Running Against the Current

It's when I realize that I love her that I pull away.

She's stunned. She isn't disappointed, concerned, or hurt. She's stunned. Like I slapped her instead of kissing her. I'm stunned, and terrified. I realize what I've done. Not even within five seconds I remember everything- remember that life started twenty years ago, not twenty weeks ago. I remember my momma, the heartbreak, the bridge, the funeral, I remember the suitcase I packed and that I still have it packed, because I was afraid that I'd do something stupid again.

The skeletons are back, and I'm dying to run.

"I... really..." I don't finish. I simply run out the door. I don't have my wallet, my suitcase, or even my shoes. I don't care as long as I get away from there as soon as possible. I don't care. I just need to stop, it needs to stop, why won't it stop?

I can't change.

That's why the skeletons are following me.

I won't change.

———————————-

Momma, you told me that I had made a bad choice on the last day we talked. You tried to pin it all on me; the fist-fights, the names, the lonely nights, the tears, the fears, the cuts, the bruises, the suicide, the bridge over the Mississippi River, the funeral I wasn't invited to.

You were wrong, momma. I can't believe you never got it. You were no better than the preachers and the bullies, the teachers and the students, the lovers and the fighters. You were no worse than them because you joined their side against your own flesh and blood.

I never had a choice in the matter. When I fell in love, it consumed me. Every alarm in my head telling me that this was wrong, this was not what the preacher said was okay, what horrible thoughts my small town in Mississippi would think of me now; all of it was silenced by her kiss. In a world where everything around me was confusing, I craved that piece of serenity, understanding, and love.

I didn't make a choice then, but I'm making a choice now. I thought I was running from skeletons, and I was only running from myself. But I'm not like you. I'm not gonna be ashamed of me.

I was the skeleton in your closet, but now I'm coming out of it.

I met a lovely stranger, a stranger a lot more caring than you could ever hope to be. She gave me so much, she understood me, and she didn't judge me. She didn't call my innocence sin. She didn't call my desire an abomination. She didn't need to pray to the Lord to help me on my way, because I found it, and I was strong in it.

She's offering me something sweet, and I'm going to take it.

If I'm going to hell, I'll take it if it means I stop running from who I am.

—————————————-

I stand there on the corner of 6th and Wilson, trying to piece it all together. I have the resolve, but resolve isn't worth a damn without intent. I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say. I know what I want to say; something along the lines of: "I know that I don't talk much and I push you away and I test your limits and I'm what you call standoffish and I haven't told the entire truth about my life story other than being a young gay girl in a cruel world and I'm especially sorry that I gave my all to you before I pushed you away, but I swear I have reasons.

"I don't talk much because I fear of saying the wrong things. I push you away because I'm scared of what'll happen to you if you pull back. I test your limits because if you get sick of me I just want you to get it over with before I get too attached. I'm standoffish because I know what happens when I get too close. I didn't tell you everything because the last girl I gave my all too ended up at the bottom of the Mississippi. I'm terrified because I don't want that to be you."

It all makes sense, but it's all too far-fetched, and I almost wish that the Greyhound bus would pick me up and let me forget it all, or even better, pave me into asphalt right here and now.

Amber was right; people really do prefer death to public speaking.

I know Amber hasn't left the house; I wouldn't either. I hope she's not crying, please God don't let her cry. I don't even know if I want to go back in and face her after that. It's enough to call a truce with the figure I've blamed for my suffering. Give me strength to go back in, oh Lord; you owe me after the shit your people put me through.

I realize that I left my sketchbook there, and holy shit, now I really want to jump out in front of a car. If nothing else, I need to go there and get that; possibly burn it to a crisp if I don't want others to see it, but that just makes me forget that I need to see it. Remember where I came from.

On that whole going back subject, I think of going in there, trying to explain why I blatantly turned on her right then and there when we finally were facing the truth. Try to explain in that cold, echoing house that felt far too empty, far too lonely, the kind of house that always felt half-full...

"I don't really mind having visitors. It makes life a little more interesting for me."

...the kind of house that belongs to an incredibly lonely person waiting for someone to come home. Oh, Amber... I was only half-awake, trying to put myself together so much I just assumed you already were.

Oh, Lord... if I can fix this for us, we'll call it even.

I hear familiar boots clicking behind me. I know this is my time to make something out of myself. She hasn't even crossed the distance before I sputter out an apology. I notice that she doesn't clear the distance between us, and it hurts, but at least I know she's being honest. If she's being honest, I can be too.

I turn around to face her. She's visibly anxious. Her hair is around her fingers. I can't tell if she's mad, hurt, confused, scared, or some combination thereof. She's making me anxious, so I mumble another apology, facing my bare feet.

"There's more, isn't there?" she asks, taking a step closer.

I nod slowly, guilty.

"I understand," she says. How she has the patience to understand I doubt I'll ever discover in my lifetime. "That's how people work, Rachel. We can never quite tell each other everything... but I want this to work. But we need to be honest. We need to help each other. Because neither of us are..."

"All right?"

She nods. I guess for once I was speaking well.

As she speaks, her voice keeps rising. "This had to happen for a reason, Rachel, but I can't be there for you if you keep... doing this. You have to let me. I need that from you."

The word need sets me over the edge, and I've lost my inhibition again. This time, I think it's a good thing.

"Do you need me, too?" I ask her, eyes wide open. At this moment, I know everything's about to change, but I know that for the first time, I'm ready for the answer.

She clears the space between us; allows me to take her hand. She doesn't answer, but I guess she just needs time. I did.

"I saw your drawings," she admits. "When I was picking them up. I couldn't resist. They've said everything."

I shrug, blushing, because I know that the good pages have caught up to the bad. "You know, draw what you know, what matters to you." With a sigh, I add, "I know I have a lot of explaining to do."

She holds out the picture I only half-finished, the edges showing clear rips from the notebook. The picture of her mother looks back at me. It's not a replica, it's an interpretation, because that's all we got.

"We both do."

Already, I can feel the brimming of a million different words on my mind, more words than I've ever allowed myself to say. I know I'll have to say them all at some point, but for now, I simply nod.

Consider us even, God.