Darkest Before Dawn (17 page)

T
he soft notes
of the piano disappear into the dark room. I remove my fingers from the keys and wait as the silence of the still house wraps around me like a wool blanket. My gaze drifts to the window. Pitch black. It’s two in the morning, it’s dark outside, which means I can’t sleep. Ever since I’ve been back, I only sleep during the day. I spend the nights wondering and contemplating, missing him even though I’m told I shouldn’t. I’m terrified that one day, I’ll forget what his face looks like. It’s not like I have any pictures to remind me of him, and sometimes I wonder if I just made him up. If maybe I have literally lost my mind and everyone feels sorry for me, so they just let me be crazy, lost in my own little world of darkness and pain.

My fingers glide over the smooth keys and the rich notes once again fill the air. I’m home. I should be happy. Everything should be right, but it feels all wrong. I keep waiting to hear his voice. To see him walk into the room. Truthfully, I feel lost without him. I stop playing Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” and exhale before closing my eyes. Max’s face—those eyes—immediately materialize in my mind. And comfort washes over me. I swallow. My chest tightens and I fight back a sob.

“I miss you,” I tell the nothingness because it won’t argue that fact with me.

Love
…

If you think about it, love is the force which drives this entire world. Nearly everything in life is centered around love. Most people search for it like an addict desperately searching for a hit. And now I know why. If you ever find actual love, there is no mistaking it. The moment you find someone whose mere presence can soothe you, who can make even the most horrid of situations seem hopeful, bearable, your soul will say, “And there you are.” And when that happens, nothing—right or wrong—can make you believe you don’t belong with them. In a world where nothing makes sense, where from moment to moment things change, having something you know will remain a constant in your life until you draw your last breath, well, that’s something that makes an existence an actual life.

But I’m told: that person for me is wrong.

That person for me is terrible.

That person for me is bad.

If that’s the case, I’d rather have merely existed. For
knowing
the type of love not even Shakespeare could describe and being unable to own that love, that
is
death. I may be free from that room, but I’m still a captive because Max owns a piece of me no one else ever will. And as long as he does, I may as well be locked up in a cellar because living without him is still only existing. It is a smokescreen of freedom. And there is nothing more tragic than being forced to pretend you are living when you can hardly bear to breathe.

A jarring clash of notes sound from the piano when I collapse over the keys and bury my face in my hands. I want to scream, but instead, I rake my fingers through my hair and cry. I’m told this gut-wrenching feeling of loss, that it’s just a reaction to the trauma of it all. That with time I will see him for what he is: a criminal, a manipulator, a horrible person who used me.

But I know that is a lie.

He killed for me.

He loved me.

My sobs echo from the high ceilings. I try to control myself, I try to calm myself down because there are worse things in life. There are…but those things are merely momentary. The awful parts of your life—even the shit I endured as a child—was but a fleeting moment in time, but never seeing Max again, well, that is a life sentence, so maybe there are no things worse. He is a living person encased within a false death. And I hate it.

The overhead light flickers on. I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks and glance to the doorway. Mother makes her way across the large room, cinching the tie to her robe. She’s still half asleep, her eyes not really open. “Honey, why are you up?”

I shake my head and cry even harder, my shoulders trembling with each hard breath I drag in. “I can’t sleep,” I say.

Her arms wrap around me and I collapse into her. This sense of comfort, of undying love, can only be found within a mother’s embrace, and I soak this feeling up, knowing all too well one day I won’t be able to.

That seems to be the only thing I can think of lately—that one day I will lose everyone I love. Max already lost everyone he loves…

“Honey…” She squeezes me and I breathe in her familiar scent only to cry harder. “Oh, Ava,” she whispers. “I know it’s hard to understand it all. I know it must be. It’s hard for me, but…” She takes a step back and wipes the tears from my face. “I’ve thought a lot about this and the thing is…” An understanding smile forms on her face. “Well, if you love him, well, you
love
him. Don’t you? And that’s not something you can help.”

I nod, burying my face against her shoulder. I’m nineteen and sobbing on my mother like a seven-year-old with a broken leg, but that’s what mothers are best at, isn’t it? Consoling you when no one else can. Understanding things no one else could hope to understand.

“And you feel guilty?” she asks.

“God, yes.” I choke back the tears that won’t seem to stop. “Because I shouldn’t love him, but you’re right, I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it.”

Her hand rubs over my shoulders and she nods, bringing me back against her chest and holding me tight. “No, you can’t help who you love. Love isn’t something we have control over. I believe that with every bit of my soul. And you shouldn’t feel guilty for something you can’t control.”

“He’s a bad person.”

“Maybe, but so is your father,” she whispers. “And we both love him now, don’t we?” I stare at the wall, my head on her chest, her hand gliding over my back. “Ava, all that matters is if he’s bad to
you
. That may sound selfish and wrong in every way, but that really is
all
that matters in love. Is he a bad person to you? Because the one thing I’ve learned in my forty-eight years of life is that love has no morals so you can’t hope to ever explain it.”

Love has no morals
…Never has a truer statement been spoken, for love doesn’t care if you’re promised to someone else, if you’re young or old, a preacher or a captive—when it digs its jagged claws into your flesh, well, it’s for good.

T
he crisp spring
morning breeze sends chill bumps racing over my bare skin. I stretch before sitting on the dock, sinking my feet beneath the surface of the cold water before I pull the last smoke from a pack and light it. I take a large drag and stare out over the placid lake as I roll the smoldering cigarette between my fingers. She’s most likely reading…or maybe she only did that because she had nothing else to do.

I didn’t even know her. Not really. I knew a shell of a person, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was drawn to her. There were parts of her that deeply mirrored my own soul…but none of that matters. I ruined her.

Another deep drag, nicotine coating my lungs. I watch the smoke billow from my lips. Lately, all I can do is reflect on my life. On what I’ve become. On Lila, on all the girls who I stripped bare, the people I’ve killed, but mostly on Ava. I’ve often wondered why me? But I soon realized self-loathing does nothing to change the situation.

I finish my cigarette, flick it into the water and watch as a fish plucks it from the surface. I leisurely walk back to the house, stepping on twigs and listening to them snap under my weight. When I run my hand over the worn wooden railing to the porch, a splinter jabs itself under my skin and I jerk my hand away, swearing beneath my breath. I pick the piece of wood out of my palm and open the front door.

There are no lights on. The warm summer sun pours in from the windows and I can see the dust swirling in the air. I take a deep breath and cough. It’s stale and musty in here still. I’ve only been here for a week, and that has not been ample time to get that unlived smell out of this house. I cross the hall to the dining room and pause in the doorway. My eyes stop on the rug underneath the dining room table. If I pulled it back, the wood underneath would still have a slight discoloration from where the blood was scrubbed up.

This is the house my father and mother were murdered in, and although I’ve debated on selling it for years, I just can’t seem to do it. Part of me may be superstitious, worried that their souls are still wandering somewhere in this house. Maybe that is why I have kept it, or maybe there is some morbid part of me that feels bound to this place. Perhaps I like to live where the skeletons and demons play. To be honest, I question damn near everything in my life at this point.

Shaking my head, I disappear into the kitchen and grab a six pack from the fridge before heading into the den and falling back on the sofa. I pop the first top and guzzle half the can. I groan and slam my head back against the cushion. The most fucked up thing is that I wish I actually were a piece of shit because then I would have kept her and she would be here with me, her head in my lap and my fingers combing through her thick hair. I could tell her I love her—but—the words she would say back would be meaningless.

And this is what I do.

Every day.

I sit here and think about all the things I’ve lost in life and with each passing day the thing I realize is that out of the things I have lost, losing Ava is actually the hardest to handle.

T
he humid August
air sticks to my skin and I welcome the breeze blowing across the concourse. I pick a place on the grass and plop down. There’s an hour gap between my classes, and this has become a ritual—coming out here and sitting, thinking, writing.

I unzip my backpack and take out the journal Max gave to me. The wind flips the first few pages open. And almost like there is some little god fingering through my words, the fluttering pages stop. I stare down at the page, smiling as I read the words:

D
ay
24

Darkness and silence have crept into my veins

Somewhere deep inside I feel something change

I adapt into a creature of obscurity, one of vile things and sins

I’ve grown to love living within the devil’s den

A
flicker of light
, a flash of blackened scales

Would tell most anyone that this right here is hell

But then you walk in, wearing depth in your eyes

And I know you aren’t the person who would let a broken angel die

W
ay down
, way down in this hell

Though I’ve grown angry and maybe too frail

I’m still lucid enough to realize my fate when it walks in,

Even if he’s surrounded by a black shroud of sin.

S
ome creatures belong buried
within the gloom and within the cold,

Just waiting in secret for another broken soul to hold

Yes, I’m a captive to this night, to this fear and to this room

But most of all, dear devil, I’m a willing captive to you.

H
e hooked me early on
, even when I thought he’d kill me, deep down inside I knew he’d save me. They can say what they want, but what I feel for Max, it is true. It is not the result of manipulation—and really, even if it is, tell me how that is any different than love. Love
is
manipulation of the heart and soul. And the things one will do for love—how is that not a sign of madness? There is no rationale in that emotion. None. That one emotion is, in itself, a manipulator.

“Ava?” The sound of my name jars me from my thoughts.

I turn to find Megan, the one friend I’ve managed to keep after everything, walking toward me with two Starbucks cups in hand. She slings her backpack down before handing me one of the clear plastic cups and brushing her platinum blonde hair from her face. “Iced Vanilla Latte.” She smiles.

“Thanks,” I say, closing the book.

“You’re so weird with that thing.” Her eyes veer to the book and my heart leaps in my chest. I quickly unzip my bag and shove it inside.

“Yeah, just writing stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Her gaze narrows. “Ava, I worry about you,” she says.

Sighing, I grab the straps of my backpack, push up from the lawn, and head to the Humanities Building. “I’m fine, Meg. Really. Just fine.” I don’t want to discuss this. I’m sick of discussing it.

She struggles to get to her feet before I start walking. “Ava, wait!”

I stop at the edge of the sidewalk, people nearly bumping into me. “I’ve got class,” I say with bite to my tone.

“In forty-five minutes.”

I keep walking, shoving past people.

“Ava?”

I’m angry. I shouldn’t be, but I am. This happens, something that shouldn’t bother me annoys me to the point my blood pressure rises. She is worried—and although it shouldn’t it pisses me off. Why? Because what does she have to be worried with? I am the one who has lived through some sort of fucked-up movie. I am the one who everyone thinks is insane for loving a man who held her captive. And she is
worried
. Worry is a state of anxiety…why the fuck do other people have anxiety for the things I have been through?

“Ava…”

I stop, turning around, my jaw clenched. “What?” I growl through gritted teeth.

“I just thought—” She freezes, her brows scrunching with confusion.

“Well, stop thinking! I am fine. There is nothing to worry about.” And just like that, the rage subsides. My pulse slowly returns to normal and the heat of embarrassment washes over me.
I overreacted
. “I’m sorry, Meg. I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I just. I don’t like talking about it or thinking about it. I don’t like…I just don’t want to…I just want to forget.”
But I can’t. I’ll never forget him.

“It’s fine.” She places a hand on my shoulder and smiles. “Totally fine.”

And we walk back to the grass to take a seat. She rambles about the TA in her anatomy class, and I only hear half of it because like always, my mind drifts back to that room. Sixty-four days—that’s not even half a single percent of my life, yet it has shaped me more than anything else ever has. I counted the days when I was there, and now, well now I still count the days. I count the days since I last saw Max. Today is day ninety-six.

I somehow manage to shake him from my thoughts and my attention goes back to Meg. “…you should see the way he looks at me, Ava. I guarantee I could sack him. Maybe that’s what you need.”

“Huh?”

“To get laid.” She laughs.

“Oh, yeah, no. I’m fine.”

She shrugs and sips her coffee. “Suit yourself.”

Ninety-six.
“You think I’m crazy?” I ask Meg. Her forehead wrinkles, I guess from the randomness of that question.

“Uh, I mean, no…not like certifiable or anything anyways.”

“For loving him.”

“Oh.” Both of her thin brows arch. “No, I get it.” But she looks away from me because she doesn’t get it, she just doesn’t want to admit it to me.

And I’m tired of people thinking I’m insane for loving him. Black and white. I need it in black and white, the entire thing. The emotions, the truth. So, I pull my phone from the front pocket of my back pack, flip through all those emails, and reply to Tabitha Strong’s email from months ago:

I’d love for you to tell my story.