She
used to wear her heart on her sleeve. If she didn’t, she would feel almost as
though she were naked. She never quite understood why she felt that way.
Technically speaking, allowing every passerby to see the contents of her heart
left her open and vulnerable, but she’d never thought of her openness as a
danger. She had always thought of it as liberating, because she had never had
to feel bound by her own reservations about others. While she watched friends
struggle with fear every time they tried to trust, she herself was an open book
and she’d liked it that way. Or, at least she was a partially open book.
Everyone has a secret or two, and she was no exception. But all of this changed
the day she allowed the wrong person to see far deeper into her heart than she
should have. She had shown him the one part of herself that she kept hidden.
She had thought that she could trust him, but in the end her heart had been
torn from her sleeve and tossed to the ground like a worthless scrap of frayed
cloth. He took advantage of her openness and his abuse of her trust penetrated
deep within her, opening a wound in her heart which she had believed to be
completely healed. In one moment, she had opened her heart wider than it had
ever been opened before, and in the next moment he had reached inside it and
torn it from the inside out. He took every bit of her joy and put it in a
balloon, then pushed the balloon out the window and let it float up and up
until it was scorched by the blazing sun. He took every piece of her, and when
he no longer wanted her he scattered the pieces on the floor. Then, he had left
without a word. He had left her standing there, the tears streaming down her
face. That night, she stared at the fragments of her heart, her soul, and the
very essence of who she was, and she saw no hope of the pieces ever being put
together again. So she swept up the pieces of her damaged heart, put them in a
plastic bag, and put the plastic bag inside her chest. Between sobs, she
couldn’t help but think that if she’d only kept her heart in her chest where it
belonged then this never would have happened.
In the years that followed, she isolated herself from the world,
trusting in the shadows to hide her from the view of all people, believing that
behind every smile and gentle word was a heart of deceit determined to rip her
apart until every secret and every dark thought within her lay exposed in the
sunlight and vultures came to devour the remains of her shattered heart. She
lived in silence, unable to forget about the boy who had taken everything from
her, unable to find the words to say what she was feeling, and unable to trust
that anyone would really care to hear the story behind her empty expression and
hushed tones. Every day, she walked to school alone, sat through classes during
which she had to endure the whispers and stares from the other kids, then
walked home alone. In all honesty, she came to prefer solitude, because every
minute she spent with her father meant another bruise and another biting
criticism to add to the jar of insecurity that she kept hidden next to the
plastic bag that held her heart. She hid her pain behind long-sleeves, jeans,
and make-up, afraid that others would judge her by the number of bruises, cuts,
and scars that covered her body – or worse, that others would see them but no
one would care.
Three years had passed, during
which she fell deeper and deeper into a dark pit. All of her hope had
disappeared. She looked in the mirror every morning and saw every imaginary imperfection,
looking through the lens of her past and every wrong that had ever been done to
her. She saw no hope, no future. She saw nothing but brokenness, emptiness.
Eventually, she stopped looking up towards the opening of the pit, accepting
what seemed inevitable – that no one would ever come to rescue her because no
one would ever care. Then, on a particularly dark day when all she could see were
black clouds against an onyx sky, someone did find her. A small ray of light
shone into her abyss, shining from a small pocket flashlight held by a boy who
looked down at her, his eyes filled with genuine concern. She tried to open her
mouth, but it was as if her lips were taped shut. It didn’t matter though,
because even if she could have opened her mouth she wouldn’t have known what to
say, and this boy didn’t seem to need her to say anything. He reached out his
hand to help her, but she looked at his hand as though his mere touch was
poison that would burn her flesh. Day after day, she went through the motions,
seeing nothing but darkness. And day after day, this boy would find her at some
point. He never forced his company upon her, never stayed for too long if he
sensed that she was uncomfortable, and never reached out to touch her in any
way. He seemed to know that if he so much as put his hand on her shoulder, she
might never recover and it would be even more impossible for him to ever earn
her trust. So he would merely walk up to her. Sometimes he would talk to her
for awhile, not seeming to care that she never offered a response to anything
he said, then turn on the flashlight and shine it at her before leaving. Other
times, he would simply walk up and shine his flashlight, shedding just a little
light into her life, then walk away without a word. Without her even realizing
it, he became an important part of her life. Every day, she looked for him and
his flashlight. Months passed and she became aware of a strange closeness
growing between the two of them – a closeness that scared the hurting,
distrustful girl within her. Again and again he came, until the day when she
looked at him and, with an emotionless expression, told him to leave.
The next night, she came home to
a quiet, empty house. Her own soul, however, was so quiet and so empty that the
silence of the house was deafening and the emptiness of it was too crowded. In
the privacy of her own room, she washed her face of the make-up that hid her
pain and stripped off her baggy sweatshirt, revealing the wounds and battle
scars exposed by her tank top. Alone,
she was safe and all of her walls fell. She sat on her bed, opened her
nightstand drawer and pulled out a knife. She closed her eyes and dragged the
cold blade across her wrist, once, twice, three times. Then she opened her eyes
to watch the blood run down her skin. Soon, there came a knock on the front
door. Her heart raced as she rushed to stop the blood, threw the bloody tissues
into the a wastebasket filled with mementos of previous dates with her knife, once
again concealed herself behind her jacket, and ran down the stairs.
When
she opened the front door, she saw the boy. She had not seen him all day, and
had thought that he had left as she had asked, but now here he was. His eyes
were laughing, he wore an easy smile, and in his right hand he twirled a key
chain from which a small flashlight hung. As the door swung open, he asked, “Do
I really need to shine this in your face or do you recognize me without it?”
But when the door was fully open, his facial expression suddenly became serious
and his eyes filled with concern. She was confused for a moment, not
understanding the sudden change in his countenance. But then she put her hands
over her face, realizing that she had no make-up with which to hide her black
eye and bruised jaw. She stood there for a moment, hiding her pain from him.
Closing her eyes, she willed him to leave, but there was a small part of her
that hoped that he would stay. There was silence for what seemed like an
eternity, and just when she was certain that he had left, he showed her that he
was still there.
His right hand closed gently
around her left wrist, and after a moment his left hand wrapped around her
right wrist in the same way. This was the first time he had ever touched her,
and he waited for a moment to see if she would react negatively to the contact.
His touch was as light as gossamer and he held her wrists as though they were
made of glass. His hold on her wrists was so tender that her fresh wounds were
not irritated and she simply stood frozen in place, wondering what he would do
next. When she made no attempt to move away from him, he gently pried her hands
away from her face and looked at her. “What happened?” he whispered.
She shook her head and slowly
twisted her wrists, indicating that she wanted him to release her. He did so,
but made no motion to leave. After another moment of silence, he asked her,
“So, may I come in?”
She nodded, not intentionally,
but feeling as though her head had a mind of its own and was consenting without
her permission. Without thinking, she allowed him to enter the house and closed
the door behind him.
“Is there somewhere we can go to
talk?” he asked. Then he laughed a little. “Well, I guess where we can go so I
can talk.”
She
swallowed and thought. As much as she was afraid of the thought having him in
her bedroom, it seemed like the only safe place for him to be if her father
came home. Reluctantly, she motioned for him to follow her, and led him
upstairs.
As she closed her door behind
them, the boy surveyed her room. He smiled at the collection of china dolls on
her shelf, stuffed teddy bears that were lined up in a neat row on her window
seat, and books and CDs sitting in stacks on her floor. He turned to her and
gestured towards her bed, silently asking her permission to sit on it. Again,
her head had a mind of its own and she reluctantly nodded. He sat gingerly on
the very edge of the bed, realizing that his mere presence in her bedroom could
be a major source of fear for her and not wanting to do anything to make her
any more uncomfortable than she already was. She sat down on her bed as well,
at the opposite end as him, her back against the headboard and her arms
protectively hugging her knees against her body. After yet another moment of
silence, he spoke.
“What happened?” he said for the
second time. He searched her face, his gaze resting compassionately on her
bruises.
She didn’t respond. She never
got the chance to respond, because as she was trying to muster up the
strength to open her mouth and say something, they heard the front door swing
open, hitting the wall. She cringed and buried her face in her knees, then
looked up again, biting her lip. She stood up, motioned for him to stay where
he was, and slipped out of the room. After a moment, she returned. “He’s gone
now,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse. “He came home to get some more
money then left. He’ll be gone all night.” She sat back down on the bed and
fidgeted, realizing two things – that this was the most she’d ever said to him
at one time and that if her father was going to be gone all night then that
meant that this boy could stay in her room all night and he would never know.
The thought made her stomach turn.
This thought did not cross the
boy’s mind. He merely looked at her and asked, filled with both concern and
anger, “He did this to you, didn’t he? Your dad?”
She nodded hesitantly then
buried her face in her knees again. He drew closer to her and put his hand on
her shoulder. When she looked up, he looked at her and said, softly, “Hey, I
know that yesterday you told me to leave, and if you still want me to leave
after I’m done talking then I promise you I will. The only reason I came
tonight is because I couldn’t help but think that you didn’t really want me to
leave, you were just scared. I know you’re hurting. I could see it in your eyes
the day we met. And I know you’re afraid to trust, but I promise you that you
can trust me. You can tell me anything. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not like
that. So please, tell me what’s going on.” He rested his other hand on her
face, running his thumb lightly over her bruises.
He looked into her eyes, and she
looked back into his, focusing on the way that the light shone on them and made
his blue irises more brilliant. As she began to lose herself in him, something
else caught her attention. In his dark pupils, she saw her own reflection. This
time, she looked at herself not through the lens of her own pain and
insecurities but through the eyes of this boy who was looking at her as if she
were the most important thing in the world. The image she saw in the reflective
surface of the windows to his soul was clear, and looked nothing like the girl
she saw when she looked in the mirror. For the first time, she looked at her
reflection and liked what she saw. She liked what he saw in her. She tried to
speak, to tell him everything, but her lips still felt as though they were
taped shut. Suddenly, she felt an inexplicable need to be close to him, and
even though she was afraid of what being close to him could mean she surprised
even herself by closing her eyes and leaning in.
He leaned in as well. She
expected to feel disgust at the feeling of having another’s lips pressed
against her own again, but instead she felt a sweet comfort as their lips met.
His lips were soft and as he kissed her their gentle pressure caused her own
lips to part slightly. For a moment, he kept his hand on her face, slightly
pulling her into the kiss. Then his arms wrapped around her waist, and his
hands pressed on the small of her back, pulling her even closer until there was
no space between them. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she buried herself
in him. They pulled their heads back, then he kissed her again, this time more
firmly but still gently, and they stayed locked in that embrace until he pulled
away slightly, feeling her tears spilling onto his face. “Hey,” he whispered,
kissing the tears on her cheeks. “What’s this? Why the tears?” He took her face
in both hands and used his thumbs to wipe away the streams of tears.
She started to shake her head,
but then stopped. She had to give him a chance. She looked down, her voice
almost inaudible. “If I show you a secret, will you promise that you won’t
leave me? Or tell anyone?”
He tilted her chin up so she
could look into his face and see the sincerity in his eyes. “Of course. I
promise.”
She removed her arms from around
his neck and pulled away. He dropped his hands and watched her. Her hands were
shaking and her fingers fumbled with the zipper on her jacket for a few
minutes, until she finally gave up. “Can you,” her voice cracked and the words
stuck in her throat. “Can you help me get this off?”
Without a word, he slowly
unzipped her sweatshirt and pushed it from her shoulders. His eyes began to
widen as he slowly removed her jacket and began to expose her scarred and
wounded arms. He let the jacket fall to the ground and simply looked at her. As
the truth of what he was seeing sunk in, his eyes filled with pain, but he did
not look away or show any desire to leave. Now that he could see the path of
bruises down her arms, the scars, and the fresh cuts, everything came together.
The way she always wore long sleeves and was constantly stretching them and
pulling them down over her hands, the panicked look on her face when she’d opened
the door, the bloody tissues in her wastebasket, the bandages on her counter,
it all made sense now and he was kicking himself for not having seen it all
sooner. He looked in her eyes again, his own eyes filled with remorse. “How
long have you been doing this?”
“A long time,” she choked, then
added bitterly, “But it’s gotten worse in the past few years.” She drew close
to him again, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed. He wrapped his arms
tightly around her and she stayed that way for a minute, weeping uncontrollably.
After awhile, he drew her to
arms length and looked her in the eyes. Then he took one of her arms in his
hand and, to her surprise, gently began to kiss her scars. She closed her eyes,
leaned back against the headboard of her bed, and thought of nothing but him. When
his lips touched her fresh cuts, his kisses were so soft that it caused her no
pain. “Tell me about it?” he murmured, his kisses traveling up and down her
other arm as well.
The tears burst out of her
again, and it was as if the invisible tape that had kept her quiet for all
those years had been ripped off. In a broken voice, she told him everything.
She poured out her soul for him, telling him the story of sixteen years of
abuse and broken bones, the man who’d hurt her as a child, and the boy who’d
taken everything and left her broken and shattered. He listened to her every
word until she had run out of words, and then pulled her close to him again,
kissing her face, her lips, and her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You never
deserved that.”
That was all she’d ever needed
to hear. She kissed him again, unafraid.
His hands ran up and down her
back, comforting her, as they kissed. When they pulled away for a moment, he
asked, hesitantly. “Do you have other scars?”
She nodded, and gestured towards
her abdomen and her legs.
“Can I see them?”
She held back, but eventually
nodded. She closed her eyes again, shaking as his hands moved down to the hem
of her tank top. He pulled her shirt up and over her head, his warm hands grazing
the skin of her back. He paused for a moment to look at the scars that covered
her stomach, and then his hands found their way to the zipper of her jeans. He
unzipped and removed them, but that was where he stopped. When every mark on
her body was exposed, he simply stopped and looked at her, not in the same
greedy way as the first boy from years ago had looked at her, but with the eyes
of one who truly loved her and was pained at the sight of what she had done to
herself. Without a word, he touched his lips to each and every wound in turn,
and when he was finished he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her gently
down until they were lying together on her bed. He traced the scars on her
wrist with one hand, stroked her hair with the other, and whispered in her ear,
“I love you.”
As he pulled the blankets over
them, she whispered back, “I love you, too.” Lying in his arms, she fell
asleep.
Around two o’clock the next morning, she woke up. She
was thirsty and reached out to grab a glass of water off of her nightstand. In
the darkness, her hand made contact with something else, so she sat up, turned
on the small lamb beside the bed, and looked. Sitting on the nightstand was a
jar filled with folded-up scraps of paper. Next to it was a note. She opened
the note and began to read, not realizing that the boy had also woken up and
was watching her.
“I found this last night when
you were opening up to me,” it read. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to
open it, but to be honest, I didn’t like what I saw inside it. What I saw was a
ton of insecurity based on lies that you’ve believed about yourself. I found
things like, ‘I’m ugly’, ‘I’m unlovable’, and ’I’ll never be worth anything’.
None of these things are true, and I don’t want you to carry them around with
you. So I emptied out the jar and filled it up with new thoughts. Now it’s
filled with things like, ‘I’m beautiful’, ‘I’m loved’, and ‘I’m priceless’, all
of which are the truth. You could choose to fill it up with insecurity again,
but I’m begging you not to. You’ve been lying to yourself for far too long.”
There was more, but her vision
was beginning to blur as tears of happiness spilled down her face. She reached
out for a tissue, and when she’d dried her eyes she saw something else on her
nightstand: a needle, thread, and a plastic bag. She looked back at the note
and kept reading.
“One other thing… Your heart
is far too valuable to be kept in a plastic bag. So I took it out, stitched it
up (which, honestly, you could’ve done for yourself, but I think either you
didn’t know how or you were just too scared to), put it in a treasure chest,
and put it back where it belongs. Here’s the key. No matter what you decide to
do with it, just please promise me that you’ll keep it safe. You deserve to be
loved and have your heart taken care of.” Enclosed in the note was a golden
key.
She set the note and key down
next to the plastic bag and opened the nightstand drawer. After so many years,
she suddenly felt as though she was finally ready to give up her knife. But
when she looked in the drawer, the knife was gone. In its place was a red,
long-stemmed rose.
She closed the drawer. In the
corner of her eye, she saw him watching her with one eye open. She picked up
the golden key and climbed back into bed. As she settled into his arms, she
slipped the key into his pocket. “I’ll trust you to keep this safe.”
He buried his face in her hair
and murmured, “I promise I will.”
She looked up at him, kissed
him, and for the first time in three years, she smiled.
