Jack
Our homeroom teacher, Ms. Lewis, told us to prepare ourselves. She said that we might be shocked, appalled, or even frightened by our new classmate’s appearance.

“Some of you might have more classes with her than others,” Ms. Lewis added, “But regardless, please be respectful. Marilyn has been through a lot and could do without mean comments. And be friendly, too.” Jesus. It felt like she was conditioning us or something. I mean, how bad can it be? A burn. I’ve seen people with burns before. It’s not even gross.

I guess this is poor preparation on my part. I am not prepared when she walks through the door.

She’s not too tall and not too short. Although she’s slim, it’s not over-the-top anorexic thin. Her skinny jeans sit on her just right, and the hoodie she’s wearing flatters her frame. Her hair is a light brown, straight, hanging down to her ribs. From this explanation, she sounds pretty average or even attractive, but this is where the appeal ends. After all, who could look away from her face?

One side, the right side, is normal; acne-free skin, brown eye. But the left side is what all of us are looking at. Every single one of us draws in a breath, trying not to stare at the crumpled, blackened patches and scar that jags across the left side of her face. There’s an eye patch over that eye, presumably where the eyelid doesn’t exist. It’s a burn unlike any I’ve seen before, and it’s impossible not to notice.

But she sees us staring at her, and this is what makes it worse.

Ms. Lewis averts her eyes and offers an uncomfortable smile.

“Class, this is Marilyn Knox. She’s a transfer student from...”

“Fordyce High School.” Marilyn’s voice is tomboyish yet feminine at the same time. Fordyce is our rival school, but I think I’m the only one who really notices this. Everyone else is either awkwardly looking away or incredibly fixated on our new classmate’s marred face. I’m not. I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable. The way Marilyn carries herself is unexpected; you would think that someone who has a facial disfiguration would be all self-conscious and shy. But she has this weird confidence; maybe its not confidence, more than cynicism.

Ms. Lewis shows Marilyn to her seat and she sits down, pulling her caramel hair to the side of her right face, displaying the burned left side for all of us to see. Ms. Lewis watches on in uncomfortable silence as Marilyn gets herself settled. This is really weird, I’m thinking. Johnny Marshall, the guy sitting on her other side, shudders a little. Marilyn looks straight at him, smiles, and asks,

“Something wrong?” There’s seriously something wrong here.

Marilyn
I already dislike every single one of my homeroom classmates. None of them bother to say hi to me or anything, except for this one chick named Holly Jordan who is sort-of nice. But it’s that sort-of nice that makes you feel like, she just feels bad for me and is trying to be nice but its not really working. Like I’m a damn charity project.

Everybody makes a point of not looking at my face, which I personally find worse and more uncomfortable than people looking at me. It’s kind of like, “Look at me. Acknowledge that you see my face, and move on.” Rather than everyone being so darn scared.

Mom and Ryan are waiting for me when I come home. Ryan is sitting across from mom, on the couch, her face is hidden in her folded arms, and it looks like she’s been crying. Mom is rubbing her temples and muttering under her breath. Nervous and a little afraid, I set my backpack on the floor and step forward to the kitchen table, swallowing the huge lump in my throat.

“What’s going on?” I say, waiting for an answer. Ryan just lets out another choked sob. I turn to mom, the silent question in my eyes. She sighs, sitting up to look at me.

“Ryan’s school called me today,” and then there’s this really uncomfortable silence, “And she’s in a lot of trouble.” I glance at my sister, who just trembles, crying softly. Wordlessly, I turn back to mom, hoping for an explanation. She looks at Ryan, stands up, and silently ushers me upstairs into her room.

Mom carefully opens her closet door, pulls out Ryan’s backpack, and unzips the top, dumping the contents on the floor.

Weed. Cocaine. Lots of it, in little post-it note sized plastic baggies. I don’t know what to say. It’s shocking, appalling, and frightening. My thirteen year old sister, doing drugs. I open and close my mouth several times.

I look up to see my mom’s eyes blurring with tears.

“What am I going to do?” She looks at me, almost as if she’s begging for my help. Second-guessing herself. Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m just as helpless as she is. I wish I had all of the answers, too.

She kicks the backpack aside, speed-walking out of the room as fast as I can blink, leaving me alone with the endless amount of mood-alterers.

Jack
Matt and I hang out the next day after school, at my house. See, you’d think we’d be exact opposites, the way our parents are. My parents are too obsessed with their images and reputations, and it seems that to them I am just another opportunity to boost their egos. I mean, I’m sure they love me and all, they just have a funny way of showing it.

Matt Blue is seen as a liability or obstacle to his parents. His older brother, Mike, is just as high as his parents and they’ve never taken ten minutes to try and treat Matt like family. It’s a wonder that Matt turned out okay.

But see, we’re exactly ALIKE. I play guitar and he plays bass. We both wear vans and like to skateboard. We both listen to hardcore music. We both hate team sports even though my mom is forcing me to play soccer even though I despise it with everything inside of me.

So we’re hanging out, eating Doritos and messing around with chords on our instruments, when he says,

“When are you going to ask Jenna out?” Rolling my eyes, I finish tuning the E string on my guitar. He’s asked me this twenty-million times this past week, and I’ve told him no each time.

“I don’t like her, Matt,” I reply sternly, “She’s too fake and it’s weird.” Matt pauses his strumming on the bass, narrows his eyes, and laughs a bit.

“You will be sorely disappointed to find that if you’re standards for girls ex-nay fake and weird, finding a girlfriend will be a difficult task.” I can’t help but laugh. That’s the thing about Matt; he says stuff but it’s always coming from a good place. He puts his bass down and stands up, his knees cracking.

Mrs. Blue throws the basement door open, a cigarette peering out of the corner of her mouth. As usual, her eyes are bloodshot.

“Get me my damn Miralax,” she yells at Matt, “And go get dinner from the pizza place down the street. Dad already ordered.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Blue slams the door behind her. Our spirits dampened, Matt sighs with defeat and mutters apologetically to me,

“You should probably go, man.” I nod grimly, patting him on the shoulder and leaving through the back door.

When I get home, my mom is sitting at the table, flashing me her ridiculously photogenic smile, while my dad is seated next to her, digging into a steak.

“Hello, Jack,” she greets, making me nearly gag, “How was your day?” I have to try really hard not to start laughing. She is so fake that it makes me sick.

“Fine. I’m thinking of quitting soccer.” That sounds like a great idea. Mom’s startled expression is priceless.

“But you love soccer!” I didn’t expect this to go this far. I should have just walked on to my room before I got mad. But this is too much. Slamming my backpack down on the counter, I face her dead-on, my father watching helplessly.

“No, you love pretending I love soccer. I’ve hated it since day one, mom!” I grit my teeth, struggling to keep the other words inside.

“You begged me for months to sign you up for tryouts!” Mom argues. Fury boils inside of me. That, my friend, is a lie.

“That’s not true, it’s a lie, and you know it!” Dad straightens up, an annoyed look on his face.

“Now, Jack, do not talk to your mother like-”

“Oh my god, I am done talking to you about this.” Jesus, they can piss me off in under twenty seconds. I ignore their spiteful comments and make my way upstairs, struggling to keep everything under control.

That chick with the disfigured face at school thinks she has it hard? Maybe she and I could trade places for a couple hours.

Marilyn
Everybody is getting really good at treating me fragile. No one has looked at my face since homeroom.

Except for Jack Merrick. He’s that skater kid who’s really bad at math. Every now and then, I catch him looking at my face. I give him credit; it’s not an easy thing to do, looking at the gross scars and horrific burns marring the left hemisphere of my face. Then he looks away all of a sudden like I didn’t see him starring.

Today I am wearing my favorite outfit; high-waisted khaki shorts and my favorite bohemian bat-wing shirt. If it weren’t for my face I’d look like some hippie angel person. But now, right now, I am trying something new.

The next time Jack looks at my face, I march right up to him. He’s shocked and a little embarrassed, I can tell.

“Wanna know how I got it?” I ask him, loud and clear. His face reddens, and I push strands of brown hair out of my face so he can get a better look at the burns.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You keep looking at my face. Wanna know how it got burned?” I know it may seem like I’m playing mind games with him, but in all honesty, I am mildly impressed by his difference from the rest of everyone.

Of course, I don’t intend to really tell him how my face burned. This is all a simple ploy to show him, others, and maybe myself that I know people see me. So they might as well show it. It’s there, its charred and burned, so people should stop pretending that they don’t see it. I know they do.

But then Jack says something sort of unexpected,

“No, I don’t really want to know.” Quite honestly I expected a “Uh, sure” or even “I don’t know” but usually they (as in humans) don’t say no. Not that I’m offended. I’m surprised.

I bend down, my face inches from his.

“I don’t know if I like you yet.” I mumble, so only he can hear. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at his french fries. I’m done anyway. It was fun for a little while but now, my friends, it has gotten old. Jack may have impressed me for a minute, but in reality, he is just like everyone else; contemptuous, vain, and misunderstanding.

But you know what is interesting to me? Trees. More specifically, smaller ones. I think it’s fascinating and troubling at the same time when I see people at tourist parks, so absorbed in the tallest, most majestic trees. I mean, hello, there is a perfectly humble and beautiful miniature tree right next to it. There they (humans) go again; ignoring nature’s less conspicuous beauties.

So I think I shall express my gratification towards smaller trees and go to the gardening store and buy one of my very own. This is what I am doing right now, wandering through the aisle of various plants, and it is quite hard to make a decision. Except for this one plant that is about the size of a lamp with beautifully bright green leaves and a healthy-looking stem and branches. So I buy it.

I bring the tree home to find a nice place for it to stay, and find my mom sprawled across the couch, her eyes half-open.

“Mom, look, I bought a little tree for the house.” She hardly looks up, just mumbles and rolls over onto her side. “Where’s Ryan?”

“I don’t ever know where Ryan is these days.” Geez, half-alive mothers and their dysfunctional second daughters.

Clearing a space by the window in my room, I place the tree there.

At three in the morning, my door creaks open. It’s Ryan, a hood slumped over her face.

“Marilyn,” she whispers, shaking me, “I need money.”

“For what?” There’s another uncomfortable silence. I turn over to get a better look at my sister. Her eyes are bloodshot and look lost in her skull, and her hair is a ratty mess.

“I have to go on a run and get more, Marilyn.” Almost immediately, I shake my head. She’s killing me here, she really is.

“No, absolutely not.” But she keeps grabbing my wrist, begging.

“You don’t even know, you don’t know what this is like! I need it. I can’t just stop.” She sounds so desperate and withdrawn that it’s making me sick. I grab my pillow and clamp it over my face.

“You have to stop sometime and somehow.” But nonetheless I pull my wallet off of the side table by my bed, clumsily yank out twenty dollars, and thrust them into my sister’s hand. Her gaze softens, and she says,

“Thank you.” I don’t look at her, I just turn away and mutter,

“Don’t thank me. Please don’t thank me.” And I pull the sheets over my head, afraid that when I come up for air, she’ll be gone.

Jack
I tell Coach Garret,
“Look, thank you for all you’ve done, and I really appreciate your faith in me, but I am quitting the team.” I brace myself for the worst, I really do, because Coach Garret is super passionate about our soccer team, and me telling him I’m leaving probably doesn’t help. Instead he says,
“Well, Jack, if you don’t like soccer, than there’s no point in forcing you to keep playing.” A flood of relief runs through me. Thank GOD. “But if I may ask, why don’t you like soccer anymore?” This one’s easy.
“Coach, I’ve never liked soccer. My mom was the one who forced me to tryout.” I feel sort of awkward, like I’m pouring out my entire life story in front of Coach Garret.
Nonetheless, he sort of purses his lips like he’s thinking, gives me a pat on the back, and says,
“Son, I’m glad we had the opportunity to have you on the team. If you ever need anything, you can always stop by my office.” I almost want to hug him right now. It’s awfully relieving to hear someone accept a decision that I made, it almost makes me cry.
Instead, I turn away and speed-walk out of his office.

Mom is already waiting for me when I come home. Yeah, I was a little late, but only because I had to drop off my overdue library books off.
Dad’s still at work, but mom’s pissed-off appearance makes up for it.
“Where’ve you been?” She demands. Classic line, mom. Zero points for originality. Fighting the searing urge to roll my eyes, I reply,
“At the library, dropping off books.” Then she gets all huffy and cuts me off,
“No, I mean all day.” I almost scoff. All day? She wants to know where I’ve been all day. That’s ridiculous.
“School, mom. Where else?”
“I got a call from Coach Garret. I believe his exact words were, ‘Mrs. Merrick, I wanted to personally ask you why you think its ok to force your son to play a sport he does not want to.’” There’s this pause, a silence filled with tense tremors of anticipatory anger. I need to breathe. I’m mad, not at Coach Garret, but at mom. I didn’t do anything bad. I didn’t do anything.
“I quit soccer.” I declare, nearly losing my cool. My mom stares back at me, her eyes full of quiet rage and mortification. Mortification at what? Me? Is it because now I don’t fit her perfect image of a sixteen year old boy in an all-American family?
“You screw up everything, Jack! It’s soccer. You love soccer, you begged me to let you play-”
“That is not true-”
“Shut up, Jack! I can’t believe you. First, you trade your A-grade soccer cleats for some stupid skateboard, you stop hanging out with Davy Letourneau, one of your best friends-”
“Davy’s a snob, mom. I was never friends with him, you’re just friends with his mom from your damn country club.”
“Jack Merrick, don’t you dare talk to me like that!” She screeches. And suddenly, it’s like something horrible and putrid pops inside me. My face literally feels like it’s set on fire, and I see red.
“Wow, you really don’t get it, do you? Sixteen years and you still don’t get it! You only want me to play soccer so I can be your little trophy child and you can tell all of your friends, ‘Oh, look at me, I’m a perfect mother with a wonderful little family and you can kiss my ass because I raised my kids better than you.” Mom nearly jumps out of her seat and marches straight up to me, and for a second, I’m almost afraid she’ll hit me, but she doesn’t. Her cheeks burn red with fury, she leans forward so her face is inches from mine, and she nearly screams,
“You don’t get it, how hard it is to have you as a son. Everyone else has a kid who does normal things, but not you, all you do is sit inside and listen to music and ride your f*ing skateboard like some drug-infested gang member; and then you go ahead and quit soccer.”
“Stop it, you shut-” I will never forget what she says next,
“I just want a normal kid!” It’s like a shadow has fallen over the house, silencing everyone. I stare back at her, and she stares back at me, unblinking. My throat catches on the ninety words I want to scream back, but instead, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is,
“Then find one.” This takes her breath, she has to grab the counter with one hand to steady herself, almost as if she’s gonna keel over. I turn on my heel and run upstairs, slamming the door behind me and turning the lock.

Marilyn
I eat lunch with Jack. I see him sitting with Matt, both of them not talking. So I just pull up a chair and plunk down right next to them.

Matt looks up. God, he almost looks exactly like Jack, except for the hair color and stuff. Jack has black hair with this bleached streak in the front, while Matt has light brown hair. Other than that, if you didn’t know them, it would be hard to tell them apart.

I think Matt has gotten used to me. He never used to be really fond of me, but once I started to hang around Jack more, he got used to me.

“Hey, Mari.” Matt says, raising a hand. I smile, the burns on my face crinkling painfully.

“Hey, Matt.” I turn to Jack, the smile fading. He almost looks dead. He doesn’t even have his earphones in. Tilting my head, I narrow my eyes, “What the hell happened to you?” Jack looks up, dark circles dancing around his lids.

“My mom.” Matt looks across the cafe, sees someone, and gets up,

“Sorry, I see Jenna. Hey, man, if you need to talk later, ring me up.” Once Matt leaves, I turn back to Jack.

“Do tell.” I say, dropping the smirk. Jack rubs his forehead. I am surprised by the amount of wandering and death in his usually bright eyes.

“She thinks I’m “not normal”.” Finally, a subject I’m good at. The unusual and odd. Taking one of his fries, I tap my chin,

“What wrong with being “not normal”?” But the look on Jack’s face shows me that’s not what he meant. I nod slowly. I lean forward and put a finger under his chin, forcing his head up so he looks me in the eye, “Hey, I meant to tell you something.” His eyes flicker for a moment.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I pause to settle in my seat, smiling again, “I just needed to tell you that it’s ok. It’s gonna be ok. And I’ve decided I do like you. Thank you.” I mean it, the smile spreading across my face. Jack smiles a little, too. God, he is spectacular when he smiles.

“Marilyn, doesn’t it hurt your face when you smile? You know with the burns and all?” I don’t stop smiling, but I say,

“Some people are worth hurting for.”


Mom is drunk and nearly asleep in her room. That’s how she’s been, lately. Ryan never really comes home anymore. She’s probably off at school, getting high or I don’t even know. It breaks my heart, it really does.

“Has Ryan come home yet?” I ask, purposely avoiding my mother’s hazy eyes. It is tearing her apart, this is. I can’t stand here and watch both of them waste away. Mom just looks at me, her eyes red from crying. I force myself to look at the wall behind her. She sets her bottle down.

“Marilyn, I thought you knew.” Suddenly, I feel like I’m going cold.

“Knew what?” I say, my heart racing, “Mom, you thought I knew what?” Mom turns onto her side, almost looking like she could throw up. I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palm.

“Ryan went missing. Police are trying to find her, Marilyn. I thought you knew.” Instantly I feel like I fell twenty feet straight onto my back; the wind knocked out of me. When I blink, spots dance before my eyes. Bile rises in my throat. I was the one. I was the one who gave her the money to do who-knows-what. I open and close my mouth, trying to find words. Mom rolls back onto her side and falls asleep. This is my fault.

A sob chokes in my throat. I dart upstairs to Ryan’s room, hyperventilating. I want to vomit. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t given her the money she’d still be here. I collapse onto her carpet, screeching horrible sobs into my arms, burning my throat as acid reflux comes up. No, no, no. I should be the one missing.

It’s as if a darkness has consumed me and I can’t see anything.

An hour later, once it’s dark, I step outside, my tears dried.

I climb into my car and turn the ignition. I am going to find my sister.

Jack
Working night shift at the hospital. Dinner’s in the fridge. I sigh and make my way to my room, figuring out what homework needs to get done and what I can wait to do until tomorrow. This is how it’s been; my mom avoiding us at work. Fine by me.

I’ve sorted it out into two piles; tomorrow’s homework, tonight’s homework. I smile when I think of Marilyn and what she would say,

“Jesus, Jack, why get your head in a knot doing homework? Go outside and smell the dead roses or something.” Speaking of Marilyn, she is really growing on me. I like her. But her face isn’t what holds me back; I couldn’t care less about her disfigurement, it’s something else.


You see, we live in two very different worlds. In my world, I see everything as an escape. There is an infinite path on which I can run, away, from what my mom calls “home”. In Marilyn’s world, everything is cynically, amazingly dark. She’s so good at what she does that it’s kind of frightening. She’s so good at faking that things are okay.

Just as I’ve started tackling today’s math homework, my cell phone buzzes on the desk. It’s Matt. It’s odd, because he never calls. Matt never finds the time to actually wait for the ringer to answer.

“Hello?” I greet, a question in my voice. There’s this really weird pause on the line.

“Hey, man. Look. There’s something I really need to tell you.” He sounds serious and there’s this intone of upset, like something really bad happened.

“Ok, do you wanna come over and talk about it?”

“I can’t-”

“Or if you can’t leave your house, I can just walk over there. We can sit in your front yard, or something.” I offer, scared. There’s this sigh on his end.

“No, you don’t get it, Jack. I can’t see you in person.” He repeats. I swallow, and it seems like for the first time I realize it sounds like he’s in a car. Everything inside of me drops like a weight as I realize what he means. His voice cracks a bit, “Jack, I’m going to a foster home.”

We’ve talked about this before, me and Matt. We always knew it could or would happen, with his crazy parents and all. But hearing it actually become a reality is more difficult than I ever would have imagined.

“The neighbors saw my mom hitting me and they called CPS. It all just unfolded. Man, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I manage, laying my head on my desk, “I just- never mind. I’m glad that you’re going to a safer home.” A migraine headache starts pounding against my skull.

“Bye, Jack.” I grit my teeth as he says this.

“Bye, Matt.” We hang up. For the first time in my life, I start crying hysterically. I stand back up and sit back down, not knowing what to do. I pound my fists into the wall, my knuckles bleeding. It’s a total meltdown.

I stare out my window into the dark of the night, watching cars pass through the street. What an odd thing it must be; driving straight past a house full of sadness and fear and oblivion and not knowing a single thing.

My phone buzzes, and I’m afraid that it’s Matt. But it’s a text.

Marilyn Knox

Hey.
And then I remember that I’m not alone.

Marilyn
This is the fifth night I’ve spent looking for Ryan. I haven’t slept, other than taking naps, saving my energy for the searches. But to no avail. If you look at me you probably won’t really notice the burn anymore because instead there are these really gross dark circles under my good eye.
Tonight, Jack is joining me on the search. He asked to help me so I’m letting him. Besides, I like the company.
He sits in the passenger seat, patiently helping me scour the streets for my sister.
“Have you checked all of the alleys on B Street?” Jack’s trying to help, he really is, but I’ve checked nearly every street. I rub my bloodshot eyes and a wave of exhaustion hits me. I almost fall forward and hit my head on the steering wheel but he catches me.
“Sorry.” I mutter.
“When was the last time you slept?” He demands, pulling me up. I don’t answer him. I have to find Ryan. Sleep can wait. Jack unbuckles his seat belt. “I’ll drive. Let’s switch seats.” In a panic, my eyes fly open and I push him back into his seat. This is my search. I have to be the one.
“No, I have to drive!” I exclaim. Jack moves my hands off of his.
“Marilyn, you need to sleep.”
“No, you don’t get it.” Without waiting for him to reply, I step on the pedal and keep going.
The night is pitch-black with only the streetlights as a soft glow. I drive through the town plaza again, my eyes never blinking, looking for the short, skinny, red-head girl with eyes the color of moonshine.
Jack sighs, staying silent next to me. I know what he’s thinking; he wants me to let the police do the work. But he doesn’t get it; I have to be the one to find Ryan. This is my fault and I have to fix it. I owe her that much.
As we make a turn onto the street by the local middle school, I spot a group of kids huddled around in a corner, smoking cigarettes. My eyes light up immediately, and I swerve the car to pull up to them. Jack puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Marilyn, I don’t think this is a good idea.” For once I am not grateful for his caring attitude, and I ignore him as we step out of the car.
“Then why are you with me? If you don’t want to get in trouble, then get out. Leave, go home, whatever.” I hiss at him, slamming the car door. His warning glare softens and he steps closer to me.
“I’m trying to save you tons of heartache. But I’m not leaving you out here alone in the dark.” He whispers. I stifle a small whimper. I want Ryan. I turn on my heel to face the group of pre-teens. When they see me and my face, some of them grimace and wince.
One of them, a lanky kid with blue hair and piercings on his lip, stands up and puts his cigarette on his own arm.
“What the hell do you want?” He demands, his other druggy friends standing up. My eyes dart around the group, hoping to see my sister. But she isn’t here.
“Do you know where my sister is?” I ask, Jack by my side. A girl with stringy blond hair squints her eyes at me.
“Hey, you’re Marilyn. Is Ryan your kid sister?” She asks me, tilting her head, studying my burns. My heart leaps and I grab Jack’s hand as an instinct of excitement. When I realize he’s holding my hand back, I stop panicking. I nod slowly. The girl sighs and rubs her temples. My fear returns.
“Why? Where is she?” I’ve started to raise my voice. The blue-haired kid takes a menacing step forward,
“Shut up, be quiet, or else we’ll get in trouble.” I ignore him and look straight at the girl.
“Where’s my sister?” I’m starting to cry. Jack is almost holding me back.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth. She stopped by for some weed two nights ago, that’s all. I asked her where she was going, she said she was going to run away and not to tell.” She confesses, her eyes full of tears. I’ve scared the s*** out of her. Run away. My world has literally turned upside down. Turning away in tears, I run and close the car door with Jack next to me, my eyes stinging.
We sit there. I cry, Jack listens.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him, messy tears falling everywhere, “I know you’re already going through so much, I’m probably not helping.”
“You’re helping more than you think. Never apologize for being human.”
“Everything is so f*ed up.” I mumble, wiping my tears. Jack gives me this look and forces me to look at him,
“Not everything.” We stare at each other in that car. I am full of wonder looking back at him. He is normal. Beyond normal. I am the anomaly that shapes this relationship. Without me, he is Jack, a boy. Without Jack, I am an empty husk. A shell with no motivation.
We stare and stare and I realize how much I need to stay here with Jack, when suddenly, nausea rolls over me. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by horrific images of Ryan; doing drugs, running away, taking the money from me. My throat catches on something sour. I spring up, pushing the car door open and fall out the car, vomiting on the sidewalk. I retch and retch, feeling like I am dying. I am dying, I think, I am dying of a broken heart.

Jack
She is different, but that’s not why she intrigues me. It’s the fact that she knows; she knows exactly what’s killing her on the inside yet she can’t say it. She’s so smart but she won’t admit it.

I went out and bought a large canvas and some paints. I am painting her in all of the colors that I see in her. It’s not like I have to be social and hang out with my parents. My dad knows whats going on and he’s afraid that if I go ahead and be around my mom then there will be some fallout or whatever. Fine with me. It’s not like mom and I talk anyway.

I let the brush take me where nothing can. It’s hard, like if you ask me why I love Marilyn Knox I can’t answer you on the spot, but painting is enough. The answer is in the image. The answer is in the colors I see in her.

I’m just getting started on the color of her hair when my door opens a little. Without turning around, I sigh,

“Dad, I’m sort of busy-” But it isn’t dad. It’s mom. Her eyes are surrounded by purple and black dark circles.

“Can I come in?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. I haven’t seen her for days; she’s either been at work or holed up in her room. She isn’t wearing makeup. This isn’t like her at all. She stands awkwardly in my room, staring at the posters on my wall. “I didn’t know you liked rock music,” she says, noting the Rolling Stones poster, “When did you start listening to these bands?” If this is her uncomfortable way of apologizing, I don’t accept it.

“I’ve listened to them since I was ten.” I reply, coldly. She nods slowly. I’m getting really impatient having her just stand here. “Do you need something?” Her attention snaps back to me.

“Look,” she starts, obviously feeling uncomfortable, “I’ve scheduled an appointment with, um, this man named Dr. Carver. He’s a licensed family counselor.” I almost drop my jaw. I never thought my mother would ever admit we need help; let alone suggest family therapy.

“Why?” I ask, trying to contain the spark of hope that has lit inside of me. Mom sighs impatiently, starting to leave.

“Do you want to go or not?” The door shuts behind her.

Maybe this is her way of saying sorry.

Marilyn
My mother is a lump that refuses to move. She should be doing something, she should be helping me look for Ryan. It’s been three weeks since she was declared a missing person. The police aren’t doing anything. I just want my sister.
I am sitting in the living room, staring at my mom, who is sipping from a Patron and staring at the wall behind me. There are so many things I need to tell her. I always hoped that she would be here for me when times are hardest, but now she isn’t.
The doorbell rings. I spring up.
An officer with a spiffy mustache greets me.
“Are you Terry Knox?” He asks. I shake my head.
“That’s my mother, but she really isn’t in the shape to come out and talk. Can I help you?” I ask, praying that he has information about Ryan. The mustache-man-officer sighs and looks at the ground, obviously disturbed. I keep an unblinking stare at him.
“Why don’t we talk inside?” My throat swells up. Oh no.
He follows me into the house, wincing when he sees my mom on the couch. My heart is pounding wildly against my chest. I can feel my hands trembling against my sides as the police officer sits down in a chair across from my mother and I.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, maybe?” I offer, standing up quickly and grabbing the pitcher of water. He smiles politely and shakes his head. I set the pitcher down and sit on the couch next to my mother.
He looks at my mom, and then at me. I know that stare. It’s the stare the other officer gave us when he told us that grandma had passed away.
“Do you know where my sister is?” I blurt out, unable to take the anxiety anymore. My eyes are drying up and I realize I haven’t blinked. The officer leans forward a bit. My mom stays silent, staring ahead, her glazing eyes not flickering for the slightest bit.
“Mrs. Knox,” he’s addressing my mom this time, “We found Ryan’s body in a ditch.” Who’s body? Of course. I know who’s body. My sister’s. Because deep down I knew this had happened. And I kept looking, I kept looking because I am a stupid, hopeless,
Then everything goes spotty. My mom sits up, and she’s saying something, but I can’t hear her. I only hear the officer, who won’t stop talking,
“Her cause of death has been declared a drug overdose. The amount of cocaine in her bloodstream was so high that the crime scene investigators are shocked she survived so long. She fought, she wanted to live, they said. Apparently at about 1:00 AM on Friday of last week, the doctors estimate, she blacked out and fell in a ditch by the highway, and died there. The autopsy has-”
“Shut up!” I screech, clamping my hands over my ears, tears pouring down my cheeks, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, I don’t want to hear this.” I push a chair out of the way, crying hysterically. The officer just grabs his things, nods to my mother and says,
“My condolences for your family.” I don’t. I can’t even do this. My mom just sits there like a glass doll, her eyes unmoving, that damn bottle tilting in her hand. Just like a dead person. This is everything I never wanted. I’m crying so hard, slamming things into the wall. I’m so stupid. So, so stupid.
I run upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. I stare in the mirror, long and hard. What does Jack see? Because all I see is a burned face and a f*ed-up story. My throat catches again and I feel the vomit coming up. Not bothering to lean into the toilet, I puke all over my self. Now I’m covered in vomit and sweat and tears.
I scream, letting my voice scratch and stab at every wall and corner. I want Ryan back. I just want things to be okay.
My head starts to spin. Blades. I grab them, hysterically squeezing them in my fist and feeling the razors sink down in my flesh and the burning sting of blood escaping cuts.
I slump onto the ground, and taking one of the blades, I find my vein and escape.
My mom is screaming this time, when she sees me, my shirt sleeves soaked in blood. She is clutching her face.
Jack is pushing her out of the way, and he screams, too. Crying and screaming. It is too loud and I just want to go to sleep. Now he’s holding me and my mom is wailing,
“Oh, God, oh please,” and my head is floating above. I am so tired. So, so tired. My arm is limp. I can’t feel the blood flowing out of my wrist anymore. I’m thinking this doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
“Call 911! Hurry!” Jack yells. My mom’s footsteps.
I just want to go to sleep.

Jack
I stay up all night in the hospital with Marilyn. She’s asleep and quiet most of the time, except for when she screams out in her sleep or when she hallucinates from all of those drugs to help her blood flow start again. It is too taxing on me but I can’t leave.

I can’t ever un-see what happened. I had just walked in to check in on her, and her mom was crying on the couch. I asked her where Marilyn was and she said that Marilyn was probably upstairs. She followed me upstairs and the door to the bathroom was locked but the light was on. I peeked through a crack and saw red stuff gushing all over the floor. I knocked the door open and she was there, her wrists were slit and she was bleeding everywhere, moaning in pain. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen. I thought I was gonna fall right next to her and die.

I wanted Marilyn to be real, to let herself feel vulnerable and emotional, but not like that.

I sit next to her. Now it’s morning and she’s awake, her long hair knotted and mangled over her face.

“Ryan died.” She tells me, her voice hoarse and her face pale. I take a pause.

“I know, Marilyn. Your mom told me.” I say, trying not to burst into tears. Marilyn looks at the ceiling. I look away from the bandages around her wrists. All I can think is how horrible this is.

“Why are you here?” She asks me, almost whispering. She really needs to know? I am here because she is the revolution in my ever-dull life. She is the white rose in a world of red. She is the answer to a question that it seems I can never answer. Marilyn is the light at the end of the tunnel that I thought I’d never see.

Instead, I say,

“Because without you there is no me.”

“Do you mean it?” She mutters. I sigh and reach in my pocket, pulling out the little note that I had written. I had read it years before, when I was ten or eleven in a book my older brother had given to me. I really hated the book, it was boring as hell and too philosophical for my taste, but I found this quote. And nothing but this quote made sense. Yet this quote made so much sense to me that I never forgot it.

I clear my throat.

“Love; not dim and blind but so far-seeing that it can glimpse around corners, around bends and twists and illusion; instead overlooking faults, love sees through them to the secret inside.” I look up at Marilyn. She’s smiling. She is wonderful when she smiles, burn and all.

“Where’s that from?” She asks, still smiling.

“It’s from Salt of The Air. My brother got it for me a while ago.”

“I read that last year. It was good.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty boring. Except for that quote.” We go quiet for a few seconds. I look down at her arms again, so pale and white. The sun is bright outside, shining down on us through the hospital window. We sit there, and its ok that we aren’t talking. It’s our unspoken thing. Her mom comes in every little while or so to check on her, but she can’t stay because she has to go to work. When Marilyn falls asleep for a while, her mom tells me,

“Thank you. She needs a person like you.”

When she wakes back up, Marilyn tells me that she is glad to see her mother is back on her feet again. I tell her that I’m glad that she’s glad. We watch some television, play twenty questions. And then I say,


“It’s not your fault.” And she looks at me funny. I go on, “It’s not your fault that Ryan died. It’s ok to let go, you know. It’s not a crime to be proud once in a while. Stop looking at the world like you’re below everyone and that everything is cynical. Stop hating yourself for unchangeable things, Marilyn, ok?” I don’t realize that I’m crying until Marilyn reaches forward with her good arm and wipes the tears from my cheeks.

“You’re not just talking about Ryan, are you?” She knows. She knows I’m talking about everything. Everything and anything.

“Everything.” Pause.

“Jack, why are you doing this? I am tearing you apart.” Her voice is a hushed whisper.

“You’re not tearing me apart.” I smile, “But even if you were, some people are worth hurting for.”

Marilyn
Dearest Jack,

Thank you. I can never and will never be able to repay you for the footprint and impact you’ve had on my life in the short year we spent together.

When I first met you, I was both cynical and fascinated with you and your hidden verve. You were so normal, everything I wasn’t, yet so different at the same time. How can two different dimensions exist in one atmosphere together and work as a unit? I’ll tell you.

See, this example of a dialectic (two opposites existing at once) is not just about you. It is about us. I am a tunnel of questions and mysteries, I can be dark and hopeless, I laugh at everything. You are depressed yet a bright light, you impulsively force yourself through and you make it; you are strong, and I am not. Together we are unbreakable, invincible, powerful, and unconditional. Remember that our love is not one of the normal ones; we are unconditional.

Last month, I tried to kill myself. You remember because you were there. I told you everything, I relied on you after to help me come back to life. But I didn’t tell you why I didn’t die.

If someone is really meant to leave this life, they will leave. But I’m not finished. I did not die because I am not ready to. I truly believe that Ryan’s death wasn’t my fault now. I used to beat myself up so badly about it; and while i believe this wasn’t my fault, I still need to find the piece of me that I lost when she died.

I am forever changed by the power of our love and the strength I have found in hope. Hope is what is holding me together now. You and I are dialectics, Jack. You are beautiful and I am not. It is my face that scars who I am; marking me as me and you as you. But it is this dialectic that exists for a reason.

Things are starting to look up now. But I still have to find the piece I lost.

Jack, I think you and I are gonna go far in this world.



Peace always,




Marilyn Knox