Yeah… We Need to Talk

Savannah

I need a bristle-like brush to scrape my body clean of the oil, grease, and dirty filth that Damon has stained me with.

Dressing my healing wounds and throwing on some clothes, Damon takes me to therapy. He sends a text to my uncle as I run in to let him know I am here, just late.

Opening the door, I sneak in with everyone watching me. I can see them see all the bandages wrapped on my fingers and the bruises on my face.

I don’t mind, it is what it is.

I grab a ball and roll it into the other line, taking a seat that lets my dress show the white gauze on my pillow-like thighs.

“Thank you for joining us, Savannah. We didn’t see you last week, would you like to talk about it?”

I groan and look around to see the rest of my group all looking. Taking me in.

“I guess, it’s not like I have much of a choice. So you know how my family died?”

The group all nods, our teacher looking sad all of a sudden like I’m the only one who has ever lost someone.

“So, my dad isn’t really my dad. I mean he is, but he isn’t the DNA that makes me his. I got some of my mom’s old letters and found out that she knew, they both did, my whole life.

“My bio dad is someone I know. Someone who I have gotten into fistfights with and we look alike. And I didn’t take it well.”

I give jazz hands at the group and wave a hand down the length of my body.

“I blacked out and went to see him. This?”

I point to my face and mention the bruises.

“This wasn’t in it. So blacked out, right? I find him, he tells me, you know, he was my dad and he gave me this look.”

I look down at my thighs. I wish I could press down with my nails to give myself a sudden shot of pain. But that’s frowned upon in this establishment.

“This…fatherly look that good dads give their daughters when they're proud of them. My dad, Jeremiah. He gave me that look. He worked on me, he helped me be this amazing goddess that I am.

“It pissed me off seeing Grave try and take credit for his work. He isn’t my dad dad. He is just some guy that boned my mom and is genetically linked to me. I…can’t have a second chance dad…”

The room is quiet and they look to me to add on like I should add on.

My teacher speaks up.

“Survivors of death, like you are Savannah. Have a hard time. It’s natural. You have survivor's guilt. Guilt from living, from finding happiness without them, more and more guilt at every turn.

“Now, if they were alive, you would still most likely feel guilt for having this choice. You need to understand that you’re not choosing Jeremiah over anyone. Or this new man over the family you lost.

“This isn’t a competition for fatherly love, this isn’t about your loyalty for the father you grew up with, the one who was there at every stage you’ve been through.

“This is about…accepting a new person in your life. One who is there for you for the right reasons, maybe a good choice. No one is saying praise the ground he walks on or give him all the exposure Jeremiah had.

“You could start with being friends? Maybe just get to know each other and take it slow. No one will take your dad from you, no one can replace him.

“But to not give this new man a chance, it may give you regret that you know will fill you with even more guilt.”

I nod and add nothing else.

“Can you tell us about how you got hurt?”

I bite out a cold, humorless laugh with my fingers locked together.

“I suggested going to the movies on a rainy Tuesday. That’s how I got hurt.”

I close my eyes and feel it again.

~The rain hitting the car windows with tinks like water made bullets from the sky.~

~The feeling of the car moving and Morgan begging to see a scary movie by himself.~

~I can hear Mom telling him no, that he isn’t old enough and he hates scary movies anyways.~

~I can see Dad turning on his blinker, the sound of that ticking before he turns it off.~

~The car that shoots around us and how he cusses with the unmatched road rage he keeps. I can see Mom, hear her telling him how that wasn’t kid-friendly and the kids heard it.~

~I can see Dad’s sea-blue eyes in the rearview mirror to check on us.~

~The words of “I didn’t hear anything a tattoo couldn’t get me to unhear.” ~

~My parents laughing and going into the routine of telling me I need to wait until I’m eighteen and get it professionally done.~

“Savannah.” My teacher’s hand on my shoulder brings me away from the haunting memory right before the tire blows and my world ends.

“Breathe. Let it out, talk about it.”

She crouches in front of me, the rest of the group turning in closer.

“I hurt me, I woke up in the cemetery and freaked out. I ran out of gas and everything hurt.”

My teacher nods, her face is blank but sincere with her concern she feels for me.

“I don’t know how I did this shit to my thighs, but my fingers I tried to claw the pavement while having a breakdown. I tore my nails up.”

~I begged for peace.~

~And God sent me angels.~

“Another breath,” she instructs, so like a good student I pretend like it works.

“Forgive yourself, Savannah. We can’t win every battle—that’s not what this group is for. We aren’t trying to win every battle. Just the war, and that war is against your mental illness.

“Think of the guilt and shame as on the opposing side, and you, Savannah, have to break the enemy lines and vanquish your foe.”

I nod and roll my eyes.

“Yeah, I know, I’ve been fighting. Shit’s been going on for almost a year.”

My teacher smiles, like I’m not being a pain in the ass right now.

“You are so transfixed on the carnage that you forget other people are on your team. That you have others fighting for you. Fighting this war at your side. You are not alone. You are not facing these problems alone, you are not alone, Savannah.”

I stare at her like she has spoken in a second language.

“Repeat it for me, Savannah: I am not alone.”

My throat suddenly feels like the desert and my voice box is buried under grains of sand.

“I am not alone.”

My group repeats for me, all encouraging me.

“I…am not…alone.”

They clap, telling me good job and getting me to talk more about Luna’s Idol.

***

When class is over, we roll out, putting our balls up and head out. Even though I don’t want to admit it, I feel lighter.

Maybe a good fuck and some therapy could go a long way.

I wrap my arms around Damon and give him this deep hug that I let rest over his chest. I breathe him in, letting this calming effect take me higher.

I’m not alone.

I have a couple of people on my team.

Percy, for one. He has been on my side of the battle since day one. His birthday being tomorrow, I can’t wait to celebrate with my best friend.

Damon, my Angel. He has been my shield and my sword and will be for the rest of my life.

My Uncle Jonah, he has never given up on me and loves me unconditionally.

~What if Grave just wants to be on the team?~

“Angel, can…can you take me to see Grave?”