Dear Ana: Chapter 27

My eyes snapped open, confused with my surroundings before seeing a familiar set of hands resting on my stomach.

I shifted carefully in his arms and turned to face him. He was still sleeping, his whole body wrapped around me like a sloth. I lightly traced his closed eyelids, the slope of his nose, the outline of his lips. His mouth twitched into a smile under my touch.

“Hi,” he whispered, eyes still closed.

“Hi.”

“How did you sleep?” he breathed, pulling me closer, scattering kisses all over my face.

“Good. Best sleep I ever had.”

“What did you dream about?”

“Who cares about dreaming when I have you in my reality?”

He gave me a lazy grin, and I tapped the small gap between his two front teeth. “I love this.”

He bit the tip of my finger gently. “I love this.” He released it and pressed his lips against my nose. “And this.” Against my forehead. “And this, even though it’s a menace.” Against my mouth. “Mmm, especially this.”

I pulled away. “Morning breath.”

“But I love your morning breath,” he insisted.

“Well, then you have a serious problem, Noah. You should get that checked out by a professional.”

He laughed and pulled us up into a seating position. “You have five seconds to swirl some Listerine around and then I want you and your mouth back here––” He stopped, his smile disappearing. I followed his gaze and froze.

My hand. The sleeves of Noah’s sweater were so long . . . I didn’t notice before I fell asleep . . .

“It’s not what it looks like,” I said quickly, snatching my hand away and under the covers.

“What is it then?” he asked, staring at me with concern.

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

“Ugh, it’s so gross and dumb,” I chuckled, falling back on the bed. “I pick my skin.”

He was silent for a minute. “You . . . what?”

“I pick my skin.” He still looked confused. “You know when you get a pimple and you have this strong urge to pop it? Or when people always bite their nails?”

“Sure. . .”

“My bad habit is that I obsessively pick at my hands.”

“So you pick at your skin until what? There’s a mark?”

“Well, no,” I sighed. “Okay, so it started three years ago. I was at my old job and I scratched my hand on a nail sticking out of my cubicle. No big deal, right? But for some reason I just couldn’t stop touching it, and inspecting it, and rubbing it, and then eventually picking at it until it started to . . . bleed.”

I scrutinized his face but he didn’t show any reaction, so I continued. “Anyway, the scratch got bigger because of my incessant fingers, so I put a Band-Aid on it. I realized that as long as I couldn’t see it or touch it, I wouldn’t feel the need to pick at it. But then, after a few days, I peeled the Band-Aid off and the sticky parts ripped some of my skin, creating more marks on my hand.”

He was still maintaining a poker face.

“When that didn’t work I started keeping my nails short so I couldn’t use them to pick . . . but I quickly found out that tweezers and nail clippers worked just as well.”

His poker face was too fake now. He didn’t want me to see his real reaction.

“The cycle just continued from there and somewhere along the line I started wearing gloves because they disguised the scabs, but wouldn’t further damage my skin.” I slowly lifted my hand from under the blanket, examining it. “It was getting better these last few weeks, but yesterday . . . anyway, what started as a silly bad habit somehow transformed into an obsession engraved deep into my brain. It’s like an itch that can only be scratched when I pick away at every scab and mark until they’re freshly new and open. It’s disgustingly satisfying.”

He flinched, and the poker face shattered. I finally broke him.

“Look, I know it’s more than a bad habit––I’m not stupid. I just . . . I can only tackle one thing at a time.” I glanced at him, embarrassment coloring my face. “I wasn’t joking when I told you that I was an absolute mess.”

I waited for him to say something. To tell me how concerning this was. To tell me how crazy I was, but he didn’t. He just took my hand gently, the skin-on-skin contact more intense than any kiss or intimate moment we had ever shared. I watched as he lifted my hand gingerly to his lips and sprinkled kisses all over my damaged skin “It’s not gross and it’s not stupid,” he whispered. “Come, you barely ate yesterday. Let me make you a late lunch.”

“Okay––wait.” I looked around frantically. “What time is it?”

“Two thirty,” he told me immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m late for work,” I said, scrambling out of bed and tripping over his long pant legs.

“It’s okay, Maya, I called in sick for you earlier.”

I stopped. “You what?”

“I called in sick for you,” he repeated slowly. “I also called in sick at Tysons for you, and I texted your mom and told her you spent the night at Bayan’s house.”

I groaned. “I totally forgot about my parents. I am so dead.”

“I told her––”

“Yeah, and I told you I’m not allowed to sleep over at people’s houses,” I groaned into my hands again. “It’s fine, I’ll just go home right now and come up with something.”

“What?” Noah demanded.

“I have to go back home––”

“You are not going back there.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at me in disbelief. “Am I . . . imagining things? Did your brother not completely violate every aspect of your existence yesterday?”

“Stop,” I said quietly, cringing away from his words and the memory he made remerge into my brain.

“Your brother is an abusive predator, and your parents just sit there and enable his behavior.”

“I said stop,” I pleaded, covering my ears tightly with my hands.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said softly, walking toward me. “I’m just confused and I’m . . . scared. I’m always scared for you. I can’t think when I’m not with you. I can’t breathe properly until the next time I see you and can know for sure that you’re okay. Every time you leave, I keep going through all these terrible scenarios in my head. Every time I say goodbye, I can’t shake this feeling that it’s going to be the last time I’m ever going to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I’m sorry and I understand, but what did you think was going to happen? Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Here, Maya. You can stay here. Move in with me.”

“What?”

“Move in with me,” he repeated fiercely. “If you don’t like this place then we can move somewhere else. If you don’t want to live with me, then I’ll get you your own damn place, just please, please, please tell me that you are not seriously thinking about going back to that toxic shit show of a house.”

“Noah, my parents would never let me move in with you.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what your parents want. You’re so obsessed and concerned with what they want and what they need when they don’t deserve it. They had one job, and that was to take care of their child and they failed. They failed you, Maya, again and again, and I can’t just sit on the sidelines and watch you suffer anymore––” His voice broke, and he shook his head in frustration. “I have tried to be respectful and let you do things your way, but I’m not making the mistake of letting you leave again. This isn’t right. Nothing about this situation is right, how can you not see that?”

“Of course I can see that, Noah, I’m the one living in it!” I snapped. “Do you think I’m enjoying this? Do you think this is what I want? It’s not, but I have no other choice.”

“Yes, you do!” he said, pointing at himself. “Maybe you didn’t before, but you do now. I am giving you another choice. Move in with me. Move in with me and let me take care of your needs. Move in with me and move on from your family, and away from all the terrible things they put you through. Move in with me so you can finally heal.”

“I don’t need you to fix everything for me, okay? That’s not why I’m here. This is me, Noah. This is my life. I thought you understood that. I thought you loved me just the way I am.”

“I do love you just the way you are, but do you? I mean, isn’t that why you stay there? Isn’t that why you keep putting up with him? It’s because you think one day he’s just going to stop. You think one day he’ll finally love you and in turn, you’ll once and for all be able to love yourself. He has shown you who he is time and time again and, I hate to break it to you, Maya, but your brother doesn’t love you and he never fucking will!”

His words slapped me harshly in the face. I looked away as my eyes started to sting, and a powerful rush of humiliation flooded through me.

“Maya . . .”

“No,” I said sharply. “I’m leaving, and don’t you dare try to stop me.”

He stared at me regretfully for a moment before stepping out of my way. I walked passed him to his closet and grabbed my dry and clean clothes that were folded neatly next to his. I got changed in his bathroom, forcing the tears back into the miserable hole they came out of. My sneakers were in the corner looking cleaner than they did on the day I bought them, but I didn’t let that sway me. Noah hadn’t moved from his spot when I came out. I took my keys, wallet and phone without looking at him and stalked for the stairs.

“Maya, talk to me,” he said, following behind me. I quickened my steps, shoving the door open and rushing into his empty café.

“Maya,” he repeated. “Just stay here, okay? Stay here and yell at me, or cry, or break my fucking heart if you need to, but please don’t leave. Please don’t go back to that house.”

He was pleading with me, but I was almost to the door. I was almost outside––

“Maya.”

I stopped. His voice stopped me. My name slipped out of his mouth in a pained appeal. I couldn’t face him so I just stood there, waiting for him to speak. I could feel him behind me, desperately trying to lure me back into his arms, but I fought it.

“I love you.”

I closed my eyes as the traitor tears finally spilled over. He knew I wasn’t going to stay and he wasn’t trying to apologize. He just didn’t want me to leave without knowing that, and for the first time since laying eyes on him, I wished I had never stayed for that first cup of coffee. I wished I had never gone to Ana’s grave. I wished I had never met him, and completely ruined his life.

I love you too, I thought sadly as I pushed open the door and left without looking back.

“Hi again,” I said, taking a seat in front of Ana’s grave. “Long-time, no talk.”

I looked around to make sure no one was in my vicinity and could hear me conversing with a headstone. It was strange, though. The last time I was here I was so envious of Ana, and all the other people who got to rest peacefully for the remainder of eternity. Who didn’t have to suffer any more in this dreadfully long life. I desperately craved the quiet emptiness that revolved around this graveyard, but now? I was completely inebriated by the suffocating cloud of loneliness and isolation. The dark and gloomy void that had once captivated me, now made me want to run in the opposite direction. But I had nowhere else to go. These were the only people who couldn’t complain or be pained by my presence. Even if they were affected by me, they couldn’t say that to my face. They couldn’t tell me to leave.

“I don’t know why I’m here. The last time I came it was so intricately planned out,” I said, chuckling humorlessly. “I created this entire detailed blueprint of what I was going to say to you and how I was going to do it. I was so fucking dramatic. I still am, clearly,” I sighed, running my fingers through the grass, wondering if they were still here . . . and hating the small flicker of disappointment when they weren’t.

“Why can’t I stop?” I asked her. “Why can’t I leave? Why do I feel so obligated to them? Like I owe them for something when what did they ever really do for me? I raised myself. I was there for myself––emotionally, mentally, and physically. I made myself small and invisible just so they didn’t have anything extra to worry about. I went out of my way to never get into any trouble, or make any mistakes. I let them take, and suck, and drain everything I had until I was left with absolutely nothing. Or maybe I was just born with nothing. Maybe I was simply created as an empty cocoon with no caterpillar inside waiting to sprout its wings and evolve into a beautiful butterfly.” I shook my head at the bleak parallel. “I mean, am I so damaged that I’m completely consumed with the idea of being needed by my parents because that’s the only time I’ve ever received love from them? Am I so preoccupied with this incessant urge to please them, because I don’t want them to hate me too? Am I so scared that one day they might realize I have nothing more to offer, and their love for me will dry up into dust and I’ll have no one?”

“Did I ever really have them, though? Or did I just dump all my self-worth into the desires of my parents, and desperately cling to the twisted concept that I am meaningless without their validating stamp of approval?”

I heard soft steps in the grass behind me, and I immediately shivered at the acute buzz of pleasure that always rushed through me in his presence.

“He’s right, you know,” I told Ana, but also hoping he could hear me too. “Everything he said was the truth. Anything Noah ever says is the truth, which you would know I guess . . . thank you, by the way. Thank you for making sure he got adopted with you. Thank you for making sure he would get a better life. He deserved it. You both did.”

“You deserve a better life too, Maya,” Noah said from behind me, finally announcing himself. “If you want me to leave, I will.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You could say I know your mind and your heart very well.”

I turned back and gave him a small smile at his attempt at humor.

“I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely.

“Why? You were just being honest.”

“It doesn’t matter. I could see it on your face . . . how hurt you were by my words––” He broke off, ashamed.

“I was hurt by your words,” I agreed. “But those wounds were already there, waiting to slice open. You just handed them the knife.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

I looked into his pained eyes. “No one has ever apologized for hurting me. I was always the one bleeding, yet somehow I was still always made out to be the bad guy. So thank you for apologizing to me, Noah. I know you weren’t trying to hurt me and I forgive you,” I sighed, noticing the brown paper bag in his lap. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” he nodded, handing it to me but not moving any closer. “I couldn’t let you starve because of my thoughtlessness.”

“I don’t mind your thoughtlessness. It automatically evens out our unconventional duo,” I replied, my stomach growling at the thick bagel he brought me. I ate quietly, not saying anything more. Noah watched me, also not saying anything. It wasn’t a comfortable silence. There were so many unsaid words swirling in the heavy air around us, and I was the only one who could release them.

“After my accident,” I started in a low voice, “a psychiatrist came in to assess me because I had a . . . meltdown when I found out I was still alive. But she wasn’t there to see if I was okay. She only came in to tell me that she knew there was nothing wrong with me. She came in and told me, while I was bound up to the bed like a rogue animal, that I had a victim complex.” I squeezed my eyes shut at the memories. “‘He’s just teasing you, Maya’, she said. ‘Why are you overreacting, Maya?’ ‘That’s how brothers play, Maya.’” I was crying now, my words drowning in my mouth. “She wouldn’t release me until I said it. Until I repeated her words. Until I admitted it. And then, until I apologized to him.”

Noah reached for my hand and I took it. “She needs her fucking license revoked.”

“She was right, though––about one thing,” I told him. “I couldn’t see it at the time because I was so angry. Angry at Mikhail for lying about what happened. Angry at the universe for teasing me with death, only to shove me back into life. Angry at Ana for stealing my moment and saving me. And angry at you, for giving me the one thing I needed to survive when all I wanted was to be free.”

“But after you . . . broke up with me, I guess,” I said, laughing. “I was sitting in my car, thinking about what you said. You asked me to tell you why I lied, and I had come up completely blank. I couldn’t think of how to answer, and I thought it was because I was so overwhelmed in the moment, but I realized later that it was because I had no answer. I mean yeah, at first I thought you would hate me, but I was just another transplant patient. Stuff like this happens all the time.” I rubbed a strand of grass between my fingers. “And then once I got to know you and experienced how incredible you were . . . there was nothing about you that proved you would be angry or blame me for what happened. But I still chose to lie, which left me with only one answer.”

“And what would that answer be?” he asked.

“The answer is that I wanted to sabotage myself,” I said, meeting his gaze. “The answer is that, deep down, I wanted to be the one to ruin this before you could. All this time I was convinced that I was fighting against my family and the universe trying to drag me down when I was the one dragging myself down. My parents, while trying their best, didn’t end up doing their best for me, and my brother is . . . terrible, but I am my own worst enemy, Noah. I’m not just the villain in his story, but in mine as well.”

“So that’s it? Victim or villain? There’s no middle ground, it has to be either or?” He shook his head. “Her diagnosis was bullshit, Maya. You don’t have a victim complex. You were the victim, over and over again, and when no one ever treated you like one you convinced yourself that you were the villain instead. But you don’t have to be either of those things.”

“They talked about you, you know––the nurses in my room. They thought I was sleeping, so they started talking about this guy who kept coming to the hospital looking for Ana. That’s how I learned her name,” I told him, the memory unfolding behind my eyes. “They felt bad for you. They couldn’t understand why you kept coming back even after her funeral. They thought you were looking for me.”

“I was,” he said gently. “I searched for months, Maya. I wanted to find you and apologize. I needed to find you and make sure you were okay. I thought maybe my parents lied to spare my feelings when they told me you survived, especially when I never ended up finding you. I wish I looked harder. I wish I had found you then, but I’m so fucking grateful that I found you now. Now is better than never.”

“That’s because you were looking in the wrong place,” I said, my breathing uneven. “I was immediately moved out of the ICU and onto the psychiatric ward because, according to my brother, I caused the accident.”

“I’m so sorry he made you go through that. If I could take away all your pain and make it my own I would do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.”

“But you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” he agreed regretfully. “I can’t take away your pain but I can hold your hand while you face it head-on. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“That’s easier said than done, Noah.”

“I know, but it will get easier. You just have to do it every day. You just have to start somewhere.”

“I always told myself that siblings fight,” I whispered. “Every time he hit me, or screamed at me, or called me names, I would repeat that in my head over and over again until I wasn’t even sure it had happened at all. I told myself that because everyone always talked about it, and laughed about it, and shared their experiences so I just assumed.” I paused. “I eventually accepted that this wasn’t . . . normal, but that just made me feel even worse because then I spent the rest of my life trying to figure out why. Why he treated me that way . . . why he couldn’t love me . . . and when I couldn’t come up with a reason that made sense, I just blamed myself. Because having an explanation was better than having no explanation at all.”

“It’s not your fault, Maya.”

I didn’t respond.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated softly. “The way your brother treated you isn’t your fault.”

A small sob broke through my lips. “Then why?”

“He’s sick––that’s why. That is the only why.”

“Sick people can’t pick and choose when and who to be sick around.”

“That doesn’t need to be your problem anymore. This doesn’t need to be your life anymore, Maya. You can move on from him.”

“How, Noah? How do I move on––just like that––without getting anything positive from it? Something meaningful or valid that I can wear as a gold badge of honor to prove my heroic escape from the bad guy?”

“Why do you feel like you need to get something out of it to make it valid?”

“Because,” I explained desperately. “Because if I just move on, then . . . none of it matters. None of my pain, or damage, or humiliation means anything. It’ll be as if it never happened and I just spent all my years being miserable for nothing.”

He grabbed my chin gently but firmly, forcing me to meet his fervent gaze.

“You,” he said fiercely, “are not defined by the things that happened to you. You are defined by the things you made happen despite them.”

“I didn’t make anything happen––”

“You happened. This world has given you every reason to be vile and cruel, but instead, you are kind. You show love to everyone whether or not they deserve it. You are so good and selfless, and I am in awe of how strong and compassionate you are. You are the positive thing that came out of your pain. Your heart is your gold badge of honor, Maya.”

“My heart?” I repeated. “My heart gave up on me ten years ago.”

“I’m not talking about the heart in your chest,” he replied. “The one that’s only purpose is to pump blood through your veins. I’m talking about this one.” He brushed my temple lightly. “The one that makes you who you are.”

He dropped his hand from my face. “But you don’t have to move on alone. I want to fill you up with so much love and joy that it heals all your wounds and replaces all your bad memories with wonderful ones, but I can’t do that until you let me. I can’t do that until you’re ready.”

I could feel him watching me intensely, waiting. Waiting for me to join him on the other side. Waiting for me to take his hand so I could lift myself from the cliff’s edge. Waiting for me to take his hand, not as a life jacket this time, but so that I could finally pull myself out from the bottomless sea I’d spent all my years drowning in. The cage is open, I wanted to scream at myself. Run, flee, leave, get out, get out, GET OUT!

“Why is this so hard?”

“Because it’s all you’ve ever known,” he said softly.

How ridiculously unfair it was that the only thing harder than suffering was trying to move on.

“But that’s the beautiful thing about being human, Maya,” he continued. “We can always learn to know new things. Nothing is ever set in stone.”

I stared at him for a very long time. The love of my life. The brightest spec of light in my labyrinth of darkness. My complete opposite but somehow also my perfect match.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll move in with you, Noah.”

He stood up quickly and grabbed my hand, pulling me up with him and crushing me to his chest. I willed my arms to wrap around him and break free from the restraints of affliction they were shackled in.

“I love you so much,” he whispered into my hair. “I love you and I’m going to be with you every step of the way, okay? You will never be alone again.”

I raised my arms slowly and wrapped them around him tightly. I wasn’t choosing to float this time. I was choosing to learn how to swim.

“I guess I should get my stuff,” I said eventually.

He pulled away slightly and brushed my hair out of my face. “Only when you’re ready.”

“I am, I just . . . my mom is going to be so upset.”

“Maybe at first,” he said softly. “But you’ve done enough, Maya. You’ve given enough. You’ve sacrificed enough. One day they’ll understand.”

Noah was right. I wasn’t going to ask permission this time, only for her forgiveness. But I knew that I’d never truly forgive myself for ultimately breaking her heart.

He glanced at Ana’s grave longingly for a few minutes before placing a kiss on his fingers and pressing them against her headstone. “Love you, A. Always.”

A. His nickname for Ana. He looked back at me, wiping away the lone tear that had slid from the corner of my eye. I grabbed his hand as we walked out of the cemetery together, toward . . .

His car?

“You drove here?” I asked in shock, staring at the exact truck that hit me, except this one was my favorite shade of green.

“Yeah, it was just quicker and easier to get to you,” he replied stiffly.

“What happened to your other car?”

“I got rid of it. I don’t know why I insisted on holding on to it for so long.”

“Are you . . . okay now? With driving?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Those are all the options,” I confirmed.

He let out a breathless chuckle. “I never made a concrete decision to drive, I just wanted to find you.”

I brushed his cheek with my hand gently. If he could face his fears, then so could I.

He was still staring at the car doubtfully without making a move. I slipped my hand into his pocket and pulled out the keys. “How about I drive? You don’t know where I live anyway.”

He smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I warned him, unlocking the car. “I am a terrible driver.”

I pulled up in front of my house and killed the engine.

“This is it,” I announced awkwardly. I looked at my house sitting there, appearing so unimpressive in a row of identical duplexes, its coldness illuminated by the faint streetlamps. My stomach dropped when I saw Mikhail’s car in the driveway.

“Maya, you know I don’t care about––”

“Yeah I know,” I interrupted quickly. “Let’s just get this horror show over with.”

I closed the door and waited for Noah to get out. He took my hand but didn’t make a move to start walking. He was letting me lead, as always. I took a deep breath, pushing away all the panic and nerves starting to overpower me, and forced my foot forward.

“One,” I whispered under my breath.

“Two,” I whimpered, my heart thrashing against my ribcage violently.

“Three,” I continued, shoving the memory aside. Noah didn’t ask why I was counting. He just waited patiently beside me, only moving when I moved. Shockingly enough, it only took one try to make it to 52. Did my body know this was the last time?

I took my keys out of my pocket, but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get it in the hole. I couldn’t do this. They were going to be so angry. They were going to be so mad at me––

“Maya,” Noah said gently, taking my keys from me. I felt his hand under my chin, tilting my face upwards so he could see me. “I love you, okay? Whatever you decide to do, I love you.”

“I want to get my stuff,” I told him, my breathing erratic. “I want to get my things and I want to leave. I want to leave and I never want to come back.”

He nodded and used my key to unlock the door and push it open. I stepped in first, my nerves easing slightly when I only saw my parents sitting in the living room.

“Salam Mama, Baba,” I greeted them. “This is Noah, my . . .  friend.” I cringed at that word, but I was trying to lessen the blow of this situation. Announcing that I was moving out and that I had a boyfriend would send my parents into cardiac arrest.

“Oh . . . hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Mama said after a minute, but my dad stayed quiet, glaring at Noah. I needed to make this quick before they figured out I was lying.

“I’m just going to go upstairs for a minute,” I said, slipping my shoes off and heading to the stairs.

“Do you want anything to drink, Noah?” I heard my mom ask. A twinge of agony stabbed through at her kind voice. She was going out of her way to make an effort for me, unlike my dad, and I was about to crush her feelings to the ground. I went into my room and grabbed my old backpack, hastily shoving stuff inside. Lucky for me, I didn’t have that many things. I paused before leaving, taking one last look around my small room as my throat filled with sorrow. I looked at my closet regretfully––the place I went to cry. The place I went to scream. The place I went to pretend. I looked at the walls littered with scratches, cracks, and dents caused by various parts of my body getting shoved into them.

I used to fantasize about this moment. I would dream about the day when I would pack up my bag, and leave this house and my family forever. Now that my dreams were actually turning into reality, they didn’t fill me with the sweet sensation of freedom like I thought they would. They squeezed me with a dire sense of fear. I could taste its acidic twang on my tongue as it threatened to devour me whole and force me to change my mind. But this wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore.

Noah was still standing by the door, chatting with my mother. They both stopped as I walked up beside him.

“Maya?” she asked, looking at the bag in my hand. “What are you doing?”

I swallowed the ball of fear and uncertainty back down my throat. “I’m leaving.”

She gasped. “Leaving where?”

“Don’t you see, Fatma?” Baba said before I could answer. “She’s leaving with him. They’re dating.”

“I’m not leaving because we’re dating,” I said, immediately hearing the insinuation in his voice. “I’m leaving because I need to leave this house.”

My mom covered her mouth in shock, but my dad stood up and narrowed his eyes at me.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving this house?” he demanded.

Anger flared through me at his tone. Growing up, I eventually learned that my father was the simplest, yet most complex creature I would ever encounter. He was basically a large toddle––the way he threw a fit when things didn’t go his way. His narrow-minded vision made it impossible for him to see things from anyone else’s perspective. It used to make me mad and incredibly frustrated, but I soon discovered that if I just talked to him calmly instead of reacting to his anger with my anger, things usually ended smoother.

Usually . . . but not always.

“I mean I’m leaving. I don’t want to live here anymore.”

“Who do you think you are? This isn’t how I raised you! I never taught you to disrespect your parents and go running off with some boy we’ve never seen before. You’re going to behave this way for the first person to give you a sprinkle of attention?”

“Sir,” Noah started, but I squeezed his hand to silence him.

“I don’t want to fight, Baba. Please,” I pleaded.

“Fine then, I’ll make this easier for you,” he said. “If you take one step out of this house, you are no longer my daughter. Done.”

His sharp declaration of disowning me was like a strike across the face. I always bit my tongue, even when he was wrong, out of respect for my elders and his health. It was enough for me that I knew he was wrong, even if he never would. I wasn’t going to hold back now, though. I wasn’t going to stay composed for the sake of keeping the peace, or out of respect.

“I have never felt like your daughter. I have never once felt like I was a cherished member of this family.”

“Oh give me a break,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I put a roof over your head and food in your mouth. You have nothing to complain about.”

“Yes, Baba, because that’s the golden list of parenting and not the bare minimum,” I snapped. “You were supposed to be my father, and instead you kept me locked up in the same house as that monster you call a son. But I guess it takes little to be a good son, and so much less to be a bad daughter, am I right?”

“I know that Mikhail has some issues, but he is your brother––”

“And yet he has never once treated me like a sister.”

“That’s life, Maya! It’s filled with tests and hardships that should have made you strong, but instead, you’re choosing to run away.”

“That should’ve made me strong?” I repeated in disbelief. “Am I supposed to thank Mikhail for trying to make me strong? Am I supposed to be grateful for surviving him? I was a child; why did I need to be strong?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “I know he’s your son and you were just trying to protect him and yourselves from getting sucked into the system, but what about me? Why didn’t you notice how his behavior was affecting me? Why didn’t you try to protect me?”

He sighed and looked away. “If you felt this strongly about your brother then how come you never said anything?”

I thought back to all the times I kept quiet about the things Mikhail had done. I thought back to all the things my mom had kept quiet about from my dad because the extra stress wasn’t good for his health. But still, he should have known. They both should’ve known better.

“Was I not saying anything, or were you just not listening?”

“What’s going on?” Mikhail demanded, appearing by the basement door. I felt Noah tense up beside me. “Who the hell is this guy?’

I glanced at Noah and he had his eyes shut tightly, breathing heavily. I held his hand tightly between mine in an attempt to soothe him, but it wasn’t working. His face was pinched together as he tried to restrain himself, and he looked like he was in pain.

“Maya says she’s leaving with her boyfriend,” Baba told him.

“The hell she is,” he said darkly, walking toward us. Noah instantly moved forward and stood in front of me. He didn’t say anything, but the death glare he gave Mikhail stopped him in his tracks. I could tell it was difficult for him to stay silent. I could tell he wanted to hurt Mikhail for all the years of hurt he gave me, but he didn’t.

He chose me over his anger.

Mikhail smirked at Noah and then turned to stare at me. I wasn’t looking at him––I never looked directly at him––but I could feel his intense gaze on me, trying to tug me back into the darkness with him. I begged my mind to stay in the present. I willed with all my strength not to shrivel up under his evil stare.

“You’re safe,” I heard Noah whisper beside me, rubbing my arm. I basked in all his warmth, letting it shield me from Mikhail’s foreboding aura.

“Oh my God,” I heard Mikhail say. “It was you. You’re the guy who punched me and then ran away,” he laughed in disbelief. “You’re going to disrespect your parents for this asshole?”

Noah continued to watch me carefully, not bothering to respond to Mikhail’s rude remark about him . . . which only encouraged Mikhail to keep talking.

“Let me guess . . . Maya talked to you about me, right?” he laughed incredulously. “What lies did she tell this time?”

I finally looked at him in shock but continued to bite my tongue. I wasn’t going to give in. He was provoking the part of me that we both shared.

Mikhail sighed dramatically like I was taking too much of his precious time. “Just sit down and let’s talk about this like a family, Maya.”

My hands instinctively twitched to cover my ears at the way he said my name instead of spitting it out like vomit, but it would’ve been a futile effort. Mikhail was a siren. His words were a manipulative song on the tip of his tongue, ready to bewitch anyone and anything into believing his innocence.

“Let’s go, Maya,” Noah said gently.

“Are you really falling for the act?” Mikhail asked. “You’ll never stop, will you? You’ll never stop pretending to be the victim. When will you admit that I never––”

“You never what, Mikhail?” I asked furiously, my anger finally giving in and simmering over the edge. “You never what? You never abused me? You never terrorized me? You never violated me? You never manipulated my doctors and our parents into believing that I was responsible for the accident you caused, just so they would lock me up? Tell them. Tell them what you did to me you fucking coward, tell them!”

My breath was coming out in frantic puffs of rage as all the years of pain poured out of me.

“You spent my whole life making me out to be this terrible person, just so you could justify the toxic way you treated me!” I shouted. “You will only ever choose to remember and recognize the version of myself that you held the most power over, and the worst part is that I let you. I believed you. I gave you the master key into my mind, and I let you convince me that I deserved it. That I wasn’t worthy of love. That I wasn’t destined for great things. That I was a mistake put on this earth, and my only purpose was to suffer under your hands!” I closed my eyes and fought against the torturing memories. “Because, if my own brother . . . my own blood and DNA couldn’t find it within himself to love me . . . how could anyone else? You were supposed to be my protector, but instead, you were the person I needed protection from.”

I looked away to collect myself before I broke down. He was never going to see me shed even a single tear over him ever again. “But I’m done. I’m done letting you have power over my life. I’m done blaming myself for the mess you created. I’m done waiting for you to own up to the things you’ve done, or for you to ask for my forgiveness because you know what, Mikhail? I. Don’t. Forgive. You.” I lifted my head and locked eyes with him, enunciating each word. “I don’t forgive you and I never fucking will.” I took an unsteady breath, glancing at my father. “I am leaving, and there is nothing you can do or say to stop me. I’m not going to let you keep me imprisoned in the center of all your twisted chaos anymore, and the only way for me to do that is to move out.”

They continued to stare at me, stunned into silence. I’d spoken to them more in these last few minutes than I had in all my time living here. It was only temporary, though. Wrong or right, they always needed to have the final word, but this time I wasn’t going to stay put long enough to listen.

I took my debit card out of my pocket and put it on the vanity facing the entrance, but before I could take a step through the door I heard a small sob. I whipped my head toward my mother who had been sitting quietly, watching as her family crumbled before her eyes. We had never truly been a family though, and it was time to stop pretending.

“Mama,” I said. “Please.”

She shook her head vigorously, knowing what I was asking without me having to say the words.

“Mama,” I begged. “Mama, please, you have to let me go. I can’t leave until you let me.”

I felt something crack inside me as I looked into her eyes. My beautiful mother. My kind and forgiving mother. As much as Mikhail hurt me, he hurt her twice as much. She carried him in her womb for nine months and spent hours in agonizing labor, only for him to take her endless cycle of love and squash it into a pile of nothing. Mikhail broke her heart a million times, but she still loved him with every shattered piece. She wasn’t perfect, but she did her best. She was placed in an impossible situation, with two impossible choices as a way out––protect her daughter and lose her son forever, or protect her son and lose her daughter forever. It didn’t matter which option she chose, which road she crossed, left or right, up or down, sink or swim, red or yellow . . . she would lose either way. But while she was consciously not making a choice, she was also subconsciously making one too. Every time she turned a blind eye, or made excuses for him, the closer they became and the farther away I went.

I tried to stop it. I tried to force another option, another choice in her path––protect her son and keep her daughter forever. I tried to push this twisted and unhinged narrative where Mikhail and I could exist together long enough for her to open her eyes and clearly see which way to go, but we were only prolonging the inevitable. Something that was set in stone the moment my mother held her firstborn child in her hands.

It was always going to be him. She just couldn’t bring herself to accept it.

So instead of making her suffer any longer, I made the choice for her. Instead of making her cut the invisible umbilical cord coiled between us, I did. Because no matter how many times my mother chose Mikhail, I would continue to choose her.

“It’s okay, Mama, I understand. I forgive you,” I promised. “But you have to let me go. You have to tell me to go, Mama, please.”

She continued to stare at me, tears streaming down her tired and defeated face, but after a moment, I watched in relief as she slowly nodded. I placed my hand on my heart, where she would always live, and headed for the door.

“Do you really think he loves you?”

I froze. His voice . . . he was back. My Mikhail was back.

“I mean, maybe he thinks he does right now, but once he sees how truly fucked up you are––how fucked up I made you––he’ll leave. I took everything from you, Maya. I made you worthless, so what the fuck could you possibly have left to make him stay?”

“Maya, let’s go,” Noah insisted stiffly, his hand going rigid in mine.

But I couldn’t move. I was trapped in Mikhail’s tight and suffocating grasp.

“Do you think you’re different?” he asked. I could feel him beside me, whispering in my ear, lips barely grazing skin. “You think you’re better than me, I know you do. I see the way you look at me . . . like I’m beneath you. I heard the way Mama and Baba always praised your good grades and your perfect behavior,” he spat in disgust. “I tried to do you a favor and show you who you truly are, but you still managed to convince yourself you’re better than me and now––” he chuckled in disbelief “––you’ve convinced yourself that someone actually loves you.”

“Maya, don’t listen to him,” Noah pleaded. “Let’s go.”

“You’ve got it all wrong though, Maya,” Mikhail said softly from behind me. “You and I are one in the same. We are exactly the same.”

I didn’t know why I was so shocked by his words when they were the same words I always thought to myself. That I was truly my brother’s sister. But hearing them come out of his mouth . . . they sounded so foreign and unintelligible. Like gibberish.

I turned around and faced him. He was smirking at me like he won. “You know, I used to think the same thing. But . . . roses and thorns grow from the same roots, Mikhail. One of them lives to hurt people, while the other lives to be a symbol of love.”

His smile disappeared from his face and he narrowed his eyes at me, but for once, he remained quiet.

“And for the record, I never thought I was better than you, but I am. I am better than you. You huff and you puff and you flex your muscles, but deep down you’re just an angry, pathetic and insecure boy who uses violence against women––violence against your sister––to make up for everything you lack.” I continued to stare him down fiercely, instead of shrinking under his gaze like a cloud making room for the sun. I was thunder. “You might be my brother and you might be my blood, but you will never be my family.”

I turned away from him for the last time and left my house. Noah opened the passenger door for me and then headed for the driver’s side no questions asked. I put my seatbelt on as he started the car, staring straight ahead, breathing hard.

“Maya?”

“I thought he was going to apologize,” I whispered. “I thought after I said all of those things . . . after I said that I wouldn’t forgive him . . . I still thought he might apologize to me.” I laughed humorlessly. “He really did fuck me up.”

“That doesn’t make you fucked up, Maya,” Noah disagreed gently. “That makes you good. It’s a shame he never appreciated what a kindhearted and special sister he had.”

“It doesn’t even matter,” I said, turning toward him. “He finally acknowledged it. He finally admitted it. He finally released me from the suffocating noose he had tied around my neck. The noose that was completely made up of my all-consuming doubt. He finally set me free.”

“You are so strong,” Noah said softly. “You will take back everything he stole from you. The next chapter of your life starts now, okay?”

I nodded shakily, still not comprehending . . .

“Maya?” he said again, waiting until I looked at him before he continued. “I’m so proud of you.”

I gave him a small smile, hoping one day I could be proud of myself too.

“Wait.” I placed my hand over his on the clutch before he could put it in drive, and turned to look at my house one more time. I looked at the porch––52 steps away––that I sat on for hours every day after school to avoid going inside. I looked at the driveway where it all started when Mikhail slashed my bike tires. I wondered briefly if my future would have turned out differently, had I just told my parents after he shoved me down the stairs. I pushed the thought away and searched my brain for a good memory. Just one happy memory from my time living in this house but I came up completely blank.

My fingers unclenched against the key in my hand, its shape indented red in my palm, and without another thought, I unhooked it from my lanyard and threw it out the window. It landed with a clink on the edge of the curb right before the grass began to sprout. The same place my trembling, anxious, frightened foot always took its first step. My number one . . . but never again. I would never complete that torturous path of 52 ever again.

“We can go now.”

“Are you sure?” Noah asked and I nodded. “Okay then. Let’s go home.”

Home? Mikhail was a gas leak in my home. His poison odorless and colorless, but extremely deadly. And then thirteen years ago on my twelfth birthday, he took it a step further. He lit a fire in my eyesight, and I took the bait, letting my body––my home––completely burst up in flames.

When Noah told me he wanted to help me heal, I immediately assumed that he wanted to save me, so I rejected the idea in its entirety. That wasn’t what he was saying at all. He wasn’t trying to hand me the water I needed to extinguish the flames that were slowly licking my skin into charcoal. He was trying to open my eyes to the possibility that I was the one holding the match, not Mikhail, and all I had to do was stop lighting it.

No . . . Noah didn’t save me. I saved myself when I carried on through all my heartache with weak and brittle bones. When I dragged my cold body off the shower floor instead of letting the water suck me through the drain and into oblivion. When I took care of myself as best as I could while the universe was trying so fucking hard to bleed me dry. Whether or not I wanted to, I still did it . . . and then I did it again, and again, and again. It wasn’t a valiant or thunderous effort, but it was enough. I was still here, stuck in the grey realm between surviving and living, and I just needed to push through to the other side.

I looked back at my house one more time before we turned the corner. I wasn’t leaving my home, and I wasn’t going to my new home either. It didn’t matter where I went or where I lived, because it was time for me to start rebuilding the home within myself.