Raw(72)
Author: Belle Aurora

Calling Tahlia was one of the hardest things I had ever done.

Holding back my tears for a moment, I tried to be strong for her. I really did. She assumed I had called her to congratulate her and give her tips for her date. When she laughed uninhibitedly and shouted, “I can’t believe he finally asked me!” that was the moment I broke down again.

I explained that her date wouldn’t be going ahead and she gave me radio silence. It’s hard to read someone over the phone when they go silent on you. You don’t know what’s happening or what they’re feeling. Sniffling, I told her there had been an accident and that Michael was taken to the hospital. Immediately, Tahlia asked which hospital in a panic. She said she wanted to go see him. I tried hard to ease her into the deep end. That is, until I realized there is no easy way to tell a person that someone they care about has died.

Tahlia continued her silence while I explained that Michael was fatally shot. She listened patiently, never giving away her emotions. She ended our call abruptly with a furious, “Is that all, Ms. Ballentine? I really need to get going.”

Her sudden change in character should’ve been alarming, but I know she was just protecting herself. I pulled myself together enough to tell her I was always free if she needed to talk, and to please let me know if she needed anything. She grunted in my ear and told me that wouldn’t be necessary. We said our restrained goodbyes, and Tahlia had thrown her phone down obviously thinking she had ended the call. But she hadn’t.

I listened to her cry for an hour.

I couldn’t bring myself to hang up. I felt that it would be abandoning her. I couldn’t do that. Not to one of my kids. So I cried with her.

Charlie gave me the rest of the week off. I tried to hide just how badly this was affecting me, but he saw right through me. What he doesn’t know is that a week to myself is a week of torture. My mind will wander down all the paths it shouldn’t.

I’ll spend the week blaming myself. I’ll spend the week hating Twitch. I’ll spend the week missing Michael.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, I fall asleep letting out a torrent of tears.

My heart is silently breaking.

Guilt eats away at me.

Why did he have to die when I am allowed to live?

He was seventeen years old.

Somewhere in the middle of sleep and wakefulness, I feel someone slide into bed with me. I smell him right away. Not even fully awake, my mouth parts, and I let out a soft cry as I’m reminded of why he had to sneak in. His arms circle me. He holds me close, rocking me and cooing. I hear his voice hitch every now and then. The warmth of his tears slide down my temple.

He tells me it’s going to be okay. He says he’ll make it better. He tells me he’s sorry. Over and over again.

We fall into a tangle of limbs, and my last though before I fall asleep is, “This is a bad time to tell him I’m pregnant.”

Waking in the dark, I find myself alone and panic for a moment. Lifting my head, I hear movement in the kitchen and my head falls to the pillow with a whoosh.

I dreamed of Twitch while I slept.

He was high up, mounted on a white stallion, wearing gleaming silver armour. His tattooed hand lowered to reach out for me. I stared at that hand a long while before I stepped away from him and watched as he faded out of my mind’s eye.

Perhaps I built him up so much in my head that I don’t see him for what he truly is.

I don’t want a knight in shining armor.

I want a knight in scuffed armor.

I want his helmet to have dents. I want my knight to be real, and dark, and savage. I want my knight to be a survivor. Someone who’s been tested and got through his trials. Not some pu**y in gleaming metal.

I don’t want gleaming metal. I don’t need a f**king knight.

I need a fearless warrior.

I need Twitch.

Approaching the kitchen, I stand at the end of the hall looking in.

My heart breaks for him.

He sits with has back to me, shoulders slumped with his chin dipped. Leaving him to some peace and quiet, I turn to leave.

“I need help,” he whispers.

Without turning back to him, I grip the doorframe tightly and respond just as quietly through the thickness in my throat. “I know, baby.”

A moment passes before he asks quietly, “How would I-I mean, how do I—” I hear the frustration loud and clear. “How?”

Finally turning, I take in his defeated posture. “I’ll help you.”

“No. Anyone but you.”

Firmer this time. “I’ll help you, Twitch.”

I almost miss it when he whispers, “Don’t deserve your help.”

He’s right. He doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore his plea. I can’t do that.

Making my way across the room, I place my hand on his bare, tattooed shoulder. He flinches. Recovering quickly, he places his hand on mine and squeezes. “I need help.”

Squeezing his shoulder in a silent show of support, the bridge of my nose tingles. Tears well in my eyes. I try desperately to hold it inside of me. All in vain.

My body shakes in silent sobs. Relief flows through me.

I can’t believe it. I’m stunned. I never thought I’d see the day.

He’s ready.

He wants help.

It’s all over the news.

How a boy of seventeen caught up in delivering drugs was shot and killed by drug dealers in a crooked part of town. How a lucky passer-by and high profile business owner is lucky to be alive after trying to assist the wayward youth. But everyone who hears the story shakes their head in a well, that’s what you get kind of way. Because Michael was just another boy in the system. Another rebellious kid just looking for ways to shock people and be a nuisance. He was just a piece of dirt asking for it.

My heart – barely held together – cracks with every false retelling of the story.

And it gets worse and even more fabricated every damn time.

No one even knew him. He was destined for bigger things. He wanted a life. A good life. He was working hard at achieving that.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Twitch disappeared this morning before I woke. I was hoping to tell him about our little peanut. Alas, today is not the day. I have no idea how he’ll react. It’s not like I did this deliberately. Spending all those nights over at his house, I really did forget about the darn pesky pill. It sits on my nightstand, so I’m reminded to take it before I go to bed. Unfortunately, after spending a week at his place and only stopping home to check mail, it wasn’t on my mind. And now I’m in the early stages of my pregnancy. So early, that I need to talk to him about it so I can plan, come what may.