologize. I'd beg her to go away, but neither of us wanted that. Even though it wasn't really her, I felt bad for pushing her away. I felt bad for being like everyone else.

Soon, her gray eyes stopped looking so sad and started looking angry. So I tried to run from them. I'd shut the door to their glares and shoot smack in my veins, thinking that if I got a little messed up she'd just vanish. For a little while maybe she'd go away and let me destroy myself.

I just wanted her to let me get off. Have a little fun. But she always found a way in. She'd find a way to sit beside me and shake her head, blonde waves tickling the porcelain skin of her shoulders. She'd point her chin downward and scowl at me.

Nervously, she'd pull at the hairbands on her wrist letting them snap again and again and again. The sharp slap played in my mind until my ears hurt, but it wouldn't go away. If I tried to reach out and stop her, my hand would go straight through hers. I could feel myself losing her and I didn't even have to try. Everything I did to get rid of her felt so effortless.

That scared me.

In life and in my imagination Ava was transparent. So transparent that no one knew what she was thinking. I didn't even know what she thought when I dreamed her up. But I knew she was disappointed in everything I chose to do. Slowly, she was giving up on me.

Still, I didn't stop. I kept doing the bad things, because I could. I wanted to. I kept telling myself that the memories weren't real. I could think her up to be anyway I chose, and yet, mostly I imagined her as sad. Sad that I was such a quitter. Sad that I was a coward.

Sad that I was the person I promised her I'd never be.

That's why Ava haunted people: because she made them understand how they felt about themselves. After all, it wasn't actually her the people that noticed her saw. It was a different version of themselves. A special version.

For the longest time, I thought the daydreams I had about her were substance induced. I thought the poison made the fantasies of her lips, her hair, her thighs seems so tempting. I despised myself for thinking about her so much. But even after I stopped being "sick", I couldn't make them stop.

At night I could feel her cold skin running across my chest. I could feel her slip her long fingers through mine and push my knuckles together, grinding them against each other. Next to me, the bed seemed to shiver like she always did and I wished like hell that she was there.

I'd hold my breath and feel hers sweep across my chin. In my mind, her pale lips tasted so sweet. And she never wore the jacket.

I hated myself for the thoughts I had about her.