For a moment, I try to pretend it’s a few hours earlier. Before the assembly, when everything seemed to be going right for me after years of everything going wrong.
Before Dylan appeared, and shattered my world.
Before Saint ripped my heart out and broke my soul.
I push myself, swimming harder and faster despite my body being tired from the meet. I don’t care, though. I need to exhaust myself. Need to force myself into oblivion. As I cut through the water, I focus on my strokes and my breathing. My exercise soon turns into a mediation as I go back and forth, back and forth across the pool.
It’s only when I’m in danger of cramping up and drowning that I finally stop. Resting my arms on the side of the pool, I let my legs dangle in the water as I catch my breath.
I feel better, somewhat. Calmer, at least. My head’s a little clearer, though my heart is in agony.
I suppose I should’ve expected this. Try as I might, a part of me always knew I couldn’t run from the past forever. My secrets weren’t going to stay buried, no matter how deep I dug the hole.
For the first time in months, I let myself think back on that night. It had started easily enough. I’d been at home by myself, reading and trying desperately to get over the terrible nausea my pregnancy was causing me. Jenn had been out somewhere, likely getting high, but it was better when she wasn’t around. I wasn’t afraid to come out of my room when the rest of the house was empty of her and her fucked up friends.
I remember telling myself how it’d only be a little while before I was free of her. I was turning eighteen in a year, and the moment that happened, I was gone. In the meantime, though, I kept my head down and focused on school, avoiding Jenn and her shit as much as I could.
Sometimes, though, she made that impossible. Like with what she was doing in the basement. I knew what was happening down there, but I never tried to stop it because I had nowhere else to go.
My phone had rung. Jenn’s name flashed across the screen. For a second, I’d considered not answering it because no good could come from a phone call from my mother. I’d worried that she might be in trouble, however, so reluctantly, I’d answered her call. Her frantic tone that night haunts me to this day.
“Mallory! Fuck, are you at the house?” she’d asked hurriedly.
“Yeah,” I’d replied with a frown. “Why?”
“The cops are on their way!”
My blood had turned to ice. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d get out of a police raid scot-free, even though my mother’s drugs had nothing to do with me.
“What do I do?”
“Destroy the evidence,” she’d snapped. “I’m still an hour away, but you need to get rid of everything!”
“How?” The basement was full of shit. No way would I be able to get everything out on my own.
“I don’t know!” she’d cried. “Just fucking do it, you idiot! If they find that shit I’m going away. For good.”
She’d hung up after that, and in my panic, I’d set the house on fire. After collecting the few things that I wanted to keep that were precious to me, I’d poured kerosene all over the place. Then, I grabbed one of Jenn’s vodka bottles and stuffed the top with a dirty old rag, like I’d seen in some movie. Opening the basement door, I’d lit the rag and tossed the bottle down the stairs. Before it hit the concrete floor below, I was already sprinting for the door.
I cleared the house before the first explosion, but the force of the blast knocked me forward and off my feet. I’d hit my head on the ground, hard, and the impact knocked me out. When I’d come to, the fire department was there and paramedics surrounded me.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” one of them, a woman with dark hair, had asked in a gentle voice.
I was confused, my head throbbing from where I’d struck it. I’d shaken my head.
“I-I don’t know.” But I felt the wetness between my thighs. The proof that I was not okay.
The paramedics had put me on a gurney and were in the process of rolling me to the ambulance when a familiar face emerged from the shadows and lights of the gathered vehicles. It’d been Dylan, and he’d appeared frantic.
I’d been overjoyed because I’d thought he was there for me. He hadn’t spoken to me much since I’d told him about the baby. I’d hoped he’d realized how much he really cared and come to find me when he’d heard of the fire.
“Mallory!” He’d been breathless, his tone fearful. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?”
“James!”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I haven’t seen him all night.”
My disappointment had been immediate. He hadn’t been there for me after all.
He’d grabbed my shoulders, despite a paramedic trying to push him away.
“We had a fight,” he’d said, his eyes glassy with terror. “He was pissed at how I was treating you. Said he was going to come check on you.”
My heart started pounding, and it had felt like the air was being sucked from my lungs.
“He never came,” I’d insisted, though a sharp fear began poking at the back of my head.
“He did.” Dylan’s voice had been strained, his grip on me painful. “I was tracking his phone, but the signal disappeared. His fucking car is here. He was here, Mallory, when … that happened.”
My gut had hurt. The most unimaginable pain I’d ever experienced. Without a word, I’d turned to stare at the burning house, praying Dylan was wrong. James wasn’t there. He’d have never gone inside.
He would if he thought you were in there, the voice in my head had hissed.
I hadn’t been, though. I’d been knocked out on the other side of the house, out of sight of the front door.
They’d found James’ body, or what was left of it, the next day.
I still remember what my scream of anguish sounded like.
Dylan had blamed me. He was sick with grief and not thinking straight, but I couldn’t blame him. I blamed me too.
James had been my best friend since we were kids. He’d always been there for me. My rock in the shitstorm that was my life, the normal kid from the right side of the tracks with the good family and the brother who was a fucking teacher. Whenever he thought I was in trouble or in need of rescuing, he’d show up at my door, even knowing what that place really was and what my mother was really like.
Of course, he’d run into a burning building for me.
James loved me.
Tears begin to stream down my face as the memories continue to assault me, and I try to wipe them away, but they just won’t stop. Dropping my head into the cradle of my arms, I give in and let myself sob. I cry for everything that’s happened. All the shit and abuse. The abandonment by Jenn, who’d gotten in trouble despite the effort. I cry for Saint’s betrayal, and Dylan’s hatred.
I cry for the baby that had led to so many sleepless nights.
But mostly, I cry for James because I miss him. I wish I’d been a better friend to him. I wish I hadn’t relied on him for so much. Maybe he’d still be alive if I’d just grown the fuck up and dealt with my own problems instead of relying on him to pick me up out of the dirt.
I don’t know how long I cry exactly, but when I finally begin to calm down, my shoulders are shivering from cold, and my hair is starting to dry into a tangled, chlorine stained mess. Sniffling, I pull myself out of the pool and shuffle to my stuff.