Up until now I've always been known as Abby-who-doesn't-know-what-she-wants, or Abby-who-doesn't-know-what-she-needs. That's the way people really knew me. I was the one girl who put up those walls and her fists, and I didn't allow a single person into my life.
I didn't want a hero. I didn't want someone with the power to fly, or someone to ride in on that white horse. Or the fairy tale man, who picks me up and takes me toward a light. That's now what I wanted. I refused to admit the fact, however, that I really didn't know what I wanted.
If they could hear me now. I would say, 'There! I said it!' And it's true. Okay? I admit it. I'm not perfect. I'm human. One messed up little girl. Little? I'm nearly thirty-five. I have a job. I'm a divorcee, a recovering alcoholic.
Recovering. Ha. Face it, I tell myself. You're an *alcoholic.* And, no, its not fair. Why it happened to me? I don't know. I still wonder what I did wrong. I want to hate God for putting it all into me.
I could tell my Creator that I took care of my brother and mother at age ten. And I still do, practically. It wasn't my fault that I lost a husband, or a baby.
And I realize again the severity of the mistake I made years ago. I killed a child. Firmly and completely killed a child. To save my own ass from having to raise someone with an abnormality. Ugh, that sounds terrible. I would have to raise another someone with a problem. There was no other way to put it, I guess. He or she would have a problem. Most likely.
A bipolar baby. Those two terms could never fit. An infant, such a precious infant in my arms that would grow up to be a victim, and transforming myself into a victim as well, of that diabolically schemed plague. That same one that had taken my mother, my brother, and myself by force. The one that made my father's face a blank one. The disease that had driven me from having a normal life like everyone else.
Everyone else.
As conceited as it sounds, it's true. So many people have it better than I ever will. And it's the cruelest thing I've ever known. I can't watch a mother, a father, and a baby alone in park because it hurts. I'll never have that because of fear. And the strangest thing is, I don't know what that fear is.
Fear of myself, or something? Fear of what could happen? Fear of what I know will?
Life is confusing, and I've learned not to complain so much aloud. I've had my moments where any ordinary woman would cry her eyes out. But, no, not I. I keep everything inside until I need to burst. That's when *I* cry.
And I hide it. Because I don't want anyone to know that big, strong Abby cries. But I know what they're all thinking. They think I'm blind. Everyone looks at me like I'm troubled. Because I am. I'm a twisted mind in a twisted body. I have no purpose but to screw up. That's why I'm here. On this planet.
Barely anyone has any sense of how that feels. Prayers have never proved very effective, so I've been led to believe that God doesn't want to play any part in a grown woman's sadness. And why should he? I don't blame him. Prayers are for children whose grandparents are in the hospital. Not for a woman who wants her mom to take medicine. Or to help her figure herself out. That's not his job.
It's mine.
I have too many jobs. I'm a nurse, I'm a girlfriend, I'm a daughter, I'm a sister. And so much more. Little Abby Lockhart. So many troubles. Poor, poor girl.
I think, deep down, maybe I want someone to look at me and see that I'm so sick. That I do need help. I want someone to pity me. I need someone to help me.
But, the saddest of all things. I don't let anyone help me. I refuse help. I refuse anyone to think that Abby can't do it all by herself. I shrug it off and ask, 'why?' when in reality I'm already calling, 'come back.'
So now I'm here alone. Technically, I'm not alone. But, come on. I am completely alone. I'm stuck in this hopeless soul, in this hopeless world without a feeling to follow at all. The rain has finally fallen, you know it has. Every cloud's taken its toll and I'm all that's left. Misery has had the last laugh. And its certainly enjoyed having that laugh.
People might think I'm suicidal or something. Suicidal Abby. Maybe that's why I don't talk about what I feel. And that's a good thing. I don't need help. At least not like that.
I don't know why I think I'm so strong. I am strong. I am a strong person. But I have faults. Otherwise, I would have never turned to alcohol. Strong people can resist a lone drink. But, me? For some reason they call me. And I answer them.
My hand reaches to them. One dumbass move. There's no reason to do it. Why drink? What's so great about it? It's a drink, I tell myself. A liquid. A beverage. Get a friggin' Pepsi if you're thirsty. Or a bottle of water. Coffee, for all I care. But do I listen?
Hell no. Why would I? Its beer, my longtime friend. My longtime enemy, but the only thing I've ever cried to. Or cried in front of. There's a story. Story of my life. Tears and beer, and an empty apartment.
God, I'm a mess.
I can stare into the mirror each night and see the same withered person. And still, she manages to wither away. Just leaving me before my very eyes. The seasons are finally changing and I can't see where I'm heading. That winding path in front of me is leading me nowhere. It's an awful feeling, to know that wherever you're going now, you're not going to survive it.
But, maybe life is better than I think. For brief seconds each day, the thought runs through my head. Maybe life is better than I always draw it out to be. I still have my job that I adore, and my wonderful boyfriend. He cares about me, he kisses me, he makes love to me. He sleeps at my side with an arm draped around me. And he doesn't ask about the turmoil wrapped around my quiet, but screaming inside, soul. He never asks. He makes me forget.
But in ways that are wrong. I think.
But he's cleared so much up that it's appropriate to thank him. Maybe. I think.
I glance over to him. He's coming toward me. I wake up, my raw daydream fixed in my mind forever. It hits me as he takes my hand and we begin out the doors, after I punch out.
I need a hero. I need someone to help me. Someone, in the tiniest bit, to save me. I need that man. I need that human being that knows me better than anyone else does. And I know who that person is. It dawns on me that I've known all along. It centers there, in the middle of the ER doors. I think I know what I can do for myself.
But, someone else is holding my hand. And it can't be that way. I toss a loose, phony smile upward, his way and excuse myself for spacing out for a second. I shake my head. And I have to look back once more to see if he's still there. The other man.
He waves at me from the desk. My hero. My silent hero, who doesn't know he can save me. He doesn't know he's my hero. He doesn't know what he can do for me without much, or what he's already done in some ways.
I stop and look up at a different man. A much different man. Nothing near hero terms. I whisper for him to wait outside for me. I already feel dirty because I know what I'm about to do. But I can't help it. It's a want, a need. It's necessary. Really, it is.
This rush that's flowing through my veins, washing through my head and my heart. I think I'm about to do something right. For once. Or at least something good for me. My first step toward recovery.
He sets a questioning look on his face upon my arrival. I bite my lip and turn around to see if that other man is still there. He's not. He's already outside obediently following my orders. He wouldn't want to upset me. He's too kind to me in a way. That's why I'm about to feel very, very horrible.
I whip back around to meet the other face meeting me. He's smiling mischievously.
"What is it?" he asks with a warm smile. I love that smile. It reflects the way I feel about him, and the way I know he feels about me. I've known forever, and so has he. Why has everything become so wrong? Why did it turn out this way?
Shut up, Abby, I tell myself. Stop whining and fix it. Because I do. I already told myself that I can do this, because I want it that bad.
"Can you come here?"
We walk to the lounge and close the door. He looks worried. He's too sweet.
I tell him that I'm not strong. I tell him I have no walls, no fists. I need help, I say to him. His eyes watch my lips move, comprehending every word I say and taking it into consideration. I knew there was a reason I did this. Other men don't listen like he does. I come with too much baggage, too much carryon. Why does he seem to be the only person who doesn't mind? The only one who tolerates it?
Why is it that he alone cares?
I reach my final destination. I need him. He's my hero. He's the one person I want to be with and the one person that's helped me. He'll always help me, whether I'm with him or not. One look into his deep eyes, or one search into his kind heart and I'll be me again. Whether it's good or bad, I'll still be me.
He's still watching me. I don't know what to do, so I freeze. The world is silent, the quiet chaos dying down outside the door.
Luka's still outside, in the ambulance bay waiting for me. I want to voice this to him, but I don't want to talk. If he's going to look into my eyes the way he is right now, then I'm going to keep looking at him like it.
I know exactly what he's thinking. Well, not totally. But I know him well enough to know something. He listened to me. He's thinking about what I said and he knows I know this. That's how well we are together. We understand and we grip it all. We grasp everything.
He's standing. He's standing in front of me. My eyes fall to the floor. At once, I want them to be on his face, afraid I may miss something. A look or an expression I'll want to remember later. The tile is filthy, I notice. But that's not what I care about.
His hand touches my face. It burns, but believe me, in the greatest way. I look up instantly. I don't want to tear my eyes from his now. I can't. If I did, I'd leave him forever. And I'm definitely not up for doing that.
Why can't I just tell him how I feel, really? Tell him everything?
No worries. He knows. He's known forever. And I know that now, because he's closed his eyes and took a step closer. He draws my face nearer to his. I know what's going to happen. The inevitable. The predestined, almost. And the worst part is that Luka's still outside waiting.
But I can't let it get in my way. I'll never love Luka. Not because he's cruel, but because he's Luka. Because he doesn't know me. At all. We don't have the magical relationship we should have after almost seven months of dating.
And I'm suddenly aware of his face an inch away from mine. Not because I see him, because my eyes are closed. But because I can feel him breathing. Its the most beautiful sound and feeling. Him against me. I wish I could stay this way forever.
His lips are so close. I pray to God that he won't stop. That he keeps going.
Yeah, I really did pray.
I slide a hand around to the back of his neck. I catch myself by surprise and tense up at the feeling. He, pacifying my rapidly beating heart, places his firm arms around my waist, keeping me there and keeping me standing. With this, I bring another hand to the back of his neck.
"Please," I whisper, begging him to stop this taunting ritual. I pray again. I need for this man to make contact with me. I'd be on my knees for it. I crave it. I can't live without it, I can't. "Make it go away." I don't care how ridiculous I sound. All I can process is his face so near mine, and the fact that I can barely breathe. I want him to kiss me. I want him to make love to me and tell me that I matter. That I'm just Abby. I need him.
"I need you," I say, even quieter than the last, echoing my thoughts.
He's face arches a bit and his lips meet mine.
Finally.
I don't sit motionlessly. Not at all. My lips dance on his happily, reaching that one wish I'd walked toward for so long. All I can feel is him against me, and his body pressed against mine. Our faces, our lips are moving in a steady rhythm that I can't ignore. Its the most beautiful thing. Ourselves so close, our bodies meshed together. Why is this so easy?
He pulls back, and I want to whimper at this loss. But I know he had to. He knows I'm with Luka. He knows I feel guilty enough as it is in the first place. He's looking at me sympathetically.
One thumb caresses my cheek and I lean towards it. I ask him, "Be with me."
"Being with me won't solve any problems, Abby."
"Yes it will," I whisper again, eyes sealed and a cheek depending on his hand's gentle touch. "It will fix everything."
He bends down slightly and kisses me again. "You're with Luka," he says against my lips.
"I don't want to be," I say, my voice small.
"Then do something about it," he says. The words aren't rude. They're insisting and kind, cool and calm. I look up at him, from being so close. We only stare one another for a second and I know what I have to do.
