Leia once met a girl, and it ruined her life.
Her mother found her first—bleeding, half-conscious, dragged out of something she wouldn’t talk about. With a bullet wound in her arm and a concussion, they couldn’t leave her. They let her stay. That was the first mistake.
Leia hadn’t meant to get attached. It happened anyway. It always does, she learned. The girl spoke softly, laughed like she didn’t want to take up space. Leia told her things she hadn’t said out loud in years. She felt seen in a way that scared her. She gave the girl her guts, messy and bloody, and trusted her not to bury them somewhere and never return and the girl scooped herself out in turn. That was the second mistake.
She healed slowly. She would sort her food into groups, draw shapes in the plastic, anything but eat it. Leia started taking bites of her food too, so she would finally eat.
Who taught you not to trust? she thought. Even as Leia kept telling herself she wouldn’t trust her either if the roles were reversed, though she’s not sure she wouldn’t. Leia was scared, not distrusting. That was what got her here in the first place. But the girl was scared too, in a different, learned way. Where Leia’s fear had no beginning she could remember, the girl had a very clear one. And no matter the guts on the table, that one stayed locked shut.
The distrust had clear reasoning; just what Leia refused to see. Her mother locked herself in her room more often, she was shorter with Leia yet more persistent. Everyone looked at her like they knew something—her mother’s plan, or her own vulnerability to a stranger, she couldn’t parse.
A lot of things in her life happen following the rule of threes. Deaths, truths. This was no exception. The girl’s questions went past Leia, she called her a coward, and in some hasty retreat, Leia forgot her sweater in the girl’s room. This shifted her fear, sharpened it, aimed it toward her mother’s room, she never hit Leia before, not before this, and she pulled a bookshelf in front of her door before leaving. The cold, her friend, the fire. It may not seem logical, but it did in her mind.
Afterward, there was barely a building. At least, that was what she suspected from her last look on her knees, numb—safe enough not to burn, but close enough to make her warm in the winter—before she ran and never came back. No stability. No pretending that kindness didn’t cost anything.
The girl disappeared, and Leia learned what happens when you trust the wrong person. When you believe so strongly, this is different, she won’t leave.
She also learned the girl can’t leave with a hushed whisper. She could never leave an imprint that would disappear over time. This imprint stung when briefly touched, sank deeper when watched, and only grew bolder and bolder every time Leia uttered her name in the dark—the slight opening of her mouth, her tongue behind her teeth, the two syllables.
Leia told herself she understood it now. She told herself it was over.
***
Leia sits, staring long after the sun set, Mae’s soft snoring beside her. She stares at Joanie.
She tries to find remnants of the girl she knew. Her skin is darker, a fawn color tanned a darker brown, a wide constellation of freckles now in residence on her face, her hair longer. So, they both kept the sentiment.
It seems Leia is only bound to meet her under unfortunate circumstances. Bruised and bloody and helpless. Leia isn’t the same girl, though, she won’t fall for the trap this time. Mae might’ve—Joanie is lucky she happened to fall into the river near where Mae was wandering, that the sound of infected led her there just in time to save her.
Leia tries to imagine herself finding Joanie instead and the image fizzles out like steam before she can reach it.
With some forced aggravation that was just retired anger and exhaustion, she made a display, grabbed a folded-up piece of paper she had with her and baited Joanie with it. Joanie looked like she had her life dangling in her hands. It didn’t feel as good as she thought; she felt like a child starved of attention, desperate for any kind of reaction to prove she isn’t crazy.
Joanie could be completely playing with her, amused at her anger, but she knows she was never a good actress. She is genuinely being dense. But how? Leia must live with Joanie’s actions, and she gets to forget the consequences.
Her eyes shift down to her other side. Her right hand tightens on the hilt, and she looks back up. Was Mae giving her an ultimatum? She soundlessly unfolds herself and stands in front of the couch.
This is what Leia has desired in the past year, a want that lessened over the last couple months as she thought every wisp of this girl was gone from her mind. She raises the knife right above Joanie’s neck. She takes a deep breath, ignoring how much it shakes on the way in.
She wonders if this was how Joanie felt that night. All this power in her hands to stop everything now. With a tightening hold, one match, one strike down, watch it flicker and throw. Her breathing will stop and so will the nightmares. Bright orange and red, climbing higher, dark black eyes—
Soft eyelashes flutter as Joanie stirs. She makes eye contact with the tip of the knife, then shifts to Leia. With one more blink, she quickly falls back asleep.
Leia’s hands twitch on the knife. Where have you been this whole time?
Leia has seen that type of look before. Has felt it. She can’t kill a sleeping girl. She will wait until tomorrow. She will let her fight back, and she better fight back. The fall messed with her head; Joanie will wake up full of guilt, she will look into Leia’s eyes with recognition and not make her feel so alone in this.
Tomorrow, Joanie will enter unfamiliar walls that belong to Leia and she won’t leave. Leia won’t look into those endless eyes and drown. Endless and dangerous.
Why did you leave me?
Leia sits back down and wonders if it would be easier to believe in something.
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