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THIRTY-FIVE

FARRON

TOUGH CONVERSATIONS WITH HOLDEN

Day 142

Months have passed since everything started, and in that short amount of time, I feel like I’ve lost everything. My home, my sense of security, my humanity, my family…

The self-loathing has been festering like a wound. That final phone call with my mom torments me like a nightmare on a loop, like shards of glass embedding themselves in my heart. The memory of our last conversation haunts me almost as much as knowing that they’re gone because of me. That they only ever left the ranch because of me. That they became what they did because of me.

It started as a raw and visceral pain, like a weight sitting on my chest and refusing to be lifted. It hurt. I felt anger, I felt despair, and it was all encompassing. It felt like I was drowning, sinking deeper into the water as I struggled to make my way back up to the surface. Sobs and wails would leave me, disrupting the quiet nights on the ranch. I would hear my own pain echo around me in the fields.

Who knew a grown woman could cry so hard for her mommy and daddy?

I think back to that moment that feels so long ago now, when I was on the run with Magnum, falling apart because I couldn’t start a fire. I remember feeling like there was nothing left, and it makes me laugh at myself in my mind. What a stupid, silly girl. If only she knew what was waiting for her, if only she knew how bad it could really get.

But now, as I sit in the dark room of the cottage, I know I’m at the bottom of this body of water, unable to sink any further, no longer aiming for the surface. I feel numb. The numbness eats at me from within, consuming me whole. My mind feels like a prison, holding me hostage to every single awful thought and reminder of who I am and what I’ve done. My only companion these days is my depression, a shadow that clings to me and follows my every step. She whispers cruel thoughts to me in my mind, reminding me that it’s my fault, that I would be better off dead. It should have been me instead of my parents.

It should have been me.

Every single breath I take feels like a burden, the ache in my chest incessant and unending. This sort of numbness is insidious. To go from feeling pain to the very depth of your bones every single day to nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

I’m teetering on the edge, on the precipice of darkness. There’s no escape, I know that. I know that the darkness will swallow me whole and I welcome it. I welcome the mercy of oblivion, of quiet. Of peace.

Unknowingly, my gaze seems to have made its way over to the kitchen, right on the knife block. Again. I imagine the feel of the blade across my skin, the stark red of my blood against my freckled skin. It wouldn’t be the first time I killed someone, would it? At least it might be the last…

I’m startled out of my stupor by the sound of pounding at the door. I incline my head, my eyes slowly making their way over.

“Ronnie?” Holden yells from outside the door. “You better be decent, because I’m coming in.”

He twists the handle of my front door, finding it unlocked, and makes his way inside. As the door opens, it causes me to wince and press my hand to my temple as I slam my eyes shut, attempting to shield myself from the brightness that floods the room.

“Ow,” I croak out. My voice is raspy and dry from disuse. I haven’t spoken in days. I haven’t left this spot on the couch in almost as long. Through narrowed slits, I watch as Holden steps inside, his figure a silhouette against the white backdrop of snow outside. His gaze sweeps over the clutter in the living room, the old food and dishes scattered across the small dining room and kitchen, and the layer of dust that coats everything around me.

“Jesus, Ronnie,” Holden says, scrunching up his nose. “It’s stuffy in here. You can’t just sit here and pull a Bella Swan a la New Moon. ”

I shrug at him and his attempt at lightening the mood before turning my head and swiveling my eyes back to the wall in front of me. I hear the small pitter patter against the hardwood floor telling me that Magnum has come in with Holden, before I feel his little sniffles against my feet. He jumps up onto the couch and curls down next to me immediately, as if trying to offer me some sort of comfort. Even that is doing nothing for me right now.

I can feel Holden’s eyes boring into me, and I imagine what he’s thinking as he takes in my appearance. Dark circles rim my eyes from no sleep, my cheeks are gaunt from how little I’ve eaten the last few days, and my hair is limp and greasy from not showering. I must look like something out of a horror movie, and I know I have to stink, but I just can’t bring it in myself to care.

“Ronnie…” he says, tone soft, before coming over to sit on the coffee table in front of me and grab hold of my hand. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t shut yourself out and close yourself off from me.”

My eyes snap to his, anger flaring in my chest. How dare he? He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand the pain I’m feeling or how hard it is to take a single breath.

“I can’t stand to watch you wither away, Ronnie. I can’t lose you, too.” His voice cracks as he finishes speaking. My eyes trace over his face, seeing the concern and pain in his eyes, and I’m hit with a pang of guilt. He knows. Of course he knows. He lost his parents, too, even if he doesn’t know the entire truth. And now he has to worry about losing me.

“I know,” I whisper, my throat scratchy as my eyes fill with tears. “I just… I don’t know what to do, Holden. I don’t know how I can get past this.”

He squeezes my hand before moving over to sit next to me on the couch.

“Together,” he says as he bundles me up into his arms, just like how he used to when we were kids and I would sneak into his bed after a nightmare. “We work through this like we do everything else. Together.”

Holden’s embrace envelopes me, and I cling to him like a lifeline. Turning my head into his chest, I begin to cry in earnest, releasing all of the pain and turmoil that’s been piling up inside of me for the last few weeks. Holden doesn’t try to offer up any platitudes or empty words about how everything will be okay. Instead, he just holds me close, his arms a sanctuary, and stays silent. He lets me sob and get out everything that I need to, letting me draw what strength I need from him.

Holden stays with me on that couch for hours, a silent sentinel, a reminder that I’m not alone. And I swallow down my pain, promising myself I’ll never let myself forget what I’ve done, what I’ve caused—but I’ll be better, try harder. For Holden.