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Jan. 17th, 2017 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lang_noriegavos“I want you to look at something,” Sebastián said.
“What?” Lang grumbled, looking up at him from where she sat on the edge of the uncomfortable hospital bed.
He pulled over the bedside table and slapped down an 8” x 10” enlarged photo of herself and her father standing in front of a snow-covered hedge. The girl in the photo wasn’t more than 15 or 16-years-old. The man looming behind her looked angry and even though the photo was grainy, it was easy to see he didn’t want to be there. His jaw was clenched and his hand gripped the girl’s shoulder in a way that made Sebastián uncomfortable.
Lang gave the photo a quick look before turning her face up to her husband again. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Buried in a box in your mother’s attic,” he answered.
“Yeah, well, you should have left it there.”
“No. You need to look at it,” he said, staring back at her.
“Why?” she asked, still refusing to look down at the photograph, “What good is it going to do? It’s an old photo. You cropped my mother out. Let’s move on.”
“Ignoring this is not doing you any good, Lang.”
“Leave it alone, Sebastián,” she growled, “I don’t want to look at the photo.”
“It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. You need to.”
“Why? So I can be reminded of things I don’t want to remember?”
“Yes!” he shouted, “Because you are not dealing with any of it!”
“I am fine!” she screamed back at him, giving the side table a shove. It rolled back towards the wall, coasting to a stop in front of the doorway.
Sebastián pulled the table back over, planting himself firmly against it, and took her face in his hands. “Look at the damn photo, Lang. He is dead and buried.” He tipped her head down, forcing her to face the photo. “He is a corpse. He has no power over you anymore.”
“Let go of me.” She closed her eyes and tried to wriggle free of his grasp. When he pulled his hands away, she jumped to her feet and fled to the other side of the room. Curling into herself, she said, “I don’t want to look at the photo, Seb. Please take it away.”
Sighing, he answered, “Babe, you need to face him. You need to take your life back.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes! It does! You need to look that son of a bitch in the face and tell him you matter. You matter to me. You matter to Anneke. You matter to Santana. You matter to my sister. You matter to a fuckton of people.”
Shaking her head, she inched backwards, closer to the wall. “No.”
“And you mattered to Caroline.”
Lang spun around to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and screamed, “Then why couldn’t I save her? Why did she have to die and not me?”
Sebastián swiped at his nose and sucked in a breath. “Because you said it yourself, Lang. At that moment, you weren’t ready to give up. And you aren’t now, either. You have so much music to write and so many hugs to give the children. No one else but you can do those things the way you do them.”
He stopped and wiped his own tears from his eyes before taking another deep breath. “You are my favorite person on the planet because you are you.”
She stood there, silently, watching him, afraid to move in any direction.
“Can I come over there?” he ventured. She only nodded. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” Taking the photograph from the table, he started towards her.
“Seb, don’t.” Her back was against the wall, unable to get any further away. She felt trapped.
“It’s only a piece of paper, Lang. It won’t hurt you. You’re safe here,” he said gently, but stopped walking. He turned the photo towards her. “Tell him you matter. I matter.”
She stared at the photograph. It was two days after Caroline’s suicide. She could see the cut on her cheek, the one that left the tiniest of scars. She could still feel her father’s fingers digging into her shoulder, the same shoulder he’d nearly ripped from its socket when she tried to stand up for herself, to fight back and run away. He’d caught her by the arm and pulled her back. Each time she’d try to look away, he would twist her arm harder. Having broken her arm the year before, he knew the kind of pressure to apply.
“Who do you think you are, coming in late like that? You live in my house, you follow my rules!” Then he pulled on her arm again and spun her face into the wall, smacking her head against the drywall. “You smell like alcohol, so I know you’ve been drinking. Were you fucking that piece of shit boy, too? Take your fucking coat off, you worthless whore.”
With tears streaming down her cheeks, she obeyed. She could hear him pull his belt off. It was his favorite tool, just like his father had done to him. He swung it in three big arcs, hitting her with the buckle so it would bruise as much as it burned. Only three times. Then he left.
It was enough to get the point across and leave her a crumpled, sobbing mess on the floor.
“Lang?” Sebastián crouched on the floor beside her, but not touching her. “Lang,” he repeated more firmly. She startled and screamed, her arms flying around, hitting him in the face with the back of her hand. “You are safe. It’s okay.”
She sat there silently, staring at the floor. She could see the photo a few feet in front of her, discarded and forgotten where it belonged. She felt nauseous and her hands were shaking. Beside her, Sebastián shifted into a sitting position, waiting and watching.
It’s her father’s fault she’s been in this psychiatric ward for three weeks. It’s his fault she feels like she’s losing her mind.
She has hugs to give and music to write.
“I told you what happened the night I came home after Caroline’s suicide,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“That photo you found. It was two days after,” she said, finding her voice again, “We had been invited to my grandparent’s house for dinner. It was taken in front of their house. I was bruised all to Hell and I tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. But I liked my grandmother. She was a nice lady. And she knew. She baked cookies for me as if that would help.”
He didn’t respond. She knew he was waiting for her queues. She was tired. All she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep. She wanted to pull a blanket over her head and wrap it around her body, to block out the feelings and the hurts. She was emotionally spent. She didn’t know if she should push through or pull back.
“Seb?”
“Hm?”
He was being so patient with her and she silently thanked him for simply sitting beside her on the floor. “Can you reach that?” she pointed to the photo.
He got onto hands and knees and reached out, barely able to pull the photo forward with a fingertip. When it was within reach, he picked it up and held it in front of her.
“Why this one?” she asked, “Yc l ou couldn’t have known when it was taken. My parents were never in the habit of dating photographs.”
“It was the first one I came to.”
She took the photo in both hands and stared at herself. She half expected the images to come alive and bite her like a snake. Her eyes shifted over to her father as she set the photo in front of her on the floor.
Be brave.
“I matter,” she said. Her voice sounded small, like a breath. “I’m good and I matter.” Tears started to slide down her cheeks again as she repeated, “I’m good and I matter.”
“What?” Lang grumbled, looking up at him from where she sat on the edge of the uncomfortable hospital bed.
He pulled over the bedside table and slapped down an 8” x 10” enlarged photo of herself and her father standing in front of a snow-covered hedge. The girl in the photo wasn’t more than 15 or 16-years-old. The man looming behind her looked angry and even though the photo was grainy, it was easy to see he didn’t want to be there. His jaw was clenched and his hand gripped the girl’s shoulder in a way that made Sebastián uncomfortable.
Lang gave the photo a quick look before turning her face up to her husband again. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Buried in a box in your mother’s attic,” he answered.
“Yeah, well, you should have left it there.”
“No. You need to look at it,” he said, staring back at her.
“Why?” she asked, still refusing to look down at the photograph, “What good is it going to do? It’s an old photo. You cropped my mother out. Let’s move on.”
“Ignoring this is not doing you any good, Lang.”
“Leave it alone, Sebastián,” she growled, “I don’t want to look at the photo.”
“It doesn’t matter if you want to or not. You need to.”
“Why? So I can be reminded of things I don’t want to remember?”
“Yes!” he shouted, “Because you are not dealing with any of it!”
“I am fine!” she screamed back at him, giving the side table a shove. It rolled back towards the wall, coasting to a stop in front of the doorway.
Sebastián pulled the table back over, planting himself firmly against it, and took her face in his hands. “Look at the damn photo, Lang. He is dead and buried.” He tipped her head down, forcing her to face the photo. “He is a corpse. He has no power over you anymore.”
“Let go of me.” She closed her eyes and tried to wriggle free of his grasp. When he pulled his hands away, she jumped to her feet and fled to the other side of the room. Curling into herself, she said, “I don’t want to look at the photo, Seb. Please take it away.”
Sighing, he answered, “Babe, you need to face him. You need to take your life back.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes! It does! You need to look that son of a bitch in the face and tell him you matter. You matter to me. You matter to Anneke. You matter to Santana. You matter to my sister. You matter to a fuckton of people.”
Shaking her head, she inched backwards, closer to the wall. “No.”
“And you mattered to Caroline.”
Lang spun around to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and screamed, “Then why couldn’t I save her? Why did she have to die and not me?”
Sebastián swiped at his nose and sucked in a breath. “Because you said it yourself, Lang. At that moment, you weren’t ready to give up. And you aren’t now, either. You have so much music to write and so many hugs to give the children. No one else but you can do those things the way you do them.”
He stopped and wiped his own tears from his eyes before taking another deep breath. “You are my favorite person on the planet because you are you.”
She stood there, silently, watching him, afraid to move in any direction.
“Can I come over there?” he ventured. She only nodded. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” Taking the photograph from the table, he started towards her.
“Seb, don’t.” Her back was against the wall, unable to get any further away. She felt trapped.
“It’s only a piece of paper, Lang. It won’t hurt you. You’re safe here,” he said gently, but stopped walking. He turned the photo towards her. “Tell him you matter. I matter.”
She stared at the photograph. It was two days after Caroline’s suicide. She could see the cut on her cheek, the one that left the tiniest of scars. She could still feel her father’s fingers digging into her shoulder, the same shoulder he’d nearly ripped from its socket when she tried to stand up for herself, to fight back and run away. He’d caught her by the arm and pulled her back. Each time she’d try to look away, he would twist her arm harder. Having broken her arm the year before, he knew the kind of pressure to apply.
“Who do you think you are, coming in late like that? You live in my house, you follow my rules!” Then he pulled on her arm again and spun her face into the wall, smacking her head against the drywall. “You smell like alcohol, so I know you’ve been drinking. Were you fucking that piece of shit boy, too? Take your fucking coat off, you worthless whore.”
With tears streaming down her cheeks, she obeyed. She could hear him pull his belt off. It was his favorite tool, just like his father had done to him. He swung it in three big arcs, hitting her with the buckle so it would bruise as much as it burned. Only three times. Then he left.
It was enough to get the point across and leave her a crumpled, sobbing mess on the floor.
“Lang?” Sebastián crouched on the floor beside her, but not touching her. “Lang,” he repeated more firmly. She startled and screamed, her arms flying around, hitting him in the face with the back of her hand. “You are safe. It’s okay.”
She sat there silently, staring at the floor. She could see the photo a few feet in front of her, discarded and forgotten where it belonged. She felt nauseous and her hands were shaking. Beside her, Sebastián shifted into a sitting position, waiting and watching.
It’s her father’s fault she’s been in this psychiatric ward for three weeks. It’s his fault she feels like she’s losing her mind.
She has hugs to give and music to write.
“I told you what happened the night I came home after Caroline’s suicide,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“That photo you found. It was two days after,” she said, finding her voice again, “We had been invited to my grandparent’s house for dinner. It was taken in front of their house. I was bruised all to Hell and I tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. But I liked my grandmother. She was a nice lady. And she knew. She baked cookies for me as if that would help.”
He didn’t respond. She knew he was waiting for her queues. She was tired. All she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep. She wanted to pull a blanket over her head and wrap it around her body, to block out the feelings and the hurts. She was emotionally spent. She didn’t know if she should push through or pull back.
“Seb?”
“Hm?”
He was being so patient with her and she silently thanked him for simply sitting beside her on the floor. “Can you reach that?” she pointed to the photo.
He got onto hands and knees and reached out, barely able to pull the photo forward with a fingertip. When it was within reach, he picked it up and held it in front of her.
“Why this one?” she asked, “Yc l ou couldn’t have known when it was taken. My parents were never in the habit of dating photographs.”
“It was the first one I came to.”
She took the photo in both hands and stared at herself. She half expected the images to come alive and bite her like a snake. Her eyes shifted over to her father as she set the photo in front of her on the floor.
Be brave.
“I matter,” she said. Her voice sounded small, like a breath. “I’m good and I matter.” Tears started to slide down her cheeks again as she repeated, “I’m good and I matter.”
