I think I can, I think I can.

Okay, that’s enough. Something of substance soon – I promise.

There were inevitably those weddings that hurt more than they helped. She recalled one such event not more than four months earlier. The groom cried as the beautiful bride entered the church and Jaime was comforted by the depth of their love that was visible from the surface. But the bride had chosen that very moment to walk past Jaime on her way to the front of the church and Jaime nearly choked on the air that surrounded her. The now solemn scent of calla lilies filled Jaime’s nose. She closed her eyes as she inhaled; the bouquet she had carried at her own wedding filled her mind’s eye. The scent transported her back to that day and in that fraction of a second, she could feel her lungs constricting inside her chest, narrowing her airways. As soon as the bride was safely past her, Jaime staggered to her feet and stumbled out of the church.

Whether attending the weddings hurt her fragile psyche more than it helped, Jaime was unaware and ill informed. She only knew that for those brief moments when she watched other couples get the happy ending she deserved, her thoughts were silenced. Her mind was finally afforded a moment’s peace and she refused to deny herself that much in the wake of everything she had survived in the past 11 months. It was the one place where dreams sometimes did come true and good things still happened to good people. She still had bad days when it came to missing Nick. In some ways, time had started to heal her wounds. In others, her longing to see him again only got worse with each passing moment. There were still mornings when she woke up and reached for him in the pale light of sunrise. Those days always proved the most challenging; she was ravaged by every emotion in the spectrum and left beaten down and exhausted. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what twisted lottery she had won that rewarded her with this.

Her life had been terrorized over the past year by a man she wasn’t even aware she knew. She truly believed he was never far away; she often saw his tortured face on other people, needing a frantic second look to slow her rapid heartbeat. After 11 months, the events of that day still played in slow motion in her head.

“What?” I ask, both amused and aggravated by my complete inability to read you. I can’t honestly say I expect a response and, true to form, you don’t give me one. You just shoot me your best surreptitious smirk and stick out your tongue, turning your face to the sky. I find myself hoping you catch a snowflake on your tongue this time, for my own selfish reason: I know the exact look of satisfaction and success you will have on your face. I wait anxiously for the moment when I can enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing sheer, playful happiness in your bright eyes. You abruptly look down, disappointed but not defeated and give me a small wink, an I’ll get one next time kind of look, and in this moment I know you are truly happy with this cold winter day. I find myself breathlessly wishing I could stop time, freeze frame precisely where we are, yet still harboring an insatiable desire to walk over to you, wrap my arms around you, and hold you as tight as possible.

I watch you as you gently place your mug next to you and stand up. Before I know it, you’re standing in front of me with your hands gripping my hips. Your body fits against mine like a puzzle piece and my body starts to react. A field of goose bumps crop up on my neck and I know it has nothing to do with the chill in the air. Your face is painfully close to mine and the air is thick with the agonizing anticipation of what I know is about to happen. We both smile and begin to lean in and just as my cheeks feel they could shatter from the cold wind and my beaming smile, your lips touch mine… and time finally stops. I try to concentrate on my surroundings – the cold, the snow that I can barely feel landing in my hair, the way my toes are begging for warmth, but my concentration is limited by the intensity of your kiss, the warmth of your lips burning against mine. I feel my knees get a little weak and I give in to the delicious pressure and soak in the moment of bliss I’ve been given.

I can still faintly taste the whiskey lingering on your tongue.

She stares down at the scars on her wrists that have now become so familiar to her. She runs her fingertips over the spot where she had once showed the true extent of her desperation and she feels dead inside. Her desperation is gone, replaced with a stinging, burning desire to start over. Just leave everything behind and begin anew. Birches can’t save you from this one. She thinks to herself, wondering what she got herself into.

Her trial begins in two days. Just 48 hours until a jury of her peers delve into their relationship and try to make sense of the abhorrent chain of events. Good luck with that, she thinks scathingly, realizing that’s what she has been trying to do from the very beginning. And look how well it worked out for me, she thinks, her fingertips still grazing her scars.

Somehow, she always sensed it would happen. Looking back, she now sees all the signs, all the warnings, all the bells and whistles that should have sent her running in the opposite direction. He always held her just a little too tight. She used to find it endearing, like he couldn’t bear to let his skin leave hers; now she equates the intensity of his arms wrapped around her with the pressure and pain of his rage. Her body twitches on the small grey cot in the dull grey room and she wants out. She imagines jumping through her little window to the world and running barefoot through the emerald green grass and feeling the early morning dew underneath her feet. She tries to picture reaching her fingertips up in the hope of poking more holes in the sapphire sky for starlight to shine through. She wants nothing more than the wind on her face just one more time; she wonders if that’s an absolution she’ll be lucky enough to receive from the twelve random people who have been handed her life on a silver platter.

The burden of proof is on you.

She remembers the words of the judge earlier in the day. Just thinking about those words, she feels her stomach lurch sickeningly and instinctively she moves toward the toilet. She collapses on her knees on the cold floor and lifts the toilet seat. Her knees strain to hold her weight and she winces, her body screaming in pain. Her stomach does another flip and she feels the familiar burn of the acid in her throat. She vomits and her stomach settles a little. She rests her head on her hand and her thoughts wander, contemplating how many times she has thrown up in the past 12 hours.  She supposes an impending murder trial would be enough to upset anyone’s stomach.

Your fate will be decided by a jury of your peers.

Well, that’s certainly not something that’ll settle your stomach, she thinks to herself. She closes her eyes and her thoughts catch on the razor sharp edge of another new memory. Like a rock in the ocean, she turns this memory over and over in her mind hoping to soften the agony of its blow.

She’s laying in bed finally sleeping soundly. The other side of the bed is empty, the covers rumpled, the bed holding the shape of someone who has just left. The skin around her left eye is turning yellow, a bruise that has been long healing at last coming to its end. She’s not anticipating the surprise she is about to get. There is a small knock at the bedroom door and it swings carefully open. Her eyes fly open and her first instinct is to curl up to protect herself but she forces herself to look toward the door to see what is going on. She sees him, his emerald eyes shining with pride, holding a tray of breakfast with a single rose in a small vase. Her hands instinctively curl around her stomach, covering the small bump that is still forming there. He places the tray over her legs and sits down next to her. “What are you doing?” she asks incredulously. “It’s Mother’s Day and you are going to be a mother now. You deserve a chance to relax and enjoy yourself.” His reply sounded sincere but she was still wary. He must have seen the hesitation on her face because his eyes narrowed and his fingers clenched. “What’s wrong? You don’t trust me? I already said I was sorry.” His voice increased in volume and intensity with each word that came out of his mouth. “I know you did, of course I trust you, I’m just surprised. Thank you.” She forces herself to smile through her apprehension. “You don’t believe me. Nothing I do is good enough for you, is it your highness?!” He spits out the words as if they’re bitter on his tongue. “No, no, I didn’t say that! I’m so grateful that you did this for me!” she speaks the words as quickly as possible to try to diffuse the bomb. “Whatever, just eat your fucking breakfast and then get your fat, lazy ass out of bed. I’m not waiting on you all day.” He gets up, turns on his heels, and leaves the room. The slamming of the door makes her jump; she looks down at the tray of breakfast and realizes she’s no longer hungry.

Her head begins to spin as she pulls herself out of the daze of this memory. I got off easy that time, she remembers silently. That was not the first time she had to diffuse the ticking bomb inside the man with the emerald eyes. She replays the memory in her head and thinks forward to how things ended with them… and she still feels nothing. She’s dead inside – just as dead as he is. So she sits and waits for what she hopes will be her absolution, but prepares for imprisonment anyway. Not that jail will be any different from what I’ve been going through, she thinks as her hands instinctively curl around her stomach again.

It won’t matter how hard I try

second best is the best that I can hope to get

until the day that I die.

I could fly to the sun on wings made of wax

and make it back down here alive

I could walk ‘cross the country with bricks on my back

Or conquer one million bees in their hive

I could smile to your face while your knife’s in my chest

I could laugh when I just want to cry

But still second best is the best that I’ll get

and these are the words I stick by.

If I shoved you out of the way, took a bullet myself

you’d turn to your girlfriend and say

“You look gorgeous, babe,” she’d grab your hand and smile

And you two would walk briskly away

I’d look up from the ground in absolute disbelief

laying there in a pool of my blood

and my head would swim as blood drained from my limbs

Drowning in a jealous flash flood

So in short, I would say that no matter the day

or the time or the place or the guy

second best is the best that I may ever get

and I really could not tell you why.

She pulls off to the side of the highway, pushing down so hard on the pedal that she half expects to feel her foot ripped open at the hands of the pavement rushing underneath her. She comes to a stop in a spot where she’s certain she won’t attract too much attention and kills the engine. Alone with her thoughts, her heart rate skyrockets. Her head won’t stop spinning; she wants to run, wants to get out, to escape this whole thing but she knows even that won’t work. It won’t help. She just wants to take it all back, pretend the whole thing never happened.

But it’s too late.

Her hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight her skin feels as though it could shatter at any moment. Her skin is slick with the blood of the man with the emerald eyes, looking at it makes her stomach turn. She thinks back to the day they met… remembers the easy, comfortable feeling of being with him. Her unspoken grief forms words in her head.

When did it all go so terribly wrong?

She wrenches open the car door and vomits on the grass. She wretches and heaves until she thinks her stomach has torn from the force of it. She sits back in the seat and looks in the mirror. She sees her own familiar features distorted with pain, disfigured by grief. Her tears and his blood are smudged on her face, the glittering rubies and shining diamonds of desperation.

What did I do?

The lights come up behind her so abruptly she doesn’t even have time to react. She’s afraid her legs won’t hold her, that the weight of what she did might be too much for them to bear. She steps out of the car and falls to her knees on the shoulder of the highway, hands raised high above her head: a white flag in the face of bright, shining garnet and aquamarine lights. The scene swims in front of her eyes and she lowers her arms, looking down just in time to realize that the blood is not all his. She falls onto her back on the concrete, the blood from her wrists pooling in her palms.

Soon. So soon, I’ll be with him. It’ll all be better. It’s almost over.

It has just begun.

I remember.

The memory explodes inside her head, roaring so loud she wants to cover her ears but knows it won’t heal her. She remembers letting herself in, leaving the lights off, sitting down in her old favorite chair. It smells of broken dreams and fear. She hears the faint jingle of keys, the familiar creak of the door, sees his emerald eyes even before the lights illuminate the room and expose her treason. Her fingers twitch around the cold metal, her index finger reaching instinctively for the trigger, the end of it all: absolution. She rises slowly from the chair and raises the gun, her hand steady. The lights give her away and to her surprise, he smiles. I was wondering when you’d try something like this. Baby, don’t you know by now? You can’t escape me. His voice is cold, condescending, typical. His words were slightly slurred. She can smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room, sour and musty, a familiar smell she would know anywhere after the past year and a half. It solidifies her resolve; she is sure. This has to be done. He takes a step toward her. You don’t want to do this. His eyes singe her skin, poring holes in her eyes with their gaze. I have to. She doesn’t know if he heard her, she felt the words die on her lips.

She is frantic. She knows she’s driving too fast, feels the familiar slick of the blood on her hands, but her foot won’t come off the pedal. Her head is swimming, so light she almost thinks it could float. Her heart is beating too fast, she’s sure it will turn itself inside out with the intensity. Oh God, what did I do? She thinks as she looks down at her bloodied hands. The ruby red blood of the man with the emerald eyes.

She jolts back to reality, tears streaming down her face. She feels frozen – she can’t think. The most important aspect of the memory has still escaped her. The pain in her limbs, numbed by the memory, comes blistering back to life. She hears her voice screaming, a sound that she has heard too many times before today. She now realizes that the pain he inflicted on her pales in comparison to what she has done to herself. The crease in the door widens. It’s the man with the kind eyes. He sits down but doesn’t take out his notebook and pen. She looks into his eyes and realizes she can’t read his expression. He asks her the question she dreads the most, just the same as every other day, but today something is different. What do you remember? She averts her eyes and gives her standard response. I don’t believe you, he spits out the words as if they taste bitter in his mouth. She looks up, her eyes wide, amazed at this response from the normally mild mannered man. How can I help you if you won’t tell me what happened?

Wake up. She thinks silently, cursing herself for her mistakes.

She looks up at the man with the kind eyes and feels the recognizable tingle behind her eyes that tells her tears are approaching. I can’t take it back, she whispers. Forcibly, she chokes out the next sentence knowing that saying it makes it real. Saying it means she belongs here, in this grey room with its window to the world and completely devoid of anything to help her end this nightmare.

I wish I had died instead.

She stares at the ceiling, the cot like concrete underneath the weight of her body, pressing against her bruises and making her recoil from the pain. Her mind is blank; her eyes intently watching the moonlight’s slow journey through the room. Her eyes feel weighted down with cinder blocks and she fights off the urge to sleep. But darkness swoops down so silently she doesn’t even know when sleep comes for her. The visions in her head are blurred, as if she’s watching them transpire through a fogged window pane. She turns fitfully in her sleep and the scene begins to clear. Abruptly, she’s staring at herself sitting on the floor in her apartment, her back propped up against the wall. Her left eye is the color of the deepest amethyst, so swollen that her brown eye barely peeks out through the opening. She turns her gaze to his green eyes, sees them blazing with the fires of insanity. It’ll be worse next time, I fucking promise you that – don’t you EVER disrespect me like that again. She hears his frigid voice speak those words in a completely controlled low growl. She sees herself flinch as he moves closer to her, his hand reaching out to her mangled face. Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. Please baby don’t cry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t mean it. She sees the familiar wash of remorse on his face, sees the tears glinting in his eyes. She feels no sympathy: she’s seen this all before.

Her skin breaks out in a wave of goose bumps and she bolts upright on the cot, her heart pounding so hard she wonders how it doesn’t break through her ribs and out of her skin altogether. She can’t even remember what she did to infuriate him that time. She pulls her knees to her chest holding onto this new information for dear life, afraid that one false move will dislodge it from her mind again. She turns it over in her head, hoping that it will trigger another memory – that she will finally find everything she needs deep within the recesses of her troubled mind. She wonders again, like so many times before, if she could have possibly made it out in time; could she have gotten away from something so volatile without the passion and anger combusting? And as if that question was the code to the safe, the floodgates open.

And suddenly she knows.

The damage is already done.

Even though the sapphire blanket of sky strewn with stars shrouds the world outside the window in darkness, she can still see the trees in the distance. They have finally turned from the emerald of his eyes to the red of the blood that trickled from her wrists into a pool in her palms; the yellow of her bruises as they begin fading away to nothingness. She looks at the leaves and sees the colors of flames, of Samhain’s bonfires. She imagines the leaves emanating white hot heat, envisions the world around her melting until there’s nothing left but the ashes of the past, unrecognizable and lifeless.

Baby, you know I love you more than anything else in this world. That’s why I’ll never, ever let you go. No matter how far away you are, I’ll follow, I’ll always come looking. Something that seemed so heartfelt at the time now sends chills down her spine, makes her wince in anticipation of what may come next. He hasn’t come yet, but she knows she’s taking her life into her own hands, taking a potentially deadly risk, when her eyes are closed. He knows when she’s sleeping; vulnerable… she knows he does. That’s why at night when she should be silently slumbering she stares across the room, watching as every second the window is coated with more frost.

He’s going to find me. She hears her voice form the words but it sounds alien to her.

It’s just a dream and I can’t wake up.

She hears the creak of the door, the crease in the wall opening up to reveal a short, thin man with kind eyes. He says he’s here to help her, but she’s wary. He asks how much she remembers; she tells him nothing. He smiles, it’s okay, sweetheart, it’ll come to you, his voice much deeper than she expected. He says he’ll come back in a few days when she’s more rested. She doesn’t tell him she won’t be sleeping anytime soon. She doesn’t try to escape this awful room when he leaves. You can get used to anything, she supposes, if you’re given enough time.

A thick fog clouds her mind, making remembering even more impossible. She still tries her hardest, wading carefully through the shards of memories waiting for a rough edge to lodge itself in her mind. When she finds one, like a piece of glass caught in the waves, she turns it over and over in her mind until the sharp corners have been worked away and she knows more than she did before. She wonders why he hasn’t come for her. She wonders when the man with the kind eyes will return, asking more questions she can’t answer and won’t try to.

She wishes it had been different. The fairy tale beginning gave no indication of the storm to come; if it had she would never have gotten in so deep. She spends most of her time wondering if she got out in time.

It’s been 539 days since it all started.

She silently cries; I want to wake up.