ANYA

We should have some fun.

you meet a boy one day. eyes red, skin pale, the black of his suit contrasts against everything he is. you're adorn in a red dress that stops just above your scraped up knees ("anya, what were you doing!" screamed your mother when she saw them.)

your feet are tucked nicely into a pair of white flats and his tie is neatly in place. you hold out a hand, introduce yourself ("i'm anya, anya fedov, this is my dad's party."). he hesitates before he takes it, says his name ("ignatius van allan," he says. "iggie then," you reply. some sort of smile forms on his lips. you suspect he's never had a nickname.)

his hand lingers a little longer in yours than yours does in his. then you ask, bright-eyed and innocent, "do you want to get out of here and play? daddy bought me the coolest toys for my birthday, and it's boring here." you don't wait for an answer before you grab his hand again and tug him along.

this is where you let him into your sanctuary.

This is the only place I can always return to.

sometimes your mother forces you into the car and drives a little longer than what you like to sit around for to a house just as big as yours and just as empty to sip tea with another woman who you don't like. the only nice thing you find in this big, empty house is the little white haired boy.

you say little because he's shorter than you, weaker than you, hides in your shadow when the taller, bigger boys come around when you're drawing on the sidewalk with chalk. you say little because he gets your mother and his mother instead of trying to help himself. you say little because he gets you into trouble and when you yell at him a little later, looks like he's about to cry. you say little because he fits into the empty space in the closet with you so nicely that your mother's don't find you for hours. but it's okay, you have snacks, stories and a little red-eyed boy you call iggie with you.

this is where you create a bond.

When I came back, things were interesting.
YOU CAN'T HANG OUT WITH THAT MONSTER OF A BOY ANYMORE.

you're fourteen, almost fifteen. you're angry, it's seeping from the pores of your body and you yell back.

YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME. DON'T BOSS ME AROUND. I'LL HANG OUT WITH WHOEVER I WANT.

then you run, little legs carrying you so far until you're in front of a house just as big and just as empty as yours. you ring the bell and iggie answers the door. you wave, say hello, ask him if he wants to play. he looks more confident, he's become more confident over the years. he rolls his eyes, and then his words sting against your heart, but you don't cry.

no, you slap him, hit him and then keep your tone steady when you talk to him ("HOW CAN YOU SAY THOSE THINGS? YOU'RE TERRIBLE, YOU'RE SCUM, YOU'RE DISGUSTING.") before you run off, back to your house. you move week later, but you don't forget the sting of his actions, the sting of your mother's slap, how tired you were after all the crying had been done and you crawled into your father's arms, apologies streaming from your mouth.

this is where you learn to be strong.

We keep each other out of trouble.

once upon a time, there lived a naive little girl and her best little friend. she caused havoc and he tagged along. she protected him from monsters in the shape of boys and held his hand when he was scared. she sat around and read his books, made sure he was always safe, always found him when he was lost.

but then one day, they both grew up. he grew up to be a monster just like the ones she used to protect him from and she grew up to be the blind knight who continued to protect him. but then one day, her eyes were forced open, by reality, by fate, by her little best friend himself. except he was no longer little (tall, lanky and pale) and he was no longer her best friend (hated, outraged, never long-term).

and one day she left him without a single note. she left him alone with his mother, alone with his father, alone with all those girls and all those pills she never knew he would do. and one day he noticed, and then he forgot to care.

once upon a time, there lived an angry grown woman and her useless little charge. she dons her armour, white gold and silver, to protect him with her life. he takes another drag, not high enough he says, and remains oblivious to the things she'd be willing to do for him.

this is when she realised her protection was unconditional.

Is there a way to overdo it?

one day you're back. back in town, back in canada, back in the same large, empty house you lived in when you first left here. one day you find yourself re-tracing your steps to the old, familiar, empty large house at the end of the lane. one day you see him again, battered and bruised, bleeding and buckling. he looks like he'll fall over if a wind blows too hard and you want to go over and yell at him.

(what have you been doing all this time? i see you're still a fuck up. momma's little boy gone wild has he? i still hate you. why did you say those things? i was fucking fifteen. i hate you. i hate you. i hate you. why do you look so close to dying? what has this world done to you? what has your mother done to you?

what can i do for you?)

but you don't, you re-retrace your steps and retreat to your big empty house.

this is where you regret ever leaving.

Can we get a minute alone?

it's a party, you've learned to party, learned to cut loose and forget all your problems. but then you're biggest problem walks in, smokes, drinks and then prowls the crowd for a lovely lady to take advantage of and ruin (just like you? maybe).

so you save him the trouble of having to find someone. you walk up to him, head held high and voice steady as your heartbeat. he recongises you, you can tell by his eyes, but they don't meet your gaze for long. they float down your body and you grab his face, make his gaze meet yours and seethe, "i am not here as your next get-off. let's talk." you don't wait for his reply, you take him by the hand and drag him upstairs, to a bedroom. push him onto the bed and lock the door, he tries to say something, but you shut him up.

slap him across the face and scream at him, make him remember what he did all those years ago. his body shrinks when you meet his eyes. you remember little iggie bordering tears after you yelled at him for getting you into trouble. your body sinks, your motivation falters, you still see the little boy he used to be in those red, red eyes and those eyes will be your downfall. this iggie, the grown-ass man is shell-shocked, scared and - you think - looks like he's bordering tears.

he is your kryptonite, the one thing that will always find the kink in your armour and seep its way in. you feel disgusting as you take him into your arms, press your lips against his and feel the smirk against them. his hands are on you, touching you, roaming like his lips and you only let him do it because you can't see him cry, but he's bad.

worse than that high school boy behind the benches and you vow to never let him do it again. but that falters every so often, when he looks done, so broken, blood staining his pale skin and you can't bear to see him like that. you hate yourself for it every single fucking time.

this is where you regret coming back.

I’m not sure I can trust you anymore.

he knows, he knows he makes you falter when his eyes tear up and he's covered in his own blood with a splash of someone else's, he tries to take advantage of you, tries to get sex out of you with fake tears and real blood.

you tear him apart, but calmly this time. there is no alcohol in your system, you are not a reckless fifteen year old girl anymore. you are a storm, thundering, intimidating and volatile.

you remind him of that. shove him away from you, against a wall, voice your opinions and tell him to stop acting like a bloody fool. he is your kryptonite, but the nights you let him seep into you and weaken your defences can be counted on one hand in total. you are not here to give him what he wants with ease, you are not easily broken down. your strength is more than skin-deep, it is ingrained because you cannot forget that day when you were fifteen, but you cannot hate him for it either.

this is where you learn to control your weakness.

I think I made a mistake.

one day, you come home from college classes.

your mother is alone in the house, dad is on a business trip and she storms right up to you and yells. yells at you again and again and again.

(why were you with that monster of a boy? didn't i tell you not to talk to him? what did i say? such an ungrateful child. so terrible. wait until your father hears about this)

until you're in tears yelling back, until you're packing bags, until you're storming out screaming about how you'll be back when dad gets home. you throw your stuff into a car (the driveway is lined with so many) and you drive, bunk out in a hotel for a while before you find a place and are handed the key to it. dad calls you, begs you to come back, you say you will, pause, eventually. then you hang-up, you get weekly calls from your mother left on your voice mail and bi-weekly calls from your dad. you almost want to call them back, apologise, say you're sorry and go home.

every. single. time. but you don't, you become stronger with this, learn what real independence is.

this is where you learn to let go.

You may one day look at this as the best thing that happened to you.

one day he tries to talk you into doing what he does.

drugs. law classes tell you it's illegal, it's bad, it's against the law but iggie tells you it's fine, it's safe, don't worry. you don't fall for his flowery words, your moral compass is pre-determined and set.

instead, you gather up what he leaves in your care (no one will suspect a law student, don't worry) and burn it in a garbage can. he comes back for it, angry, yelling like the privileged boy he is and you yell back, tell him how this will be good for him. how it'll be an experience.

he breaks down in your car, withdrawals are scary, but you are not weak, not to this. you buckle him down, race down the street and let the adrenaline fill the emptiness in his stomach. he goes three days before you see him getting high, you slap him, yell at him, lecture him and then stomp the blunt. he doesn't yell at you this time, your eyes are wild.

this is where you learn to get your point across.

You are a miracle.

you hand him a key one day, he asks what's this for and you say, for emergencies.

it's a key to your apartment, sometimes he crashes on the couch, sometimes in your body with you. one time you see him in bed with some random girl and you force them both to get checked for stds and make him wash the sheets with her. needless to say he doesn't do it again. sometimes he smokes in the living room, you prop open a window and inhale the second hand smoke. sometimes you take the blunt and throw it out the window, sometimes you leave him alone.

most of the time you yell, lecture him until he leaves and your apartment is clean. sometimes he brings home cash from who-knows-where and orders something in, sometimes you make something basic and he steals bits and pieces of it before you threaten to stab him with the cleanest fork you have currently available.

this is where you let him into your sanctuary, again.