Fear of Falling (20 page)

“Kami, baby,” I whispered into her hair just as the first round of sobs wracked her entire frame, shaking us both. The ache behind the sound both startled and scared me. I had seen her cry before, but that was after her near-attack. She was in shock then, almost paralyzed with fear. This was different. There was so much anguish in her cries that it seeped into my skin. Her tears served as translucent tattoos, marking us both with the evidence of her immeasurable pain. I felt it. I broke for her too. I refused to let her suffer alone.

The semi-muted music shifted into an upbeat tempo, but I didn’t let Kami go. I couldn’t. Her tears had validated me. They gave me purpose, made me realize just how incredibly much I needed to be in this girl’s life. And just how much I needed her in mine, no matter how hard she tried to fight it. The past few days were a distant memory. Her coldness towards me was forgiven and forgotten. I didn’t give a damn about any of it. Only this girl in my arms mattered to me.

Even after she emptied all her tears into my shirt, I still didn’t let go, murmuring soothing words as I kissed the crown of her head.

Kami’s demons had somehow become mine without me even knowing them. And I swore on my life that I would fight every one of them. I would fight for
her
.

Shit happens.

I never really understood that saying. Yeah, there were certain situations in life that were shitty, but they were just that; they were
life
. So it really wasn’t the shit in life that was, well, so shitty. It was life itself.

Life happens.
That was much more appropriate.

Unfortunately, many of us found that out earlier than some. We found out just how awful life could really be. We found out that monsters were, indeed, real. They walked among us. They looked just like you and me. They came in the form of the people that we loved and trusted the most. The people whose only job was to love and protect us.

Funny thing about life is that it never turns out the way you want it to. It’s never fair. It’s harsh and brutal. It kicks you when you’re down. It makes you wish you could give up and part with it just to have a semblance of peace.

I almost felt that peace unintentionally. And if I had known exactly what I was fighting against, I would have succumbed to it. I would have traded my young shitty life for the peace that came with death.

I should have. I would have been free.

My father took me to a party when I was barely five years old. He said there would be other children there for me to play with. I was excited because he never took me anywhere. I usually stayed at home with my mother, breathing a sigh of relief whenever he was away. I got to watch television then. We didn’t have to cower in my room whenever he was feeling “playful.” It was the only time I didn’t see my mother cry.

Yet, for some strange reason, my father took me along this time. I remember the loud music and the different colored bottles of strong smelling alcohol burning my small nose. I remember people staggering around in an intoxicated haze and the half-naked women gyrating on men’s laps. And I remember the swimming pool. I had never seen one, and I was in awe.

Many of the adults kept disappearing inside to a back room. Then they would come back out, their eyes glazed and movements sluggish. My father told me he needed to go back in that room to “talk” to someone. I told him I wanted him to take me swimming.

“You wait here and I’ll be right back,” he told me. Then he dropped me into the pool, fully dressed, and told me to hang onto the side. I was too short to reach the bottom, and he said if I let go, I’d be in big trouble. I wanted to listen to him. I wanted to be good. I didn’t want to do anything to ruin this experience for me. I was actually happy.

But I was five. And my 5-year-old intentions did not win out over my curiosity.

I let go of the edge. And I nearly drowned, finding just a slice of that peace at the bottom of the swimming pool.

I don’t remember being pulled to the surface. I have no clue how long I was submerged. But when I finally regained consciousness, vomiting on the concrete as oxygen tried to combat the water in my lungs, I stupidly fought for my life. I battled for every breath, thinking that my life had to be better than the alternative.

I feared death when all along I should have feared life.

I sat on my bed cross-legged, dozens of tiny stars tickling my bare feet, as I put them back in the jar one by one. I had counted them over and over again since I broke down at Dive Thursday night. I could feel the cracks in my mask broadening into large fissures, splitting to reveal the little girl hidden underneath. The one that was so scared that it crippled her. The one that was afraid of someone finding out just how damaged and unlovable she really was.

“Knock, knock.”

I looked up to find Dom standing in my doorframe, smiling his usual boyish grin full of mischief. I was one of the few people who ever got to experience this smile. It was
him
. Unmasked, free and real. It wasn’t laced with pain or deceit. There was no anger in it.

“Hey you. What are you doing up so early on a Saturday morning? I thought you had a date,” I said, scooping the stars in my hand to hide them away. Of course, Dom had seen them before, but this was a personal process for me. It was something I could never share with anyone. No one would fully understand why I needed to count every single one.

Dom flopped back onto my bed, folding his hands behind his head. “Yeah. But I sent her home last night. Felt like sleeping alone.”

I detected the affliction in his voice, prompting me to abandon my task. “Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Same as always?”

He nodded. “Yup.”

I let my hand cup his cheek, hoping my warmth would soothe him. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

I wasn’t offended. I knew he would decline; he always did. If I had to battle that caliber of pain and anger daily, I’d want to keep it bottled up too.

Dominic divulged his level of fucked-up-ness to me soon after we met. He was a known man-whore on our campus, and once we had established that we liked being around each other, he tried to sleep with me. I turned him down, and it wounded him. Deeply. He cared for me, and he thought that sex signified affection, both friendly and romantic.

“It’s just… you’re my best friend, Kam,” he said to me, betrayal written on his handsome face after my rejection. “I love you more than anything else in this world. And this is the only way I know how to show how much you mean to me.”

“Dom, do you love me like
that
? Like more than a friend?” I asked, grasping his hand. It was our thing. Dom needed constant affection, and I only found it acceptable with him.

“Well…no. I mean, I know I love you, but honestly, no. Not like that.”

“Then you don’t want to sleep with me.”

Genuine confusion flashed across his features. “I don’t get it.”

I knew something dark and ugly had happened to Dom, but that moment solidified it for me. I would never, ever leave him. He was a smart, witty man, but emotionally, he was an infant. He honestly had no idea that sex and love were two totally different things.

Then he broke down and told me what happened to him, his inhibitions numbed after sharing a few bottles of wine. I cried for him. And when my sobs had grown out of control, stealing my breath, I wanted to vomit from the sheer repulsion of his account. My beautiful, dear friend deserved every one of those anguished tears.

“I didn’t understand, Kam,” he cried, his face buried in my neck as I held him tight. “He was my uncle, and he said he loved me. He said that if I loved him that I would show it. That I would be a good boy and show him my love. And when he invited his friends to come over and… and…
fuck!
When he let his friends fucking rape me over and over, he said it was because he loved me so much that he had to share it. He had to share his love for his nephew by letting them fuck me!”

He went on to tell me how it continued for years and didn’t stop until Dominic was hospitalized for severe damage to his rectum. His uncle had been his caretaker since a car crash claimed the lives of Dom’s parents when he was just a toddler. The police investigated and arrested all the sick-fucks involved, including his uncle, the only family that Dom had ever known.

After his body had healed, Dom was sent to live with a relative in North Carolina when he was 14. The relative, a distant older cousin, was a stranger to him and only took him in out of obligation. She never helped him heal emotionally from the trauma or cared enough to get him help. So Dom coped in the only way he knew how—with sex. He slept with any girl that would have him, desperately trying to prove to himself that he was straight, that he hated everything his uncle had done to him. But he couldn’t deny that he still loved him. He was the only parent he had ever known. The conflicting feelings, the abuse, it fucked with everything he thought he knew about love and sex, right or wrong.

The man that laid beside me today was still confused and outraged but he had begun to heal. He knew that intimacy wasn’t a substitute for affection, but he sought it out anyway. He needed that constant reassurance. He needed the physical reminder that he was a man, that no amount of abuse could strip him of his masculinity. I still hurt for him deeply, but I was honored to love him. He of all people deserved it.

“Kam?” he said, pinching my thigh and breaking me from my morbid account. “Wanna tell me why you’ve been missing Dr. Cole’s appointments?”

I shook my head and resumed putting the tiny origami stars back in the glass jar. “Because I’m not going back. It doesn’t help. And she thinks I’m being irrational.”

Dom let out an exasperated sigh. “You have to talk to somebody, Kam. I’m serious.”

“I talk to you.” I got up and put the jar in its spot on my windowsill before walking over to grab my guitar. I needed a distraction.

“Bullshit. You don’t talk to me. And I’m afraid that I won’t be around when you finally
need
to talk to me. Please, Kam, give Dr. Cole another chance.”

“Why the hell is she calling you about me anyway? You aren’t my father. Doesn’t that break some kinda patient-doctor confidentiality?”

“She didn’t tell me what you two talk about,” he replied, rolling his beautiful eyes. “Her office called to find out what’s been going on.”

“Mmm hmm,” I said, lightly strumming the strings. I was done talking. Nothing Dom could say would make me go back to therapy. It was a waste of time and money.

Dom got the hint and sat up with a huff. He knew I wouldn’t budge. “Fine. But the moment you feel yourself losing control, you come to me. Ok? Don’t give me that “I’m fine” bullshit. Next week, we look for another therapist.”

I nodded and just kept thrumming, getting lost in the melody that had been stuck on a continuous loop in my head for days. I hadn’t played for weeks but, for some reason, I felt the need to let my emotions trickle out in song. It flowed easily, and before I even realized it, I was humming, and the story was slowly coming into focus.