You hurt me so bad,
That pain lost its meaning.
.\.|./.
Crystal Monroe
| in which she picks him |
When I open my eyes, the last person I'm expecting beside me is a police officer. His pen poised on the notepad he's carrying, his dark eyes watch me closely when my own look at his face.
"Hello, ma'am," he says formally. "My name is Detective George and I need to ask you some questions. Do you think you're well enough to respond?"
The question is so ironic I almost want to laugh. Hiding my amusement, though, I blink several times, lying still due to the inability to move. My body seems to be numb and I blame the needles dripping clear liquid into my bloodstream for that.
I'm most definitely in a hospital room, with white pastel walls and the smell of bleach. The sheets spread over me are white, and I'm dressed in white scrubs, dotted with blue balls that remind me of my childhood pajamas.
"Can you tell me your name?" the detective asks.
"Crystal," I answer, noticing how hoarse my voice sounds. "Crystal Monroe."
"Miss Monroe, can you tell me who did this to you?" he asks next, scribbling on his notepad.
The monster I loved.
I don't answer for a few moments, just watching the man watching me. He's talking about things I don't want to talk about, asking me questions I don't want to answer, causing me to remember the day -- and years -- I wish to forget.
Who did this to me, he asks, following up my answer -- 'my boyfriend' -- with a dozen other questions. How long have we been together; what happened between us; do we live together; where is he now; do I think he can hurt me again; what do I want to do now; am I hurt; am I scared; do I feel safe ... question after questions comes my way until I close my eyes and shift my pounding head on the pillow.
"I see you'd like to rest," the man concludes, pocketing his pen and notepad. "I'll come back later to ask you more questions, Miss Monroe. Just one last thing --"
I stifle a groan.
"We were under the impression that it was your neighbor who did this to you. Can you tell me how Mr. Falls knew you were hurt and why he broke down your door to get to you?"
His statement and question startle me, and I look back at the brown-haired detective. His eyes are cold and watchful like he suspects me of doing something wrong. By the way he's looking at me, I have a greater chance of being a criminal than a victim.
A victim ...
"Ryan?" I breathe. "Ryan found me?"
"I want to make sure you wish to see him before we let him in --"
"Yes," I say quickly, my pain dropping a dozen-fold. "Yes, Ryan, he ..."
Images of us kissing in the rain, on his doorstep, and driving around the Alaskan mountains flash before my eyes, but so do Jeremy's insults, punches, and curses. My head aches worse, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
"It's okay," I force myself to say. "Ryan is a friend.
The officer nods, pursing his lips and turning towards the door. He opens it, shoots me one last look, and walks out, closing the door softly behind him.
It's a long time later that the door opens again, nurses and a doctor coming in. They take my blood pressure, monitor my heart rate, touch my head and ask me how I'm doing. I respond with single words, too tired to actually speak.
"Do you need anything?" one of the nurses asks me before she leaves, following the others to the door and stopping there.
"Yes," I mumble.
I need water, and food, and rest, and peace. I need the life I had before I met Jeremy, my parents, my brother, and my friends. I need myself as I used to be, untarnished and unbroken. I need so much, but none of which you can provide.
"Can you please see if there's a guy outside?" I say to her, my voice barely louder than a whisper. "Dark hair, tall and lean ... kind of looks like a God?"
The nurse, a plump girl with rosy cheeks, smiles at me. "'God' seems to define him well," she agrees with a nod. "The police took him along, but he seemed like he won't be able to stay away long. I'll send him right in as soon as I see him back."
"Thanks." I nod.
The soon isn't too soon, though, or maybe the injury in my head has caused me to lose track of time. I barely know how long has passed, drifting into a hazy and drugged sleep. I wake up only when a nurse changes my needles, tinkering with the knobs on my heart-monitor so that the loud rhythmic beeping decreases in volume.
Night has fallen, because when I wake up, I notice the darkness outside the blue blinds hanging at the window. The next thing I notice is a figure pacing hastily around me, footsteps light as they leave invisible footprints on the polished tiles of the hospital floor.
"Jem?" I breathe, still groggy from sleep.
"Crystal!"
It's Ryan I hear utter my name. I shift my head, slightly disoriented and returning to wakefulness.
Ryan stops pacing, coming closer to me and taking my hand in his. His hands are too warm, or maybe mine too cold, but the chill that runs through me feels kind of nice.
My eyes focus on him, and I notice the circles under his eyes and the disheveled black hair on top of his head. His chin is unshaven, and he looks like he hasn't eaten a thing in at least ten years. His eyes are light in shade, wide and anxious.
"How are you?" he whispers softly and cautiously.
"Alive," I murmur, forcing a smile.
I want to tell him how much every part of my body hurts, and that I hate the morphine numbing the pain. I don't want to be blinded to it, wanting to experience reality in its fullest. Jeremy did this to me -- my Jem -- and I want myself to remember it. I want myself to remember how bad it hurt.
"I brought you some soup," Ryan says, not returning my smile.
I smile wider, looking at Ryan's concerned face through heavy eye-lids.
"It's not poisoned, is it?" I tease.
Ryan closes his eyes and exhales sharply. His face crumples, brow furrowed as he bows his head, my hand still clasped in both of his.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbles, his voice coming unevenly. "This is all my fault, I'm so sorry, Crystal."
Surprised, I frown. I don't understand what he's trying to say, unable to comprehend why he would blame himself for what Jeremy did. If anyone deserves to be blamed, it's me, blinded by my own love for a person who changed long ago. I saw him change, transform into the exact opposite of what I thought he was, but I refused to accept it. I clung on to my memories, our past of what was once beautiful. Of what once was.
"If I hadn't forced you to stay that night," Ryan goes on, oblivious of my thoughts and drowning in his own regrets. "None of this would have happened. I shouldn't have challenged him. I pushed him. I made him angry and he took it out on you. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, Crystal, I promised. I promised you he would never hurt you, that I wouldn't let him. I'm sorry I let you walk away. I shouldn't have done that, I should never have let him control you again."
As wrong as it might be, his apologies help me feel better. All these years, all I heard was that everything is my fault. That's the way Jeremy wanted things, with him blaming me for everything that went wrong, and me taking the blame without a second thought. I was so used to it, that I blamed myself even when I knew something wasn't my fault.
"These bruises," Ryan says, looking at me with tears swimming in his eyes. "These wounds, all of this. It's all because of me. He did this to you because of me."
I want to reach out and pull him into my arms, and might have done if not for the wires attached to my body. So I smile, hoping Ryan would see that I don't blame him.
"Truth or dare, Ryan?" I say.
Ryan appears taken aback, his eyes widening and lips parting of their own accord. He's looking at me like he's expecting me to change my mind and tell him that I'm joking. I'm not, though, so I just stare back, waiting for him to respond.
"Truth," he finally says.
"Do you hate me?" I ask. "For picking him over you that night?"
"No," Ryan says without a beat. "No, Crystal, of course, I don't. I'm not even mad at you, I ... I know how hard that was for you, and you did what you thought was best. I would never hate you for doing something you considered right."
I smile, closing my eyes and digesting his words. His voice, the look in his eyes, the heat spreading through my body from his warm hands ... it feels better than the morphine.
"My turn ... truth," I say, opening my eyes.
Ryan is watching me closely, his face serious and eyes sad.
"What do you want to tell me, Crystal?" he asks in a low voice.
I sigh, gesturing for him to come closer. He obeys, leaning in so that we're only a few inches apart.
"Remember how you said the accident you had with my car wasn't really an accident?" I ask him.
He nods, looking uncertain about the direction I'm taking the conversation in.
"Do you also remember what you said when you said it wasn't an accident?" I ask him.
Ryan doesn't answer, waiting for me to go on. He's standing still, bent over so that his eyes are at level with mine, his face serious and expression hesitant.
"You said ... you wanted it to happen," I remind him. "And this ... what Jeremy did ..."
I stop, wondering how appropriate it would be to tell Ryan. I might never have told him. I might never have told anyone. If not for his self-blame and guilt, this would be a secret I would take to the grave. But I can't. I can't let Ryan blame himself for what wasn't his fault. I can't let Ryan regret something I did.
"I wanted it to happen," I confess.
Tears shine in his eyes as his face crumples. "Why?" he gasps.
"So I'd know, Ryan," I tell him softly. "So that I'd know how stupid I was to think I could fix everything. Fix him. So that I'd know he doesn't deserve me. And mostly so that ... so that I'll never regret picking you."
Ryan closes his eyes and bows his head.
"I pick you, Ryan," I whisper. "Always you."
.\.|./.
A/N: Oh, how the roles have switched. I love Ryan and Crystal. What about you?