Tess Sharpe - Far From You

It doesnt start here.

Youd think it would: two terrified girls in the middle of nowhere, cowering together, eyes bulging at the gun in his hand.

But it doesnt start here.

It starts the first time I almost die.

The first time, Im fourteen and Trevs driving us home from swim practice. Mina has the windows rolled down, her hands dancing to the music, rings glinting in the late afternoon sunlight as we speed past barbed wire fences and scrabbly ranches, the mountains stretching out behind them. We sing along to the radio in the backseat, and Trev laughs at my off-key voice.

It happens fast: the screech of metal on metal, glass everywhere. Im not wearing my seat belt, and I pitch forward as Minas scream drowns out the music.

Then everythings black.

The second time, Im seventeen and annoyed with Mina. Were already late, and now shes turning off the highway, onto Burnt Oak Road.

Just one little detour. Itll be quick, I promise.

Fine, I say, giving in easy, like always.

This is a mistake.

The first time, I wake up in a hospital room, hooked to an IV and beeping machines.

There are tubes everywhere. I claw at the one down my throat, panic climbing inside me, and someone grabs my hand away. It takes me a second to realize its Mina beside me, to meet her gray eyes and focus enough to let her words sink in.

Youre going to be fine, she promises.

I stop fighting and trust her.

Its only later that I learn shes lying.

The second time, I remember everything. The beam of the cars brights. The shooters eyes shining at us through his mask. How steady his finger is on that trigger. Minas hand clutching mine, our nails digging into each others flesh.

After, Ill trace my fingers over those bloody half-moon marks and realize theyre all I have left of her.

The first time, I spend weeks in the hospital. The doctors put me back together piece by piece. Surgical scars snake their way up my leg, around my knee, down my chest.

Battle scars, Mina calls them. Theyre fierce.

Her hands shake when she helps me button my sweater.

The second time, there is no hospital. There are no scars.

There is only blood.

Its everywhere. I press hard against Minas chest, but my jackets already soaked through.

Its okay, I keep saying. Over and over. She stares up at me with shocked, wet eyes and takes gulping breaths. Her body shivers beneath my hands.

Sophie My name wheezes out of her. She lifts her hand, drags it toward mine. Soph

Its the last thing she ever says.

NOW (JUNE)

So, todays the big day, Dr. Charles says.

I look across the desk. From her shiny pumps to her tasteful, natural makeup, theres not a hair out of place on her. When I met Dr. Charles, all I wanted to do was mess her up. Slip the glasses down her nose, crush one of those perfectly pressed French cuffs. Tear into that neat, orderly mask and get down to the grit, the chaos.

Chaos has no place in recovery, Dr. Charles would say.

But I crave it. Sometimes even more than the Oxy.

Thats what happens when youre trapped by clean white walls, endless therapy sessions, and piped-in new-age music for three months. The order and rules get to you, make you want to screw up just for the messiness of it.

But I cant afford that. Not now. Freedom is so close, I can almost taste it.

I guess, I say, when I realize that Dr. Charles is waiting for an answer. Shes big on getting answers to her nonquestions.

Are you nervous? she asks.

No. Its the truth. I can count on one hand how many times Ive been honest with her. Including this one.

Three months of lying is exhausting, even when its necessary.

Theres no shame in being nervous, Dr. Charles says. Its a natural feeling, given the circumstances.

Of course, when I finally do tell her the truth, she doesnt believe me.

Story of my life.

It is a little scary. I let my voice go reluctant, and Dr. Charless neutral therapist mask almost slips at the prospect of a confession. Getting me to open up has been like pulling teeth. I can tell it bugs her. One time she asked me to walk her through the night of Minas murder, and I knocked over the coffee table, glass shattering all over as I tried to get away from herjust another thing Ive destroyed in Minas name.

Dr. Charles stares like shes trying to see through me. I stare back. She may have her therapist mask, but I have my Im a drug addict face. She cant ignore that, because deep down, buried underneath all the other things I am (crippled, broken, scarred, and grieving), I am a drug addictalways will be. Dr. Charles understands that I know this about myself. That Ive accepted it.

She thinks shes the one responsible for my change from raging to recovering, but shes not. She doesnt get to take the credit for that.

So I stare her down. And finally she breaks the eye contact and looks at her leather portfolio, writing a few notes. Youve made tremendous progress in the time youve spent at Seaside Wellness, Sophie. There will be challenges as you adjust to living a drug-free life, but I feel confident that with the therapist your parents have arranged for you and your commitment to recovery, youll succeed.

Sounds like a plan.

She shuffles some papers, and just when I think Im free and clear, she drops the bomb: Before we go downstairs, Id like to talk with you a little more. About Mina.

She looks up at me then, carefully monitoring my response. Waiting to see if Ill break her new coffee table. (Its wood this timeI guess she figured she needed something sturdier.)

I cant stop it: the way my lips tighten up and my heartbeat thuds in my ears. I force myself to breathe, in and out through my nose like in yoga, relaxing my mouth.

I cant slip up. Not now. Not when Im this close to getting out.

What about Mina? My voice is so steady, I want to pat myself on the back.

We havent talked about her in a while. Shes still watching me. Waiting for me to freak, like I have every time shes forced this. Going home is a big adjustment. A lot of memories will come up. I need to make sure youre in the right frame of mind to deal with them without She tugs at her left cuff.

This is another of her tactics. Dr. Charles likes to make me finish her sentences. Own up to my mistakes and faults.

Without going on an Oxy binge? I supply.

She nods. Mina and her murder are triggers. Its important youre aware of that. That youre prepared for the challenges her memory may bring upand the guilt.

I have to stifle my knee-jerk response. The one that screams, Her murder wasnt about drugs!

Its no use. No one will believe the truth. No one will believe me. Not with the evidence in front of them. That fucker in the mask had covered his baseshe knew Id never notice the drugs he planted on me, not after hed shot Mina and knocked me out. My mom called in every favor imaginable to get me into Seaside to deal with my supposed relapse instead of being booked for possession.

Dr. Charles smiles at me. Its both bland and encouraging, a warring twist of pink lipstick.

This is my final test; I have to be careful with my words. Theyre my ticket out of here. But its hard, almost impossible, to keep my voice from shaking, to stop the memories from creeping back. Of Mina, laughing with me that morning, both of us unaware that shed end with the day.

I loved Mina, I say. Ive practiced it a hundred times, but this cant sound rehearsed. And her murder is something I have to deal with for the rest of my life. But Mina would want me to move on. Shed want me to be happy. And shed want me to stay clean. So Im going to do that.