edge of {reason} Arx

Last night I screamed.

The orchard was empty, nothing but the speckling dew drops on the leaves were around to keep me company while I cursed into the darkness. I swung the axe at the already obliterated stump of wood, tears flowing freely from my eyes, until my lungs and heart were bursting and my palms begin to bleed. But it wasn't my blood, it was her's, staining my hands a deep, unwashable red. Her screams echo in my ears in my nightmares. Her screams echo when the sun is shining and I am talking to someone. Wherever I go I can here her screaming, begging, pleading, crying ... Wherever I go her blood drips from my hands. Anger - that devil inside me - bangs on my rib cage, screams to be let free, yearns for more, more, more but I can't give in. I can't hurt the people here. I don't want to add layers and layers of blood to my already filthy hands. But the rage gets hungry and fills my mind with images of her face and body and words until I can't concentrate on anything around me, until everyone I meet becomes "Sapphire." And then I stumble to my room, blindly, hoping to meet no one on the way there. Hoping no one gets in the way. Hoping no one tries to ask if something is wrong. Hoping that they don't release the beast. So it's there, in my nearly empty room, that I sit at the window and watch the others continue on with their lives. It's there that I stay locked inside, praying that they can't see the blood on my hands or hear the screams in my head.

I stayed up all night, even after getting rid of the axe. I stayed up and cried, staring into the sky where the clouds covered the stars in blotches and through the leaves of the apple trees that are so neatly aligned. I reach out, searching for my mom's hand, but I only find grass, reminding me that I am not at home. Reminding me that my parents hate me, that my brother is dead, that my sister left home, that I killed my little sister. I tear at the grass, angry that there is no family there to greet me, angry that I believed there would be a hand there. How stupid of me to think someone would want to hold my hand. To think that anyone could love me with murder in my eyes, blood on my hands, and a devil in my heart. My mom told me she loved me. My dad read my story after story after story, each with a different moral. They taught me all the right things, they raised me to become something better than what I am. They told me that breaking kids' noses just because they asked to borrow a spoon at lunch was wrong. They told me that breaking windows and throwing lamps would not make me feel better. But it did make me feel better - the evil inside me told me it would and it did. And then my vision returns to me and I realize I have done something stupid. And all my senses return in a flurry and the laughter that had consumed me while I stabbed her over, and over, and over again leaves my voice and is replaced with sobbing and tears and regret that cuts deep into my heart - through my heart.

As the sun begins to rise, the day beginning yet again for me, I feel the sweat that had dripped down my back begin to dry and the blood on my hands begins to scab over and hide itself from everyone but me. The anger likes to hide itself, to lock itself inside me and rattle my rib cage until I cry out. The chorus of birds begins their song, their chirps mixing with the shifting leaves swishing this way and that, and the distant call of a rooster completes the symphony, creating a song of peace and happiness. But the song isn't meant for me. No. No, it is meant for my family, both dead and alive, for everyone I have met on my journey here, for everyone here at Julia except for me. I clench my jaw and stand, waiting for the wall of memories and horrors to block my path, but it doesn't come. Instead I am greeted with something brighter, a memory that shines bright and embraces my heart instead of stabbing or slicing it to bits. The memory of a fire crackling, my father's voice pulsing with a soft sort of booming through the house, the smell of apple cider making me feel warm and fuzzy, my sisters and brothers sprawled around the room, my mom leaning her chin on my dad's shoulder, all of us listening to the words carefully. It's a love story, just like the book I keep to hold onto a piece of her, and although I had never much cared for those, I remember the story perfectly. A boy, a girl, wanting but never getting to be with each other. They wrote letters to each other for years and years, growing older and older, still never knowing the others touch or voice, but still knowing that they are truly in love. When the boy stops getting letters form the girl he goes in search of her, finding her on her death bed, unable to move, barely able to speak. She tries to push him away, tells him to find someone else, but he doesn't leave her, not even after she dies. But just before she dies, he recites a poem for her. My sisters paraded around the house for weeks, maybe months, memorizing the poem word for word. The words fall from my lips as the memory consumes me.

"I love you with my heart, I love you with my soul.
I know you don’t believe in me, but trust me for I know.
My love is deep, my love is true, and it will never fade.
So tell me now and tell me true - Do you love me too?"

I smile as the warm and fuzzy feeling in my heart spreads, my lips moving, whispering and repeating the words over and over again as I crawl into a nearby tree. I close my eyes, whispering on and on and on as the sun rises into the sky and the evil inside falls beneath the small bit of good that still remains within me.

When I was a little boy, books were the things that completed me. Words created a picture - a picture of a better world than the one that I live in - where I was a knight, a bounty hunter, a boy in love, a father, a poor farmer, a wizard, a baker, a CEO, a dragon slayer, a dog, a boy in a coma, a boy dying of cancer, a cowboy, a janitor, a ninja ... I could be whatever I wanted to be when I the words consumed me and I became the character in-between the lines, the character etched deep into the parchment of the paper. I would sit in my room for hours, reading and reading and reading until mom and dad had to tear me away from the book so that I actually ate something. It was so easy to disconnect from the world around you when the world inside a book was so much better. I loved my family, I loved my parents and my siblings, and the apple orchard we lived in, yes, but I lived in Panem. The land of broken dreams and death-by-other-children-your-age-because-the-wealthy-need-entertainment and fear, hunger, and pain are just part of a regular day. So I buried myself, let myself drown whole-heartedly, in the words that created a different world. A better one. For awhile, my entire family was like that. All of us floating over the words and letting them become us, placing ourselves in a different place where we could live out a different life, one where we were the rich ones and not the ones struggling to earn enough money for food. The ones that weren't weird for having so many in our family but praised and respected for it. The ones that weren't criticized and ridiculed for dreaming big but looked up to and considered an inspiration - an aspiration - for all other families. That was what books did for me when I was little. They were an escape, something that I could hope for and eventually live up to if I wanted to. But I know now that those things are unreachable. And books ... They aren't as joyous as they were before. In fact, they only hurt.

It hurts to think of myself as a knight in shining armor, saving the damsel in distress at the top of a stone tower from the evil, fire-breathing dragon with it's sharp claws, and well, fiery breath. It hurts to think of myself as the super hero in colorful tights, soaring through the air at lightning speed, fighting heroically to beat the guy who wants to blow things up and save all the citizens in the city. It hurts to think of myself as the boy down the street with the perfect blue eyes and perfect crinkly smile that the girl who sees herself as nothing special finds herself thinking about constantly and she doesn't think that he could ever feel the same way about her when in reality he is completely in love with every aspect of her. It hurts to think of myself as the father with the three lovely children who, even when he realizes he is dying of cancer and only has months left, knows that the only thing that could possibly make him happy is being with his kids until the very end. Why doesn it hurt? Because I am not a hero. I am a murderer. And murderers don't get the fairytale endings. I look down to see my hands still covered in blood, still haunting me, wanting me to snap as they always do. I shove then in the pockets of my jacket. Because when I can't see the red staining my palms, I can pretend - I can believe - that my hands are still clean, still the hands of the little boy who held the books about the heroes and fathers and boyfriends. If I couldn't see the blood, I was still innocent. No. No, that's a lie. I can still feel the stickiness and the heat of it inside my pockets, leaking through, soaking my clothes.

The words still fall from my lips, but now they are nearly inaudible, even to myself. But then I am interrupted, getting quickly to my feet at the sound of another voice. ”Okay, stop the singing before the pain in my head gets any worse.” All my senses leap to high alert, my muscles tensing, the monster within getting closer and closer to the surface, growling at the sight, the scent, the utter brilliance of another human being to hunt down and destroy. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. the evil little voice chants in my head, assessing how empty the orchard is, how no one would know what I did, that I could hide the body, that if I just killed her right here and right now that the caged animal inside would stop clawing my heart and lungs into a bowl of broiling soup inside me. My hands sort of slip out of my pockets and I take a step closer to her, not really able to control my muscles. But I stop myself - it. I desperately grasp for something to do with my hands, hoping that if I keep them preoccupied I could just make a quick dismissal and lock myself in my room and never come out ever again and die their all alone where I would hurt no one but myself and that would be okay. But I can't find anything to do but clench and unclench my hands, my jaw also mimicking the action as I try to keep control of my body and mind. She continues, biting at her lip, obviously feeling guilty about her words. But if she knew what I was thinking right now, she would realize that the only guilty one here is me.

“It wasn’t that bad, Simon, it is Simon, right? I’m not that good with names, so forgive me if I am wrong.” The raging monster inside me is screaming to be let out. I'm not even mad, and still the monster is aroused. For awhile I though I could be getting better, but no I know that I will never get better, that forever I will be consumed by this horrible thing and these disgusting feelings and blind rages and I will never get better.

But underneath I can feel the good, hiding somewhere. And the good is still here, keeping me from coming any closer to her, keeping me from adding her blood to my already bloodied hands. The good rises above for a moment and I realize I know her name, even if she is unsure of mine. Esme. We haven't actually talked ... Well, actually, I don't talk to anyone here out of fear that I won't always be able to stop myself from strangling them, but whatever. I bet most of them would think me a little odd, knowing all their names just from listening through the walls and windows and knowing them just from watching them from my window. Well, sort of. Actually, not really. I have created stories, small little fantasies for them to live in, imagining each of them in a different world than this one. I had hoped that helping them escape to a better world would make them feel better. But I'm not so sure that it worked. Nearly everyone here seems haunted by the ghosts of their past. And as I know all too well, you cannot escape the torture of your memories, no matter how hard you try. But it's fairly obvious what my story for this girl would be with the blonde hair and the blue eyes, and, as of right now, the bare feet and sharp tongue. I could picture her as a little girl, perfect and innocent and holding her parents' hands while they swung her through the air. I could imagine her hair braided, perhaps a few flowers strewn through the waves of golden yellow. I could imagine her smile, her laugh, her voice ...

I am staring. I realize I have been standing, motionless, my eyes trained on hers for some time now and I jerk back to motion, raking my hand through my hair, stumbling to find the words to make a sentence with some kind of meaning. "Oh, uh, sorry, Esme. I didn't - just, yeah. Didn't mean to disturb to, um, disturb you. Sorry." I keep my eyes focused on the ground, sure she finds me to be the weirdest person she has ever met in her life already, even without the staring thing. The grass shimmers with dew as the sun appears and brings light over the orchard. Something tells me that it won't be for long, that rain is certainly coming, perhaps a raging storm, but for now, all was tranquil.

I smile at her feet, bare and small, and I can't help the smile that rises to my lips, forcing it's way all the way into my eyes. I don't have enough self control to suppress the chuckle that bubbles from my throat. My mom always said the same thing about people who walked around barefoot. She always told me that they were special, that they always got themselves into situations that caused sparks. That they loved feeling alive and that is why they walked through the rain and on hot sand and over slick ice and stomped in the mud puddles and ran through the grass. They loved to feel alive. I looked up at her, a smile still plastered on my face, my hand whisking through my hair, pushing it away from my face. I sort of gestured at her feet with a wave of my hand. "Aren't your feet cold?" It all came out as a sort of chuckle as the happiness sort of took over with an overwhelming force. The rage had been buried somewhere for now, and I hoped that perhaps I would never see it ever again, that it would stay drowned beneath this new feeling. Maybe the key to it is her?

"And yeah. It's Simon."

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. Stories always start with a boy and a girl. They were in love you see, as most boys and girls are. But the boy had a secret - a big secret. He didn't want to tell her. he hadn't wanted to tell anyone, hoping that he could keep it hidden forever from the world around him and that maybe he could eventually forget his sins. But one day, he found himself overwhelmed. He was in need of the truth, and the story that he had spun and weaved into a blanket of ignorance and placed over the girl he loved, was all one big lie. The story of his past, the one thing he had held secret for so long, escaped his lips and into her ears and the girl only stared at him, horror running shuddering through her entire body. He thought that maybe she could love him despite his flaws, despite the darkness that shone just beneath the surface, but she only ran away from him. She said she regretted ever knowing him, that he had lied to her, that he was a monster and she hated him. He had been living in a fantasy were someone could actually forgive him for killing someone, for killing his own little sister. He said sorry, he tried to get her to come back to him, but it was no use. She was gone. She hadn't ever really loved him. Only the idea of him. What's even worse, is that the story doesn't end with a happily ever after like the rest of them always do. He hurt her more than he had meant to, his hands gripping hard at her wrists, at her face in a desperate attempt too get her to look at him just one more time. He left bruises. He left scars. He left her in tears, crumpled in a corner, scared and hopeless. Because she was right - he was a monster. He went away, his own tears plastering his face and soaking his shirt. He hadn't meant to hurt her. It was only because he loved her so much. It was only because she insisted on throwing the love away based on one simple thing. But it wasn't a simple thing, was it? He had killed someone. It was a hamartia that no one, not even the most forgiving person in the world, could find a way to love. Because love wasn't for murderers. It was a privilege that only the most deserving should have. He had locked in his destiny to be forever alone when he grabbed the knife and brought it to flesh and bone.

I know now that I will never get a happily ever after because only the good guys get the happily ever after at the end of their story. Only the hero gets the beautiful, amazingly perfect girl with the long hair and perfect voice and best ideals. The monsters get to live under bridges and torment the boys and girls who get close enough. But they aren't plotting evils under their bridges, dreaming of death, death, and more death with every waking moment. We monsters, we are just lonely, hopelessly searching for love that we will never find. Well, at least that is how this monster lives his life. I don't scare the children unless I bear my teeth. I watch everyone - boys, girls, young, old, tall, short, beautiful, ugly - pass before my eyes, right over my scary bridge, dreaming of a day when I find someone who isn't afraid to look into my eyes or hold my hand. Waiting for someone who can forgive me, someone who can love me even with my dark side. Someone who isn't afraid of the blood on my hands or the terrible rage that still hides in my heart. But I know that when I meet this someone, I will only ruin their life. And so I stay hidden. this monster is done hurting people. And with love comes pain - always. So I shove love away, push everyone away, scare them with my teeth and shout at them with my deep voice in an attempt to save them from liking me. To save them from getting too close, just like the girl before had. Because no matter what the monster inside wants, the real me doesn't want to hurt anybody.

There was a time that my family got too close to me. But now they have grown away from me. And I am thankful for that. I couldn't stand to hurt them again. I tell myself I ran away from home to save them from me and my endless rages, but the real reason is much more selfish, much more like the personality of a demon. The truth behind it all, behind running instead of staying, was because I am a coward. I stabbed my little sister to death while my parents were away, in front of my younger siblings, spattering blood across the walls and onto my face and shirt and everything in the room, the monster laughing over her mutilated body, and then me wrapping her in my arms screaming and sobbing and trying to revive her. But she was gone. And so was I. When I had lost her, I had lost myself. I couldn't bare to see my parents, to watch them cry and pray and beg and ask, "Why, why, why?" over and over again, me struggling to find some kind of an answer. I couldn't stand losing them, so I ran before they could tell me that they hated me and would never love me ever again. I ran so that I could forever hold in my memory the way they smiled at me, and their voices telling me how much they loved me, and their hands and arms holding me tight to them, never wanting to let go of their precious little boy. I can pretend that they still love me, that they are searching for me, wanting me to come home. I was always really good at playing pretend. I could always believe the stories and the fairy tales. "That could happen," I would say, smiling at the words. "Happy endings are always possible. Also, unicorns must be real. They are just really good at hide-n-seek." My parents would laugh and kiss the top of my head. "There is no such thing as bad endings, Si," my dad would say. "That's right, sweetie. Happy endings are always possible. Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end," my mom would say before suggesting we go hunt for unicorns out in the orchard because unicorns loved apples.

Did they know they were wrong? Did they know their son would find the end and happiness would not be there waiting for me?

So here I am now, staring into blue eyes that are ten times more magical than mine have ever been, a smile, although small, still brighter than anything I have ever mustered, hair that shimmers golden in even the dimmest of light, and toes that beg to be as near to the Earth as they possibly can. Is this finally the end? This girl? She is looking at me now, staring right into the eyes of the devil. But it isn't a taunt. No, there is only softness there, oblivious to the monster that sees her and begs and whimpers to be let out, that yearns to feel the life leave her body. I drop my gaze away from her eyes again, taking another step closer to her involuntarily. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be talking to her. I should just leave, lock myself away in my room and pretend this never happened. But I it seems I can't move unless it is to move closer to her. That's the monster inside, swarming to the innocence, ready to pounce and tear it to bits.

"No, I don't really feel the cold on them anymore. I've grown use to it I guess. Shoes take away the freedom, they destroy it all. I feel so much more alive when I can touch my feet to the ground below me." Her laughter. So small, quiet, very near to a whisper, and yet it fills my heart up to the very brim and threatens to make it explode within me. It's such perfection, something I have long forgotten, something much more precious than my own laughter. And her words. I know she only means to explain that her feet aren't cold and why she doesn't wear shoes, but instead I feel as if she has just told me who she is. She finds freedom in the tiniest, simplest things. She wants to feel connected to life that the Earth bears and not just walk around like a zombie. Despite the sad eyes I have witnessed through my window pain she wants to live with happiness. And I know it sounds insane, but I want to give her happiness. I want to make her laugh, and keep the smile on her face, and fight off every shoe that dares to try to keep her feet contained. I want to hug her, to let her know that I feel as if she has saved me from some dark pit that was threatening to swallow me whole. Does she realize that she just saved me? But I also want to protect her, to keep her safe from anything that dares to hurt her. I know it's stupid to care so much after I have only just talked to her, but this new found joy that has risen within me has got my emotions beating straight from my heart. And that's why I have to run again, to lock myself away in my room and just forget this meeting ever happened in the first place. Because even though the monster is hidden and beaten down right now, there is no doubt he will rise again. And I can't protect her from him. I can't let myself hurt her - anyone. I can save her. All I have to do is walk away right now and stay away for the rest of my days. Go.

"Why don't you try it? Feel the world beneath your feet." I was just about to dismiss myself. But now what can I do? I turn my eyes to hers again, not realizing that I had inched my way even closer to her. I could reach out and touch her cheek if I wanted. Or rather, if I didn't think that would freak her out. I smile, taking a step back before kneeling to untie my shoes. I set them aside along with my socks and get back to my feet, smirking at the difference between her feet and mine. I wiggle my toes, shoving my hands in my jean pockets, feeling the grass and the mud and the cold of the ground soak into my system. She was right. I already felt free, like the world wanted me to belong. I look back up at her, drowning in blue and gold almost instantly. "You're right." I say, giving a bit of a shrug, trying hard not too laugh too much at the situation. "Can't believe I ever wore shoes in the first place." I rock back and forth on my feet, suddenly unsure of what to do. I thought I could just leave, that it would be easy for me to just walk away, just as I always have, but I keep staring at her instead, thinking of how great it would be to swim or fly in her eyes. Ocean blue? Or sky blue? Both? I can't decide even as the seconds continue to tick, tick, tick away. I try to find the right words, something as poetic and inspiring as hers were, but nothing comes to mind.

"So, uh ..." I chew at my lip for a second, turning away and looking off into the rows of trees. I chuckle again because I'm a complete idiot and she must know it. Why does she tease me by getting me to take off my shoes and socks without any hesitation? Surely she must know it's a cruel trick to play on a guy like me. "I'm sorry. I just - I don't really know what the procedure is for talking to a girl who got you to take your shoes off after like, 3 sentences?" I scratch the back of my head, smiling at the ground, feeling heat leap to my cheeks. "I was going to say something witty or whatever about feet and how, uh, how they sorta sweat - a lot but you're a girl so I'm sure that just totally grossed you out ... I'm sorry, that was, like, even weirder than the whole staring thing before ... And why am I still talking?" I kick at the ground and brush a hand through my hair again, laughing at how stupid I am. So, so stupid. She probably thinks I am the strangest, most horrifyingly crazy person in the world by now. But why should I care? She was the one who brought this on in the first place with the whole shoelessness thing. I shake my head in frustration, but it wasn't rage that was making me this way, only this girl. I look back to her and can't help but smile.

"Would you like to dance? My mom always said that girls wanted to dance even if they said no, so you might as well just say yes." I take the step closer and hold my hand out to her, smiling at her, wanting to laugh but instead only smiling. "I promise I won't step on your feet."

Everyone here thinks they want to get to know me. But the thing is, they don't want to know me. Unless they want to be disappointed, they don't want to know me. So I sit up in my room, trying hard to keep quiet, tying myself to the bed frame when I think I might explode. Shoving my head under a pillow when I begin to growl and scream and cry. I cage myself in like the animal I am. It's better that way, to be alone. To be hidden. That way I don't hurt anybody and they can continue to live on their cloud of bliss and ignorance where I am just a cute? shy boy who is afraid of talking and getting his introduction all wrong. and I will let them believe that if it saves them all from the cloak of pain that is tied around my neck everywhere I go. It's invisible to their eyes, but not mine. Death wraps itself around my neck but refuses to kill me. Instead of just taking my life and having me leave the world a better place, he chokes me so fiercely that I am forced to do as he says. He doesn't care about my life, he tells me it is filth, that I am worth nothing. He doesn't want to kill me because I am not worthy of even being killed. Instead, he chokes me, beats me down until I have no other choice but to do as I am told. He doesn't want my life, no, but he does like to watch me suffer. He wants me to hurt them - the girls. But I can't let myself do that. I will never again hurt another soul. I punch the walls instead of pretty faces. I scream profanities at the sky instead of into their rooms. I wrap my hands around the handle of an axe instead of their necks. I stay as far away as I can, even when death wraps itself around my neck so tight that the edges of my vision begin to darken and I can't pull any air into my lungs. I will not give in. No one else will hurt because of me.

I know they don't see me struggling. Because I don't want them to. No one needs to know how tortured I am, how broken and battered and beaten I am by the monster that lashes out at my insides and tries to claw it's way out through my throat and fists in a flurry of blood and curses and tears. Everyone thinks they can see a monster, that the ugliness lives on the outside, but it isn't the truth. In fact, I think the world makes us look normal so that we can get closer to them. The universe wants - begs - for us to kill. The serial killer who cuts out women's eyes is always the most charming and handsome person with the most money and best smile and perfect life. Why would the heavens do that? Make the monsters to irresistible? It's a cruel trick to play on the poor innocent people who walk this Earth with these hidden monsters. Don't the innocent deserve a chance? Shouldn't the world keep them alive longer than the monsters? I suppose that means I am designed this way, to be deceitful, to hurt the innocent and live longer than the most deserving. When will this stop this stop? This horrible nightmare I live in? I wake up every night, live wit hit every day, struggling to fight off the sound of her screaming in my ears and her hands grasping at my arms, trying to stop me. begging for her life, screaming ... and then the gurgling noise and the coughing and spluttering ...

The smile leaves my face for just a moment, a darkness washing over me. But it is only for a moment. Minuscule. Because then her laughter is bringing me back to the world I am living in, standing barefoot in the grass and mud. smiling into the bluest of eyes, drowning under her gaze and so glad that I am. "Esmeralda." She sort of blurts it out, widening my smile further. But her eyes have a sort of intensity, stronger, harder than if this were just something leaving her lips in a rush."My name was - is Esmeralda, no one has called me that for over ten years. I didn't want to hear it again, but I do, I really do want to hear my name again, will you say it, Simon? Can you please say my name?"

Esmeralda. My mind swims with the memory of that name, knowing it from a book my parents read to me. Esmeralda, the beautiful, compassionate heroine who is the only human being that can show even the slightest bit of compassion to the disgustingly hideous little man that rings the bells at the church. Everyone else spits at him, shouts jeers, cheers on the royal guard as they nearly whip him to death. But not Esmeralda. She doesn't love the hideous freak, but she does show him compassion despite his wretched appearance. She has the purest heart of anyone I have ever known. But the story is nothing more than tragedy after tragedy after tragedy until it ends with Esmeralda being hanged. My parents read it to me this way and I didn't believe them. I knew there had to be some pages missing or that they were reading the words wrong. But it was the truth - it was written that the woman who did nothing but help people in her life was killed. I hated the ending. I hated the book in general. So I rewrote it. I wanted a happy ending - she had to have a happy ending. Instead of being stalked by creeps, declared a witch, falling in love with an ass-wipe, and dying because she loved too much, I made sure she lived. I killed off the man she loved before she ever knew him, I made all the horrible people disappear, and I saved her from death. I hid the notebook I wrote in hidden under my pillow, writing only at night when I was sure everyone was asleep. Because I didn't want them to laugh at me, to explain to me for the hundredth time that it was only a story - that I shouldn't get that upset over it. I tore pages, broke windows, lashed out because the books didn't turn out the way I wanted them to. My rage was out of proportion, but I didn't care. She deserved a happy ending. She deserved to have love in it's purest form. But I never finished it. I grew too old, no longer interested, realizing how ridiculous I was. There wasn't really anything I could do to change the words - it wasn't my story.

But I have dreamed of the end. She finds a way with all her goodness to see through the hard exterior that the hunchback wears and finds that on the inside, his love for her is pure and true and then she realizes that nothing else matters. A beauty and a beast, falling in love because it isn't what's on the outside that counts, but what is on the inside, deep in the confines of the heart. I dreamed they lived together to a ripe old age and died holding each other, waiting to reach heaven hand in hand.

"And I'd love to dance with you." She puts her hand in mine, her smile seeming to illuminate the world around me. I close my hand around hers, ignoring how happy it seems to make that caged monster inside because it makes me, the real me, feel like I'm flying across the sky and the only way back down is to follow this girl. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I know that I am only hurting myself - pulling myself farther and farther into an endless ocean - because I can't do this again. Not with her, not with anyone. Because my ugly isn't on the outside, but on the inside. I am a bad apple, shiny and red on the outside, but rotten and wormy on the inside - poisoned and ready to kill whoever decides to take a bite. But I have to make myself walk away from this before she decides to take that deadly bite. Let go.

But I'm being selfish. I can't let go, not when she looks at me with those blue eyes, not when she smiles at me with the real kind of joy, not when her hand is in mine and for once in my life everything is alright. I wonder if she knows what she is asking. I wonder if she can feel the blood oozing off my fingertips and into her hands, dripping down her arm. I wonder if she can see the devil in my eyes, in my heart. Does she realize she just asked a monster to speak her name? I try to shake the feeling from me, the feeling that I am being studied, that she knows all my secrets, but it doesn't go away. The deed is done - she has stolen my heart as well as the devil caged inside it.

I'm scared but I smile anyway. Because even with the fear so overwhelming, her hand in mine brings on a feeling that is even stronger than the fear. I take a step closer, putting my hand at her waist, swallowing hard to get rid of the fear before starting to sway with the breeze that comes with the sunrise. I stare back at her, my heart beating to furiously that I think she can probably hear it in the stillness of morning amongst the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. She says she didn't want to hear it, hasn't heard it for so long. Esmeralda. Why? Is her past really more horrible than mine that she can't stand to hear her own name? Does she hurt and ache as much as I do? Scream in the middle of the night, beg for the memories to just go away, pray for someone to understand? Esmeralda. Does she know that her name means emerald? Does she know that it is one of the most beautiful names? Does she know that the name fits her so perfectly? Esmeralda. How long has it been since someone reminded her that she is beautiful? That she is smart and kind and wonderful in every way? Surely not all those 10 years. Surely not as long as it has been since I have been told that.

I so badly want to wrap her up and make sure she knows that she is wanted. That no matter how bad her past seems, I can assure her that there is worse, that no matter what she has done, I have done worse. But instead I only lean in, whispering in her ear. "Esmeralda." It sounds a bit odd on my lips, like I am not even worthy enough to speak it, because the truth is, I don't deserve to say it but I have to smile because it tastes to wonderful on my tongue and in my throat and on my lips. How could she have wanted me to say it for her?

I pull away from her, a faint smile still floating on my lips. "Did you know it means emerald? Your name?" I give a little chuckle, trying hard to make sure she keeps smiling. I toss my hair out of my eyes and look down at our feet. Mine are freezing, the dew coating them in a sort or sheen. But a surge of warmth runs through me where her hands touch me.

"Ten years, huh?" I keep staring down at our feet, unable to look up at her eyes. I don't want to see the hurt that will no doubt be there. "Ten years is a really long time to be running from who you are." I've only been running for a few and I am already tired, already feeling like I can't run anymore. "Besides that, there is no way you could have done anything worse than me." I chuckle even though it isn't all that funny. It only stings to remember the screams. I have to close my eyes for a moment to push back the devil's rage that always arises with the memory. "Esmeralda." I raise my eyes to hers again, feeling desperate for her to know - God, she just has to know. "You know you're beautiful, right? Inside and out? Whatever is is you are running from, whatever it is that makes you shorten your name, it's part of you." I smile at her, bending to keep her looking at me, letting go of her hand to brush a stray hair from her face. "And from what I see, you are still beautiful." I grab her hand again, hoping she will keep holding mine despite the oddity of the situation. "And like I said, there is no way your secrets could be worse than mine. If you knew my secrets, I doubt you would still be standing here with me."

"And no, my secret is not that I snore really loudly." I smile again, trying to forget the past. To put it behind me, to keep the monster caged, to stop running and live right here, right now, with all my heart. I don't care what catches up with me as long as she is still here with me.

Her hand tears from mine and I immediately know what is happening. But I don't want it to. Her fingers fall away from mine and even though I've only had her for a few minutes, only held her hand for half of that, my heart is cracking in so many spots that I think it may actually stop beating. I knew this was going to happen, this fear that strikes everyone I meet. For a moment I think I can reach out and take her hand in mine again, that I can keep her from running from me. My mind rushes to find the words to explain myself. But there just isn't any words to explain myself. I want to tell her I hadn't meant to hurt anyone, that I never intend to hurt my sister, that it wasn't my fault, that I blacked out in a blind rage and grabbed the knife off the kitchen table without knowing what i had done until after her heart had already stopped beating, but I know there is nothing I can say to bring her back to me. She sees a monster in front of her and will forever now. I will her to look into my eyes, to see that I can change - that I have changed. I want to drown in her eyes again, I want her to kill the monster inside me as she had been only seconds ago, but she doesn't look at me. I see the slightest shake of her head, see the regret in the gesture, how much she hates herself for talking to me, for looking at me, for asking me to speak her name, for letting me hold her hand, for agreeing to dance with me, for showing me how kind the Earth beneath your feet can be. She let a monster get close to her, she let herself be tricked by a demon. So instead of stepping closer and wrapping her in my arms, I take a step away, making the space between us increase only slightly. But to me, I feel we are now separated by a canyon or a wall of fire.

She finally looks up but I don't get the greeting I wanted. Instead of drowning in the ocean blue, the sky blue, the great expanse of a beautiful unknown, I am watching her own eyes drown amongst tears. No. No. No. My throat swells and I clench my jaw and my hands fist. I should've known that my voice would hurt her ears, that my eyes would burn into her skin, that my touch would sting. I should've known my very presence would send pain shooting through her insides and shatter her bones. The monster inside me starts to rattle his cage, laughing at me as a tortured feeling washes over me. His mouth foams in anticipation and pure glee, waiting for the moment when he can pounce from his open cage door and claw until he is satisfied that he has torn everyone I loved away from me. Forever alone. Everyone I have ever cared about is ripped away from me. I've tried to get close. Once I thought of going home. I walked all the way back to my house, thinking that maybe I could get my family back, but I couldn't even make it to the front steps before I turned around and sprinted away, looking at the headstone in the garden with my sister's and brother's names, side by side. I tried to love someone else but I ended up hitting her, making her cry and scream and hurt all over. When I try it only gets worse. When I push it only hurts them more. So as I watch the tears roll down her cheeks, I know I have to walk away. But a rage is rising inside of me. And I just don't think I can hold it in much longer.

Now.

I laugh, a dark laughter, something that isn't mine but the bitter and evil inside of me leaking through to the surface. I shake my head, smiling, seeing where this is going, seeing that I have to leave. I should've known it would end like this. It always ends like this. I pick up my shoes and socks. "I'm sorry. I'll just leave you alone now. For good." I start to walk past her, looking away from my feet, the fresh new memory of her telling me to take them off and feel the earth under me too painful already. "No, Simon, no, please, please don’t say that." I stop dead in my tracks at the sound of her voice. My shoulder is so close to hers that if I bent my head just a bit I could kiss hers. And if I leaned in even further I could press my lips to her ear and whisper her name again. I close my eyes, already confused by her not just letting me leave. Why won't she just let me leave? Why does she insist on teasing me? I sigh, frustration filling me to the brim. "Look, it's only the tru-"

"Please it tears my heart in my chest to hear someone speak of me in that way." I turn to face her, my eyebrows scrunching on my forehead in disbelief. "Esmeralda, wh-" But she cuts me off. How can the words burn? Such soft words? "Please, I’m not perfect, I’m not pretty, and I’m not anything you just said. Believe me when I say that. You are not worse than me; you have no clue what I have done." My head is suddenly spinning, my ears burning from her words, my hand moving to swipe at the tears on her cheeks only to retreat quickly when I realize once again that my touch will not help her, it will only burn her. "I’m a monster Simon, I’m not a princess, or perfect." I grind my teeth together, angry at myself for being stupid enough to say anything to her, angry for not being able too give her what she deserves, angry because she doesn't believe me, angry because I don't want to leave her here but I have to. I have to. But my feet don't carry me away from her but back in front of her, her raising her hands to me. I look at them and back to her. It's as if she wants to brag at how clean hers are compared to mine. I blink at her. "What?" It comes out the opposite of how I wanted it to, but I am thankful she ignores the bite in it. I don't want to make her cry harder. But the monster does.

“There is so much blood on these hands. You tell me I’m running away from my past, I did. I ran so far and hard and I didn’t look back. Except after a week it all caught up with me, and for ten years –ten years of my life I have been plagued by what I did, I wake up screaming every single night. I’m terrorized by my own mind, I can’t go a day without remembering what I did and what happened to my family. That isn't me, Simon, I'm not good, I'm not anything.” She wraps her arms around herself and the tears keep falling down her cheeks, her eyes hidden by the golden strands of hair that fall across her face. I am completely frozen. My hands don't move to hold her, my eyes staring at her obscured face, my jaw slackening, my face losing it's anger. How does she know about me? I feel like I've been punched in the gut or slapped in the face. I wake up screaming every single night with my sister's screams in my ears and her blood covering me in a blanket of horror. I'm terrorised by my own mind, by the monster hiding inside, waiting to pounce. I can't go a day without feeling remembering the looks of terror on my other siblings faces when I finally realized what I had done. I can't go a day without remembering her name etched on the headstone in my family's garden. I'm not good. I'm not anything.

I frown at our bare feet still so close to each other yet so, so, so far away. She is telling me her story. She doesn't know that mine is a near mirror to hers. And then I am shaking my head, willing the story not to end the same way mine does. She can't have been through what I have been through, memory for memory. The world could not be so cruel. The universe could not let someone so ... so perfect carry that kind of a burden. It's too much for me to handle after only a few years and yet this girl has been carrying it for ten years - ten whole years. It can't be. I don't want her to say it. I don't want to hear it. No. No. No.

”I’m not that. I’m me, and I’m not good. You have the wrong person." Anger rises again in a surge of heat. I clench my jaw, closing my eyes as fury rises to the surface. “I killed someone, Simon.” It's only a whisper, but I hear it. Loud and clear I hear it. So it's true. The world really is that much of an asshole that he picks the best of us and gives us tremendous burdens to deal with for the rest of ours lives. I shake my head and look down at her. "No." I step away from her and turn my back to her, running my hand through my hair, pulling at it and twisting it between my fingers. This is stupid. This is so ridiculously stupid. She thinks she is flawed and horrible and disgusting because she is convinced there is something wrong with her. She thinks that killing any old someone is worse than what I have done. Because I didn't just kill someone I call someone - I killed my little sister. I killed my sibling. I killed a someone and her name was Sapphire.

"No." It's a growl in my throat. The animal rising. I'm losing it. "Just, no. No." I throw my shoes at the tree near me and spin around, not looking at her. "Fucking Christ." I mumble angrily throwing my hands from my hair and back to my sides. I scream before I point at her, my eyes already brimming with the tears that always come with my rage. "You killed someone, hm?" I chuckle and bite my lip almost immediately. I don't want to laugh. Not at her. This isn't funny and I don't think it is. But I'm not myself. I'm broken. I raise my hands to the sky, feigning fear. "Oh no, the world is ending! You killed someone! I bet you didn't know his name, did you? Wasn't someone you knew in the least! Probably some bastard that deserved to die. Right?" I'm pacing back and forth, my words spitting at her, a mixture of a hiss and a growl. I'm scaring her and I don't care. She should be scared. She should run from me and forget we ever met or talked or even exchanged stories. She should disappear and hide from me. I don't want to hurt her. I have to make her run.

I surge forward and seize her hands the wrists holding her palms to her face. "These may have blood on them, but it's not your sister's blood." I drop her hands and show her mine. My voice no longer loud but something of a strangled whisper as tears run down my cheeks, same as hers. "That's my little sister's blood dripping from my fingers. I killed her. I stabbed her to death in front of my other younger siblings. Hell, I laughed about it!" My jaw is clenched again and I step away from her, throwing my fists at nothing but air. And as if I haven't frightened her enough by now, I start adding more to the story. "I came here after I beat a girl to a pulp. I loved her, you see, but I was stupid enough to believe that she loved me too. But who the hell am I kidding? I'm a monster. Who could love something like me?" I think I might collapse to the ground. I think my knees won't hold me up any longer as tears continue to pour down my face, dribbling down my chin. Classy. Crying in front of a girl. Cursing at a girl. Talking about hitting a girl to a girl. Talking about killing my little sister to a girl. There really isn't words to describe how horrible I feel. For how monstrous I truly am. My voice raises again though. "That is what you said, right? That because you've killed you are a monster? That you aren't good? That you aren't anything?" I suck in my lip and swallow hard to get rid of the lump that has risen in my throat. But my voice only comes out as a whisper now, the tears and pain finally making the words strained and fractured. "If you are all that after killing someone," I say, looking at her in desperation. Even though I know I will end up hurting her, I still want her to stay. I still want her to stay.

"then what does that make me who has killed a Sapphire?" I wipe my hand over my eyes turning away from her before I let silent sobs take control of my body. And then my knees finally give way beneath me and I stay there, sitting back on my heels, the memories flooding back to me in such an agonizing rush that I can barely speak. I stare at my palms in my lap, taking the pain I deserve.

"Just go before I hurt you too, Esmeralda. Please."

Sometimes the world crumbles beneath your feet and there is nothing you can do but let yourself fall into a bottomless pit, watching as the world gets further and further away from you. But sometimes there is someone there to grab your hand and pull you away from the dark depths. Right now, right here, tears still falling from my eyes, my knees in the dirt, my whole body being possessed by the horrific memories of my past, I can feel the world beginning to crumble. I haven't told that story in so long. I have kept it hidden out of fear. The last time I told someone about who I was I was thrown back out in to the cold and cruel world where I belonged. They told me to get out, to never come back, to fuck off and go die in a hole. I told my story and they saw the monster that everyone does. I told my story and suddenly I was a different person in their eyes. It didn't matter how nice I had been or how much they had told me I was their friend. When I showed them my insides, when I flashed the demon in their faces, they all cringed in horror and fear and cowered away from me. It didn't matter to them that I had never wanted to hurt anyone, that it was all an accident, that I hated myself everyday I lived because of it. They only saw the bad, never the good. But there was so much bad. I never expected anyone to see the good. So as more and more people started to push me away and more and more places where never going to be my new home, I began to believe it. You can only deny things for so long before you start to believe what everyone is telling you. I could only insist for so long that I wasn't a monster, just a misunderstood boy, just someone who needed somebody to accept me despite my flaws and love me for me. But I couldn't deny what I was forever. No one can hide from the truth for very long.

And so I begin listening to them. And I know it's the truth. It must be the truth after so many people have told me that I am a monster. Everyone I told about murdering my sister cringed away in fear and horror and disgust. I was hideous to them. A sort of horrid disease. I'm not sure I will ever be told any different. That I am perfect. Beautiful. I stare into my hands, tears of frustration and rage and utter guilt still falling down my cheeks with such abandon that I think I could create a new river, my tears creating the water and the monster's rage tearing a trench through the Earth. My hands are shaking, the blood glaring at me, her face somehow appearing and reflecting back at me. I close my eyes so that I can't see her staring back at me but closing my eyes only makes the image of her more vivid. I can't get away from the past. It's impossible. No where to run. No where to hide. I take the pain that comes with the image of her face, my whole body aching with the effort of withstanding it. No one understands me, how much it hurts everyday that I am alive, how much I have to fight just to keep my head above water, to keep from drowning. I wake up at night in a cold sweat, screaming because I was forced to live through the whole ordeal yet another time. Some days I wonder if maybe I should just curl up into a ball and die. Just keep myself in my room, starving myself to death and no one worrying about my death until the stench of my rotting corpse forced them to come in and get rid of me with disgust. Maybe I should just let myself go, just fall into the crumbling hole beneath my feet and let the devil have me. But then I wouldn't be here to suffer for what I have done. And I know that I deserve to suffer. I deserve to suffer even after I breathe my last breath. For all eternity, I deserve to suffer. And so I can't die, not until I've suffered through an entire lifetime.

Everything only aches so much right now because for just a moment I was avoiding the suffering. For once I tried to enjoy myself, I was actually enjoying myself, and so I needed to be hit harder, the monster claws had to claw deeper to make up for the minutes I hadn't been feeling any pain. In those few minutes I had been holding her hand, I had felt nothing but joy. No pain. No torture. So I guess it's my own fault that I am sitting here in the grass and dirt, crying like a 5 year old after he scraped his knee, my hands shaking and my heart aching and my mind twirling in complete circles. It's my own fault that I'm being swallowed into the Earth by a giant gaping hole that is forming right beneath me. It's my own fault that I am crying in front of a girl, that I told her my entire story, that I yelled at her and cursed and threw my fists around in the air. It's my own fault that I liked to be near her. That I didn't just leave her right when we met. But I just couldn't push myself away, couldn't rip my eyes from hers, couldn't tear my hand from her grasp, couldn't stop my voice from telling her that she was beautiful, couldn't help but to say her name Esmeralda, Esmeralda, Esmeralda, over and over again in my mind. I couldn't leave her alone. I couldn't let her go another 10 years without remembering who she was. That she was perfect the way she was. I don't care if it's crazy how much I care about her after only just meeting her today. But she screams in the middle of the night and I know how much it hurts to have those same nightmares. She is plagued by her memories, her body aches from running for so long, she sees blood on her hands. I know how she feels and I don't want her to feel that way anymore. But if I know anything, I know that there is nothing I can do. Because wherever I go, a wake of pain ripples where I have stepped.

”You said my name.” And through it all, through all the tears and the small gasps for air and the aching in my heart, her words make me smile. It's fleeting, barely there before it disappears again, but it was there. Such an odd thing to notice out of my entire fit. But it was true - I had said her name. The real one. The one that was her. I hear her coming towards me, her feet silent on the ground. "Go." I say, but it's only a whisper. I had meant to say it with conviction, but it just fell into something with no meaning. Because I don't want her to go. It doesn't matter how much it hurts, how much extra pain I have to endure, I just want her to stay. But that's selfish isn't it? To want her to stay so near to someone like me? Someone who could will hurt her?

She sits in front of me but I don't look up. I can't look up. I have to tell her to leave. I have to let go, to shove her away, to save her from the misery that is me. I've held her for too long already, I can't poison her anymore with my touch or sight or voice. Go. But the word doesn't even leave my lips this time. I can't make myself say it.

I know what she must think of me, crying in the dirt, collapsing to my knees after telling her why I have been running. She does know I'm a monster. Why hasn't she run on her own? Why does she keep making me need to push her away? “If you think I’m going to run away then you are an idiot. Simon, I don’t care that you killed your sister, I don’t.” I hadn't known it before now, but I had been holding my breath, staring off into the distance, at my hands, at the trees, the ground, anywhere but at her. I didn't want to see her walk away. I didn't want to hear her tell me she hated me, that I was the devil reincarnated, that she was going to run and never come back to me. But as soon as I hear her voice, hear her words, listen to them and understand them, I sigh. I shake my head. She should care. She should be terrified. But she isn't running, and despite wanting her to, I am so relieved she isn't. Does she realize what she is getting into? Knowing me? Did she hear anything I said?

I hear her inhale. But I'm still not looking. I can't look at her. It would be like accepting her decision not to leave and I can't let her. I can't let her know that I approve. I can't look at her eyes or I will never be able to tell her to leave. I close my eyes, taking a shuddering breath, trying to get the tears to stop falling. ”I have made so many mistakes in my life and for the first time I feel certain that this isn’t one. There is so much bad in this world that I can’t handle anymore and my heart, my head and everything I have is telling me that you aren’t bad and that even if you are a monster then I am too.” I shake my head. "No you are-" But my words get lost as she continues on, my eyes still closed, my head still bowed. ”And that means it doesn’t matter, because I’m here and I am exactly the same as you. Names mean nothing, a life is a life, you take one that is the same as taking another. We have both done bad things in our lives, and we have both been running from them for such a long time.”

And then I feel her hands wrapping around mine. And instead of disappearing into the dark hole that is swallowing me, I am holding tight to her outstretched hands. She doesn't realize it but she is saving me from falling away forever.

“You told me to look at your hands, you told me to see what was there and I see you. I see the boy that makes you, you and I don’t care if it is blood or if it was paint, all I know is that it doesn’t matter. You are just like me in every way, so if what you say is true and I am perfect and beautiful then so are you.” I look down at our hands intertwined but I can see no resemblance. But it they are exactly the same, if that is what she sees, then I know I have to believe the same thing that she does. I don't care if it's blood or paint that she sees on her hands, I just know that she is perfect. just as she is. And because what I say is true, and because what she says must be true to, I guess she just told me I was perfect. I can see why she backed away from me now. And suddenly I am scared. The tears are beginning to dry on my cheeks and my breathing is returning to normal, but my heart is racing as fear and surprise coarse through my veins. I am none of those things. None. I can't be ...

“Simon, you aren’t flawless, but that is what makes you perfect to me.”

And that's when my eyes are moving to look at her. I find a smile their, something that is brighter than the sun or any star in the sky. Her eyes are just as beautiful and overwhelming as they were the first time I saw her. And behind her is the rising sun stretching across a waking apple orchard. A smile rises to my lips and a shuddering breath leaves me. And there is nothing I can say to her that can explain how lucky I am to have found her. No words as her hands clasp mine and she saves me. She has saved me. And she is so perfect to me - just as I am to her. Somewhere my mind is questioning whether she actually means it or not, but I know that I meant it.

And then I am leaning forward, pressing my lips to lightly to hers, my whole being seeming to light up where my lips meet hers. I move my hand to her cheek, wanting never to move away, but I know the moment can't last forever, and I pull my lips from hers and move away just enough to look into her eyes, my hand falling from her face, another smile playing at my lips. And then it sort of falters because I'm worried that this time she will run from me. "I ... Sorry." And it's only a whisper. Because when I lie my voice gets small. And then I chuckle, the smile returning to my lips, my voice coming back to me. "I just - you saved me."

Dear Sam,

I'm not sure why I am writing you because I'm not even going to send this letter, but I think that maybe if I write the words down it will make me feel better. That maybe it will help. I bet you would think this is stupid of me, childish really, to think I can write you a "story" and make you believe in the magic gold dust and fairies again. But the thing is, this isn't even a fairytale. This isn't like those stories you called stupid when you left. (Which by the way, if you couldn't already guess, I miss you.) This story that I am writing, it's the real thing. The whole truth. Non-fiction. (I recommend "Night" by Elie Wiesel, if you still read that is.) I'm not expecting a reply, considering I'm not even expecting you to read it, but I'm glad that I can address it to you. I'm glad that maybe someday my words will drift and float across the breeze and you will be the one to hear them. Just listen, okay? That's all I need from you right now. I just need to know that you are there and that you, wherever you may be, can still listen to your little brother's stories. Or memories. Whichever you'd prefer to think of this as. Who knows - maybe it's a little of both.

Do you remember when you used to tease me about the way my hair fell across my eyes and ears? Like the top half of my head look like it was hiding in a shell. You used to call me "Turtle Boy" all the time around the house. Heck, sometimes you would even do it at school. All I can remember is so badly wanting to strangle you for it. I suppose I deserved it though, making fun of your inability to say "cinnamon" every time we were baking mom's apple pie recipe. (Which I can remember doing almost every single night ... Whenever you hear these words, please do me a favor and say "cinnamon" out loud for me. Humor me!) Anyway, I remember coming home from school one day, maybe when I was 7 or 8, asking you how I could fix my hair. You asked me why I, the master of long, messy hair, would want to fix it? ("Even though it does need fixing.") And I smiled all shy and blushed beet red and all you did was laugh and sit me down in front of your mirror and tell me to sit still as you grabbed the scissors. You asked me what her name was, of the girl I was trying to impress, and I told you and you told me I should give her the best apple I could find the next day at school. Do you remember that? I remember running out in the dark, trying to find the best looking apple in the entire orchard. All I can remember is you and mom and dad laughing on the porch, watching me climb tree after tree, pointing a flashlight at the ones you all thought looked the best. I finally found one, gave it to her the next day, and she kissed me on the cheek after the first bite she took. That's when I knew for sure that you were a genius.

Anyway, back to cutting my hair. You grabbed the scissors, sharp and pointy and so near to my ears and yet when you held them so close to me I didn't even flinch. Because despite being terrified of losing my wonderful mat of golden locks, I wasn't afraid of you cutting me, even with your poor coordination. (I remember when you tripped over nothing at all and rolled down the hill and into the pond. I laughed so hard I nearly toppled down the hill myself.) The thing was, despite all the jeers you sent my way, despite me annoying the living hell out of you on a daily basis, I wasn't afraid you would ever hurt me. Not even with scissors so close to my ears and eyes. I mean, I had no reason to be, right? You were my biggest sister, the one I looked up to for girl advice and reading the big words for me. I shouldn't ever be afraid of you. Not now, not ever in my entire life. Really, no younger sibling should ever fear the older siblings they look up to, right? Family is family and brothers and sisters are supposed to protect each other no matter what, right?

So I guess right here is where my story really begins. And ends really. It's so hard to tell which part is the beginning and which part is the end. Because like mom always said, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end." And I can assure you that the end, or as least as much as I know, is not okay. And it will never be okay. Ever. And you should hate me. You should think me a monstrous boy. But please, please Sam, do not feel guilty for liking that little boy that I used to be. I was different then - innocent and perfect and no one (not even you with all your endless knowledge) could have seen what I would become. Don't blame yourself. Don't feel guilty. And as I said earlier, please just listen to me. All the way to what I know to be the end. Please. And if not for what I have become, then for that little "Turtle Boy" you used to know?

Sapphire. She's dead, Sam.

So I suppose I could just write this in a simple way for you. Blunt and to the point, as sad as it is, and you would sit and wonder why you should hate me for this. Why am I suddenly considering myself wretched at such terrible news? How could anything be so horrible that the happy memories you have of me could turn to a horror story in an instant? Three words: one being a name, the other being only two letters long, and the other something very sinister. Dark, cold, cruel. I had to scribble it out above. I can't look at it. But you see, Sam, there is blood dripping from my hands. Our blood. It's all over this letter and I can see it and with every passing day it gets harder and harder to pretend that it isn't there. So when I tell you this, these three simple words, I think you should understand.

Sapphire is dead.

And yet another three simple words, in case you still haven't figured out what I mean.

I killed her. - slaughtered, murdered, executed, massacred, exterminated.

I know you have lots of questions, and honestly, I bet you can't even stand the thought of me anymore, can't even believe you sat there and said "cinnamon" aloud so that I might hear it wherever I am. So I will finish this letter to you in the simplest way that I can.

I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I love you, even if you no longer love me.

Thank you for everything you have ever done for me,
Simon

---

I wrote that letter when I first got to Julia. I had no one else to talk to, no one else to say sorry to. But there was my sister, somewhere faraway, still part of the family even after she ran away from us and never came to visit and never even told me goodbye before she left. But the memories of her, so sweet and so much better than the fresh ones in my brain - I just had to write them down. To preserve them on paper. But I also had to preserve the bad. To confess to someone what I had done, why I was running, why I deserved never to be loved ever again. And I knew that she would understand. Sam always understood. Just like Junior always understood. I think of the two gravestones side by side in my garden back home and I think I might cry again. But I can't. Not now. Not when someone so near to me is suffering through the same thing. She's looking at me now, so close to me, her eyes bright, a grin spreading across her face, something that makes me smile. She tells me not to be sorry. Why? Because we are one in the same. A pair. A perfect match. Our hands our blood stained and we can help each other. We are helping eachother. She kisses me, really kisses me. And I kiss her back, I really kiss her back. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I belong. I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Right here. Right now. With her. The girl whose hands are just as bloodied as mine. The girl who cries real tears in the middle of the night as she wakes up screaming remembering her past. A girl who walks barefoot because despite everything she has been through, she wants to live. A girl who shines brighter than any other in my eyes because to me her flaws are not flaws but perfection in its purest form.

Our lips finally pull apart and I'm smiling yet again, my heart beating fast, my lips burning, wanting more, wanting to kiss away all of her worries and troubles and horrors and turn them into something better. “I am not sorry.” Her eyes are trained on mine and I can't help but stare straight back. Eye to eye. I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead before looking at her again. "Thank you. Thank you, Esmeralda, thank you." My thumbs draw circles in her hands and when I look down I see the earth that I thought was crumbling beneath me sealing itself back up. And I know that as long as I have her to bare this horror story I live with me, I will never be falling again. I bring my eyes back to hers again. And I shake my head, smiling again. Everyone always ran. Every time I told them, they ran away from me. But you ... Either you are just plain old crazy or you are the purest, most loving human being I have ever met. Either way, I - I owe you. I don't know if I could've handled one more person cringing away from me. You say you scream at night? So do I. You say your own mind torments you, forces you to relive every moment of the pain over and over again? Mine does too." I lace my fingers through hers, holding tight. "You say there is blood on our hands? Mine are bloodied, too. I don't mind sharing if you don't."

I think of all the times I have endured my horrors all alone. And then I think of how she has, too. But now here we are, two people sharing the burden as one, holding each other close. Two people who have endured alone for so long. Two people finally looking for a together.

"I don't mind if you wake up screaming in the middle of the night because I swear I will be right there to hold you, as long as you can handle holding me. I don't mind any tears on my shoulder if you don't mind any on yours. When you can't stand to walk another step because your feet finally get too cold without shoes, I will carry you. When you want the perfect apple in this big orchard I will stay up all day and all night until I find it. I don't want you to ever feel alone again, do you understand? Not ever. I - I will be there for you ... If you want."

I swallow hard and pull one of my hands away from hers, brushing my thumb over her lips and running my hand over her cheek.

"I am done running."