Safe Haven

The first time I ever had a panic attack was, coincidentally enough, in a supermarket. I'd been in El Paso, just a day after officially disappearing from Tempe, and my human need for nourishment of any kind had me out of the dingy hotel room I'd paid with in cash.

It was all too much: the stares, the constant noise, the crowd on that particular day. It was brutal for me, and the overwhelming of the senses had knocked me right off my feet practically. I'd lost it in the women's restroom, marking the start of a long journey with anxiety.

Staring out the window of my car, I could feel the start of another attack, the fluttering of my heart, the starting of chest pains, the hitched breathing. It was going to happen - it was bound to happen, but before it could escalate any further, I found myself getting out and wandering into the woods, heading toward Ravenrot with only a flashlight to guide and hopefully protect me if need be.

Settling onto the sofa, taking in the marks on the walls all over again, I took a moment to breathe - just breathe, to feel the way that air rushed into my lungs and pushed itself out before facing the real reason I'd come out in the first place.

It was only a matter of time.

It was only a matter of waiting for John to show up, just like he had after one of our more serious, more important fights.

And I was right. He did show, just as the first dull gray light had started showing in the sky.

He looked terrible. His clothes were wrinkled, the soft skin beneath his eyes was darkened from exhaustion, and his broad shoulders didn't exude any confidence as they slumped forward. But his actual eyes held something much deeper than what his overall body posture suggested: they were dark, filled with what I could only assume was anger.

For a while, we just stared at each other, me cowering on the sofa and he fuming in the doorway.

"Why didn't you tell me, Marlow?" He finally asked, his voice shaking. Whether it was out of anger or hurt, I couldn't tell.

"The last thing I was thinking about was telling people," I admitted weakly. “It’s bad enough that Halvo and Noel found out… I just… I don’t know… I lost it.” I was starting to shake against my will. “Where were you? Everyone was freaking out.”

“Where do you think I was Marlow? I drove to San Diego to murder Xavier.”

I flinched at the use of his name. “And did you?” I choked out, unable to look into his eyes in fear of what I would find.

“No. I couldn’t find him. Apparently he moved again.”

I could tell by his tone that he wished that he hadn’t, and it made my stomach churn.

“But we’re not talking about me right now, Marlow…”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, John… I don’t know! Do you want every fucking detail, because I can’t even give you those!” I stared up at him, defiance and anger pouring out of my body. “Do you want me to go into depth about how I tried to kill myself, about how close I actually was to death?”

He stared down at me, fists clenched, eyes burning. “No. I don’t want to know any of that unless you want to tell me. I’m just trying to understand why you’ve ran away for so long… Why you never told anyone…”

“I was so ashamed… For so long I was that girl who could fend for herself, who never needed anyone’s help – and then… I just couldn’t. For a while I didn’t want to believe it happened – I kept telling myself that it was fine – that I was fine – that it was just some delusion.” Daring to look at him, I saw that his jaw was still tight, but his eyes were different, almost glassy. “You can only run for so long, you know?”

For a long time, nothing was said.

There were no words that he could say. What happened was in the past, forever unchangeable no matter how much either of us wanted it to.

Finally, he caved. All at once he could do nothing but sit beside me, slumping back into the cushions to cradle his face in his hands for a long moment. “God, Marlow. I feel so fucking guilty!” he admitted.

Cautiously, feeling the urge to comfort him returning after being apart for so long returning, I reached out and laced my fingers through his, unable to actually look at him in fear of what I would see. “I wanted to blame you – I did blame you – for such a long time…” I admitted softly. “It’s not your fault. I blamed everyone and so many wrong people… I was wrong, and I see that now.”

I felt his fingers squeeze my hand as I pinched my eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the images of that night.

“You still blame yourself,” John whispered, his words coming out sounding shocked. I shook my head, but he didn’t believe me. “How could you think that? Fucking Xavier’s the one-”

He stopped short, making me stop everything. It took a second to realize that I’d completely locked up. All of my muscles were tight, my eyes were pinched shut as tightly as they could, my fingers clenched around his hand in a death grip.

“Sorry,” I murmured, forcing my fingers to release one by one.

“Fuck-”

It only took him seeing my reaction for the anger to come back. The urge to kill him was back like a flash.

I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t deal with this conversation. Not with John, not with him losing his own mind.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the stack of composition notebooks still stacked in the corner. Standing, I crossed the small floor distance and plopped down, opening the top book in my lap. “I wouldn’t read that if I were you…” John warned.

I glanced up, hiding my palms in the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “I already have,” I admitted, tracing my index finger over his words carefully.

He looked pained. “I was mad for a really long time too,” he offered.

I only shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Most of what I said in there isn’t true…”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Most?”

“Only pieces written in the latest one,” he stated, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I only stared up at him. “You didn’t read the entire last one, did you?” he guessed. Seeing my facial expression, he flopped back into the sofa and ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course you wouldn’t…”

Curious and cautious of what I was about to do, I reached for the one that I hadn’t fully finished before flipping to a page near the back.

This poem was softer, lighter. Less marks were drawn over the surface of the page: it was the start of a love song.

“I started writing again when you came back… That’s the product,” he admitted, crossing to crouch in front of me. Taking the book from my hands, he flipped to a specific page and handed it back. “I wanted to be so mad, and I did stay mad for a little while, but I couldn’t stop remembering all the good times we had…”

I found myself looking down, reading the words, the pages of promises we’d made, of plans that we’d created, of aspirations we had together.

“I wanted to fall out of love with you. I thought you’d purposely broke my heart, but I couldn’t stop. The second I saw you I knew that the feelings I’d repressed after you disappeared would eventually resurface, and they did.”

I felt my breath hitch. I couldn’t move – couldn’t think – but John didn’t allow me to. Before I knew what was really happening, he had my chin cradled in his fingers and his lips were on mine.

Not in the intrusive kind of way. It was the sweetest, most tender kind of kiss I’d ever experienced.

“I tried running away from them, tried pushing you away, but like you said, ‘You can only run for so long, you know?’” John grinned, his fingers never leaving my face.