Your Inaccessible Light

I pretty much fall into Ronnie’s arms as soon as the kitchen door shuts, my legs suddenly weak as I am now sobbing ridiculously. He holds me close to his bare chest, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist and the other stroking my hair softly.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” he soothes. Like I did the first time he saw me cry, I focus on the steady beating of his heart and the comforting tone of his voice that somehow radiates feelings of security and content. I focus on his scent which is both intoxicating and calming at the same time. I focus on how close I am to him and how he is alive and okay. Once my relentless sobs have subsided into soft cries, Ronnie releases me from his embrace.

“What’s wrong? No one’s hurt you have they?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly, “It’s not that. I’m fine. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Can you stop pretending you’re fucking fine when you’re blatantly not?” he barks, far more an order than a question. I sigh, wiping under each of my eyes and trying to string my unintelligible thoughts into a sentence.

“You scare me Ronnie,” I admit.

“Why?” he asks, placing two fingers under my chin and forcing me to look him in the eye.

Reluctantly, I look up to meet his eyes, which are laced with confusion and concern.

“You say you’re in control of this but you’re not. That’s what Austin said, that’s what he said,” I ramble, suddenly becoming distressed again, “What if…what if you end up…like he did?”

“Sweetie that’s not going to happen,” he gasps, grabbing onto my shoulders, as if he’s forcing me to listen, willing me to believe it. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what Austin said,” I whisper.

“I know,” he sighs, “I know, but I swear to you, I’ve got this under control. I know what I’m doing and I’ve got this whole thing under control.”

“It’s not under control Ronnie, you’re a drug addict!” I cry. Ronnie flinches, his eyes darkening as he takes a step away from me.

“I’m not…I’m not, don’t say that,” he murmurs, shaking his head repeatedly, “Just keep it down.”

“There’s nothing wrong with admitting you have a problem.”

“But I don’t have a fucking problem okay?” he snaps, causing me to tense up. No matter what he says, he’s only further convincing me he does have a problem. He’s just the same as any other drug addict, that’s in complete denial and loses their temper every time someone calls them out on their problem. Ronnie notices me tense up and his demeanour instantly becomes subdued like before. He takes me in his arms again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap,” he says, “But I’m okay. I promise you I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.” I nod, not because I agree, but because I don’t want to argue. Getting Ronnie to admit he has a drug problem is like getting my parents to openly acknowledge that they once had a son. Besides, sometimes it’s easier to just believe that everything will be fine, rather than to worry yourself sick over something. It’s simpler than admitting there’s a problem. That’s why my parents did it all of Austin’s life, right?

“I love you,” Ronnie mumbles, placing a soft kiss on the top of my head.

“I love you too,” I sigh, realising that once again, Ronnie has lulled me into this false sense of security that everything is going to be okay. Deep down, I know it’s not. Maybe he knows that too, but neither of us will admit it, because we’re both scared and fear is not something we’re proud to admit.

“You’re coming to the gig tonight, yeah?” Ronnie asks, skilfully changing the subject to one far less sensitive.

“I don’t know Ronnie; I think I just need some time on my own. I’m really tired.”

“Come on,” he presses, “It will be fun. It will cheer you up. For me?”

“You’re relentless, you know that?”

“Or you’re just not as strong-willed as you like to think you are?” he teases and I shoot him a warning glare.

“I’m kidding,” he laughs, holding up his hands, “You’re the most strong-willed person I’ve ever met, to the point it’s irritating.”

“What can I say?” I smirk and Ronnie shakes his head, ruffling my hair.

“Let me go and get my jacket from upstairs, and then I’ll walk you home, okay?”

“It’s fine Ronnie. I’ll be okay getting home on my own.”

“Stop,” he interrupts quickly, “You’re fighting me again. Quit being stubborn and just say thank you. Having me walk you home doesn’t mean you’re not independent anymore.” I stare at him for a moment, pouting like a spoilt child. He raises his eyebrows and smirks at me.

“Thank you,” I sigh, annoyed at how he somehow manages to effortlessly win every argument.

“Much better,” he grins.