Crawling Back

Prologue

It's February.

She wakes with a sharp jab, bringing her hands up to the uncomfortably swollen mass. Shots of pain radiate from her abdomen to her lower back and down her legs. This has been a common occurrence, just a few aching moments before it settles down again, so she draws in a deep breath and waits.

And yet, this isn't quite the same and it's lasting too long. She rolls over and splays her hand across his back, unable to keep it from trembling. He opens his eyes with an exclamation, and it's only then that she's aware of the dampness of the sheets. It's only February. In a swirl of chaos and mismatched shoes, they find the bag and keys and are away into the night, shutting the door with a bang that resonates through the empty house. It's left unlocked; any passers-by are welcome to the lone slipper, the forgotten camera in the nursery, or the spilled cup of water that has rolled against the bed leg, releasing a frosty stream that snakes towards the closet.

That's how my older sister was born, although she wouldn't see the inside of that house for another two months. Born five weeks too soon, her lungs were underdevelopped and she spent the first months of her life in a ventilator cubicle, alongside the other preemies, fighting for each breath.

She was supposed to be a boy. Rather, that was the informed opinion of my mom, who didn't want their doctor to tell, but 'had a feeling' nonetheless. The thing is, my mom has a lot of these feelings. She also hates to be wrong, but that didn't stop her from happily settling my sister into her baby blue nursery.

Dad, true to form, wasn't bothered in the least, and still thought she deserved a masculine name. To fit the unconventional situation. My mom wasn't a fan of the idea, but there's no resisting his charm. And thus, their first born was called Bryce. She was the first to walk. The first to talk. The first to fall climbing a tree and ride a bike. Bryce. Just one syllable. Bold, yet practical.

Two years later, I would arrive to be the dreamer. My mom's habitual one-liners shifted from Don't do that, honey  to Why don't you go outside?

Where'd this bruise come from, hm? turned into Calm down. You're not dying today.

You can't always live for the present, sweetheart  became Raven, get your head out of the clouds.

Raven, you need to learn to love what's good for you.

Raven, did you hear me?

Yes, and this was maybe the one thing on which we didn't agree. For me, my constant end goal, what was most important, was to be happy. It didn't matter what you loved, as long as you had something. Love was just always enough. To be happy. Which meant I would be okay.

I don't think anyone has ever been more wrong than I was. And yet, I would give quite literally anything to be able to go back to that ignorant frame of mind. I can't, of course. I know as much now.

The thing is, I don't owe anyone anything. Not an explanation. Not an excuse. And sure as hell not an apology. That's not why I'm telling my story. I need to relive it for myself. I need to go back and trace my steps, so I can figure when the hell things started to get so screwed up.

People who think they know me might say it was when we first moved to this town and I met these people, or maybe shortly after. I think it was long before any of that, though. Not that it matters. Like I said, there's no going back. Still, I need to know. I have this inexplicable need to pinpoint exactly how I ended up here. Who the hell knows, maybe people can learn from my mistakes.

So here's my story. Here's our story, and it all started when we met him.