Ladybug [h.s.]

20

Harry

One Week Later

~~~~~~~~

I'd driven home upset, spent the rest of the day upset, woke up the next morning upset, and didn't talk to, or hear from, Delilah for three full days. Some product of work, and fear, and me avoiding the house as much as I could so there was no way I could hear from her. But, three days later she called before the sun rose, and I had no choice but to answer. The sound of her voice alone mended the fragmented pieces that were left from her squeezing her hands around my glass heart.

I thought, now that she was my girl, that maybe there was enough trust, enough support, to feel confident in what we have. That maybe my ring around her neck would be some visual confirmation that she's as deep as I am. I thought after seeing Eleanor and Dorothy - after she told Eleanor and Dorothy - things would be different. Better. She wouldn't be scared anymore. I thought I was ready to see the Butler's again, too. Surely there was no reason why I wouldn't be. But everything erupted into flames before my eyes. Red, and orange, and yellow streaks of burning, angry, painful fire.

Pain from Delilah hurrying to hide me. Hide us. Hide any possibility that we could ever be together. Like she's embarrassed, or ashamed. Like I'm not good enough.

Pain from her lousy excuses. Or, her lack of excuses. As if she doesn't even know why she won't tell them. The obliviousness, and the lack of searching for an answer. Like she doesn't care enough to.

Pain from my own goddamn vulnerability. Losing myself entirely in that woman, all my sanity, all my coolness - hardness. Dropping it at her doorstep like a jar of sugar. Baring every last inch of my skin; peeling it back so that she can make a home underneath. Letting her control me. Riding down the road at 80 miles an hour and simply releasing the handlebars. And she yanks it into some clothing shop. Like she could ball up my openness and shove it into the junk drawer.

Pain from the reminder - that she gets her happy family and I don't. That things could have been so different if my parents didn't get caught in that wreck. Knowing that hers would reject me immediately, no matter how much past we shared. All because of money. All because of the leather resting on my shoulders. Like my character is defined by a dollop of hair grease and raggedy leather.

All of my life has been a series of pain. Moments of volcanic eruptions wiping me out and moments of licking the stinging wounds. Watching the plates of the earth open up and suck down everything good. Everything light. Scraped knees and wadded up bandaids and concrete collision scars. Riding without the training wheels and smearing blood across the road like sidewalk chalk. Lingering, and taunting, and lashing out. Never-ending, cyclical hurt. I am sick of the pain.

Delilah's supposed to heal. Delilah does heal. Repairs busted knuckles, and fractured ribs, and empty hearts. It swirls inside of her blood like some antidote, as if the very core of her soul is the cure. She heals for a living. Hippocratic oath. Do no harm.

So, what do I do when the remedy becomes the cause? When the healer turns infectious. When the bandaid tears away and bacteria festers within the wound.

I've tried to acknowledge her side of it all, I really have. Everything Delilah has ever known is how her parents have raised her - to always be the good, sweet girl. To find a kind, respectable man. To save herself. To act like a lady. To still be a strong woman. To be independent. To still be their little girl. She exists in a pendulum; a conundrum of right and wrong and grey area so foggy you can't see to the end of the front lawn.