Even Lovers Drown

Loud music pumped from the van's speakers, obnoxious bass rumbling the vehicle and its two occupants. The two merch girls crashing on the bus, Saylor and Davy decided to use music to their advantage, as a tool to keep awake. The plan proved to work so far. At nearly four in the morning, neither had slept, and that was their goal. Davy's for the sake of driving through the night, and Saylor's to avoid the nightmares.

Even if she slept the next day, one night away from them was better than none. Their continual occurrences made tour harder than need be, starting her days off with anxiety and fear rather than a re-energized mind and body. She wished they would disappear completely, but it didn't seem like they would anytime soon. At least, not while on tour. After all, she had lived nightmare-free for about half a year. Six whole months and then, they sporadically reemerged with the start of tour. Partially Blake's doing, as unintentional as it may have been, and partially her own body's response to an attractive woman who showed interest in her. The nightmares reminded her of what happened and what could happen again, taking the role of subconscious warnings.

The song they were listening to came to an end, a catchy pop beat that Saylor didn't recognize taking over in replacement. Yelping in excitement, Davy turned the already blaring radio up.

"I love this song," he yelled and took a long sip from the neon straw in his energy drink can.

His whole body bobbed in tempo with the song, and one arm flailed in, what Saylor assumed were meant to be, dance moves. The energy drink in his rapidly moving hand threatened to spill, but no liquid jumped from the small opening. Saylor stared at him, unable to do much else.

Maybe it was time to cut him off.

Saylor chugged the remnants of her second energy drink for the night and shook her head in a desperate attempt to offset the odd bitter taste. Tossing the empty can into the plastic trash bag, she opened the cooler at her feet, grabbed a new can, cracked it open, and took a swig.

Joining him in his hyper state seemed like a far better option.

The sugar and caffeine coursed through her, almost instantly adding on to her already wide-awake state. Energy drinks were proving to be another very effective tool in avoiding sleep. There was a reason she used them to pull all-nighters in college. When school was more important to her than a relationship.

Saylor took another large sip of her drink, hoping to rid of the memories that threatened her conscious. She just needed to think of something else, like ponies and rainbows, anything that could help keep her occupied.

Blake fluttered into her mind. The moment their bodies touched replayed for the umpteenth time. The strong arms wrapped around her waist, the soft breast pressed to hers, their hips mashed together, and the peppermint scent that made the moment complete. Saylor's stomach tingled with warmth, the memory alone eliciting the response. Blake felt so right against her, the embrace not at all reminiscent of Katie. She wasn't too lean or too hard. Her hold wasn't too tight. Saylor's head rested on her shoulder easily. Saylor didn't feel awkward wrapping her arms around her neck. The wanting look she received when she finally took the chance to meet her eyes wasn't terrifying but inviting and arousing. Embracing Blake was perfect.

And Katie hadn't entered her mind once during that moment. Saylor had the chance to forget about her while wrapped in another woman's arms. There was no way to explain the happiness, freedom, she felt clutching onto Blake. She didn't feel any fear in her arms and she expected fear to rip her apart at the touch of a woman, not comfort.

She was confused almost as much as she was elated. She didn't know how to handle feeling good in a woman's arms, let alone what to think. In the hours after the embrace, Saylor decided she wouldn't question her pleasant feelings, let them remain positive.

The energy drinks might have swayed her decision, but her therapist would be proud regardless. Or she hoped her therapist would be proud. Saylor was proud of herself.

Their moment could have lasted so much longer. They could have walked to the van together. Saylor could have snuck a few brushes against Blake's arms just to remember how soft her skin was. They could have talked, maybe flirted a bit. There could have been a hug to accompany the farewell before Blake departed to the tour bus, so Saylor could have another warm memory for the road.

But Blake had to see her scars.

That wasn't her fault. No blame could be placed on Blake for the accidental glimpse. Saylor was the one who lost her wristband somewhere in the locker room. The black accessory she wore didn't show up in her pile of clothing no matter how hard she looked.

Maybe some blame could be placed on Blake for interrupting her search. She startled Saylor, took her off guard. Dealing with her emotions, Saylor forgot about her missing wristband and her visible scars. A proper warning would have helped.

Blake didn't know that, though.

Saylor should have remembered, plain and simple. Her scars were her responsibility to hide or show to the world. She may not have put them there but she had to deal with them how she saw fit. And hiding them was the only proper way to handle them, because she found a small amount of shame in them. She let herself get treated as less than a human being, let herself get beaten, let herself get used as a human ashtray and punching bag, all the while remaining desperately in love with the woman hurting her. She couldn't help feeling shame over her inability to save herself sooner.

Nothing could turn back time and let her relive the past right. She needed to move forward, come to terms with the manipulation and abuse, and see the strength getting out required. She took the initiative to call her parents. She told them about the abuse. She managed to take control of the situation. Her scars were her battle wounds. They weren't ugly or shameful.

At least, that's what her therapist kept telling her.

Saylor didn't necessarily see things that way yet. She agreed that time would have an effect on how she interpreted her scars, but she found seeing strength in them hard to believe. Strength wasn't what put them there. They sure as hell weren't pretty either. The scars marring her skin added to the "damaged goods" feeling she already felt. There was a reason she tried so hard to get rid of her cheek scar.

Blake made her feel pretty, though. Her attention wasn't focused on her scars, rather other parts of her body. Regardless of how sexually driven, the attention helped about as much as it brought on painful memories.

Until Blake saw her wrist scars.

Saylor didn't know whether to be worried about the possible questions to come or not. She didn't know if Blake would draw her own conclusions, decide she knew what had happened and react accordingly. But she didn't know what Blake would assume from a set of scars and no explanation. Maybe Saylor should have stayed to talk.

Saylor's phone buzzed in her pocket, the ring tone inaudible in the music-filled van. Two quick vibrations, then nothing. Either a text message was waiting for her or someone called and decided to hang-up before she answered. Her eyes drifted to the van's clock. Neon numbers reading "4:00" glared in the darkness. Unless their mother had some terrible nightmare about Saylor or Davy's death, the time ruled out their parents. There weren't many people who had her number and would be up at that time, let alone who would try to contact her at four in the morning.

Sipping her energy drink, Saylor shifted in her seat and slipped the phone from her sweatpants' pocket. With one press of the red "End Call" button, the screen illuminated. One new text message waited for her from a number she didn't recognize. Whoever the set of digits belonged to must have had the wrong number.

Saylor opened the message, prepared to write a quick reply informing the sender of their mistake, but stopped short. The words "Sorry about earlier" took up little space in the message box, a simple apology with no excess explanation.

And the signature a space below read "Blake."

Not exactly what Saylor was expecting. She didn't think an apology was a normal reaction to seeing someone's scars. Questions, assumptions, even getting ignored would have made more sense. But not an apology. Blake had nothing to apologize for. She couldn't have found a way to take blame for seeing the scars decorating Saylor's wrist.

What if she wasn't talking about seeing her scars but apologizing for startling her again? What if she was just trying to find a way to start asking questions about the scars? Saylor didn't want to actually tell Blake where the marks came from. She just wanted to dispute any assumptions Blake may have had.

Saylor slipped her phone back into her pocket. Responding risked questions she would rather deter while face-to-face. She would talk to Blake at the venue, assure her the scars were nothing major and that she didn't need to worry about them. Blake didn't need to know any more than that. Their origin, who made them, why they were made, those bits of information weren't open for discussion. Blake didn't need to know about Katie and the abuse Saylor suffered through.

Saylor chugged half her energy drink and shook her head once again to offset the taste. As long as she lasted through the night with no nightmares or memories to spike her anxiety, talking to Blake wouldn't be a problem.