Free Love Rewards The Brave by Anya Monroe Page A

wreck
    walking out of the hospital room
    and find Ms. Francine
    waiting
    for me.
    Patiently
    always here for me.
    She’s knitting me gloves
    to match my scarf.
    She opens her arms
    and even though I think I don’t want it,
    I let her wrap her arms around me
    anyway.
    Suddenly, those feelings of
    unclear
    are swept away.
    And nothing feels gray.
    Everything suddenly
    feels very
    black and white
    and that is
    terrifying.
    I want
    familiar.
     
    She’s been sitting ready
    steady, feeling heavy
    on this still same chair
    waiting for me before she goes
    anywhere.
     
    I am to
    Benji
    what she is to
    me.
     
    There for me.
    Taking care of me.
    Wanting the best for me.
     
    And I give into
    her hug
    I don’t turn away
    or hide my face away
    or pretend to look away-
     
    I stay.
     
    It makes me think that maybe
    it’s what I wanted
    all along.
    Maybe it’s exactly
    where I belong.
    And once again, I feel sick inside
    disgusting inside
    just want to hide
    because giving into her
    kindness
    is giving into
    blindness.
    Because now I am walking into the
    black
    and
    white.
     

94.
     
    The office is cold.
    It’s a week before Christmas
    been working at the 6-Spot. Sold
    at least a million records.
    Everyone saying they want to be
    a deejay.
    Or something equally exciting
    as they browse the displays.
     
    I’m doing okay there.
    But here -
    in Terry’s office
    I’m forced to sit and listen
    about the situation that’s arisen
    with Benji.
     
    “So, you went to the hospital with Ms. Francine. Can you tell me how that felt for you?”
     
    I’ve spent the last several
    days
    regretting the
    ways
    I’ve allowed Ms. F in.
    I let her in when I was down
    like a little girl lost
    now found
    and I don’t want to go there again.
     
    Especially, not with Terry.
     
    “I can imagine it was very scary, Louisa. As your counselor, I want to talk to you about what happened to Benji and how that’s going to affect him for the next few years.”
     
    I close my eyes.
    Count 1, 2, 3.
    I don’t want to do this.
    I will just agree
    to everything she says
    so I can go.
     
    I open my eyes.
     
    “Benji attempted suicide, Louisa, and was nearly successful. If he hadn’t been found in the bathroom when he was, he wouldn’t have survived his injuries.”
     
    “So injury- that means someone did this to him?”
     
    “No, he did this to himself. Your brother is very confused and conflicted.”
     
    “I think it’s a mistake. It had to be an accident. Benji wouldn’t do that, not on purpose.”
     
    “Louisa, I know trying to believe it was an accident makes it seem less scary, but he did do this to himself. On purpose. He even left a note, for you.”
     
    “No.”
     
    “No what, Louisa?”
     
    “No, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about Benji. You don’t know him like I do. He would never hurt anything on purpose.”
    That still strange voice
    is rising again
    finding me again
    crawling out again.
    I want to push it in
    deep in my skin.
     
    “You’re right, I don’t know Benji like you do. But I do know that this has happened. And you need to understand that, Louisa, so you can move forward.”
     
    “Forward ? To where? To what? So I can keep coming here to you and talk about the fact that I have nothing if I don’t have Benji?”
     
    “No one is taking Benji away from you, Louisa.”
     
    “You’re right, Terry, he’s the one trying to get away from me !”
     
    That voice found a way out and
    I’m shaking
    as I’m awaking
    to the truth.
     
    “Louisa, would you like his letter? It was written to you.”
     
     

95.
     
    She hands it to me
    to read
    so I can understand things
    more plainly.
     
    The letters are scrawled in his
    crooked slant way.
    The way I spent afternoons
    attempting to correct
    same old me
    trying to perfect.
    Because if things are done perfectly
    or as good as can be
    then maybe I won’t be used for Dad’s negativity.
     
    The page looks crumbled up
    then smoothed again
    trying to pretend