Reasons

Part 3

"He is my brother," Ava admits with a shrug though she does not think he is looking at her. "I hadn't met Ryan before Dylan came back, but they were much in the same boat. I could say that helping Ryan was a break from helping Dylan, but it wasn't." There is a heaviness in her chest, and she knows she is slipping into memories. "Ryan was easier, only because he wasn't dealing with an injury. He met Jessica and then she took over for me. I continued to try to help Dylan but eventually, it stopped working. Only Hazel got him to move forward. I got him through physical therapy and working carpentry again, but he wasn't living, not like he is now." She lets out a deep breath, knowing that she does not talk about this with anyone. "They still struggle, and when Jessica and Hazel can't figure it out then they come to me, but there is only so much I can do."

"That is what you are trying to block out?" The sound of his voice changes and she tilts her head slightly to see that he is looking at her with his head resting on the post he is leaning on. "I have been trying to figure it out."

Ava adjusts her sitting position to where her legs are propped up on the length of the swing and her back on arms and chairs. She has a better view of him now. "I'm not like everyone else." She mumbles with the smallest of shrugs, but she knows he hears her. His intense, tortured gaze is on her, studying her like a painting in a museum.

There is a slight breeze in the night air. It is surprisingly warm for November, but she has a knitted sweater loosely hanging over her body that comes to rest at her mid-thighs. The breeze causes the strands of her hair that refuse to tie into the ponytail to brush over her collarbone and neck, tickling her slightly. "I feel things, more emotions, deeper emotions than other people. I can see what everyone around me is feeling, and yet I cannot stop myself from helping them. I cannot look away when someone is in pain, mentally or physically. I would give every last drop of my blood to save someone else's life, and it would do it happily without complaint. However, it is the mental things that require the most to be given." She shrugs her shoulders again, and the arm of her sweater falls slightly, revealing the black spaghetti strap of her tank top underneath. She thinks for a minute that perhaps she should pull it back up, but she does not. "Do you know what it is like to sit next to your sibling, listening to him scream in terror and not be able to do anything about it? It is not just screaming I have heard, but I can hear everyones. I can just look at someone in pain and hear their scream. They all sound alike, and yet they do not. I don't sleep at night because of those screams unless I am too exhausted to care if I wake up screaming myself." Ava looks down at her hands, seeing her fingers play with the cuffs of her sweater. "I don't like crowds. I do not like being around people. I feel like I am being crushed under their weight or being judged by their gaze. Sometimes I hear the screams. Sometimes I feel the weight of the crowds. But the worst times are when I feel it both. When I am in a crowd and every face I look at is screaming at me. It is overwhelming."

Ava peers back up at Max to see a pained sort of gaze in his eyes. She knows that look. "And if you think that all that is going to stop me from helping people, it isn't. If you think you can walk away and leave me alone, and I will not feel your pain, that I could be spared feeling more, then you are wrong. It is my destiny to help tortured souls, and it seems that no matter where I go, I cannot seem to not run into you. You will soon realize I don't give up on people, even when they want me to." She cracks a smile, and he drops his gaze from her. Whether he accepts that she is not going to give up fighting for him or not, she does not know.

"Is that why you paint?" He inquires while shuffling through songs on his phone. "Like Dylan with his wood-working stuff."

"The music helps drown out the noise." Ava nods slightly. "But sometimes you can still see things in your mind. Painting, for me, gives my mind something else to see, something that still my mind. Dylan always loved carpentry, and he became depressed when he thought that because he lost his hand he could not do that anymore. I had to show him that he could. We will find something for you to do, as well." His gaze flicks back up to hers, and she tries to keep herself breathing normally and keep the heat from rising in her face. "You could come to paint with me."