More Than Him Read online

  So, of course Jamal gets up in my shit to help him find a way to pay him back.

  We waited until he was in the shower—one of those open shower stalls, like they have at public pools. Anyway, Manny faced the back of the stall where the shower head was, washing his face, shaking his ass and singing ‘Wrecking Ball’ by Miley Cyrus. I had Jamal's cell phone in hand, filming. Jamal was standing behind him with a full bottle of shampoo . . . We waited for him to start washing his hair, then when he was under the spray washing it out, Jamal squirted more shampoo in there. After a couple of minutes, Manny started getting pissed because he couldn't fucking get rid of the suds. In fact, it was getting worse. His eyes were closed the entire time while Jamal and I tried to contain our laughter. Fuck, we're assholes. Manny was cussing and spinning around in circles, blind as shit because the excessive shampoo was getting in his eyes. After a good five minutes of me filming and Manny losing his shit, Jamal finally spoke up, only he yelled, scaring the shit out of the still-blind Manny. Jamal went right up to Manny's ear, who was of course, clueless, and at the top of his lungs, yelled I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BAAAALLLLLL!!!

  So fucking funny.

  Manny eyes snapped open and he started chasing Jamal around the campsite, barefoot, bare-ass naked. Dick swinging from side to side. He didn't even hear me laughing, or see me filming it all. Once they were out of filming view, I uploaded the video to YouTube and Jamal's Facebook and tagged Manny in it.

  Manny had no idea until his mom called him.

  Good fucking times.

  I wish I could call Amanda and tell her the story. She would've loved it. I could imagine her face as I told her. That slow smile build-up. The low laugh that turns to something so much bigger. I can imagine her head thrown back, her hand on her stomach. She used to do that when I made her laugh too much. Then, when it was over, she'd sigh, almost like she was thankful for that moment.

  Fuck, I miss her. So damn bad.

  *

  September 24th.

  Today has a date. Today deserves a date.

  Amanda turns twenty-one today.

  I’d planned to take her and Ethan to Vegas. I wonder what they're doing.

  She's probably moved on. Has a boyfriend or whatever. He probably thinks he loves her more than anyone's ever loved her. He's fucking wrong. No one could love her as much as I do.

  I was so out of it today, Manny told me to take the day off.

  Valid.

  Now I'm sitting alone on this stupid bed feeling sorry for myself, as if I don't deserve to feel like this.

  I picked up my phone a thousand times to call her. I have her number saved. I changed my cell at the airport before I got here. I thought that maybe she'd call and ask me to come back, and I wouldn't be able to say no.

  I gave in and actually called her. She answered. I heard her voice. She just kept saying hello. I didn't speak. I hoped maybe she'd know it was me without me having to say anything. Maybe she'd know I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. After a few seconds, I heard a guy’s voice. She told him to wait, and said hello a few more times. I still didn't say shit. I swear to God she whispered my name.

  I hung up and called Jake.

  He asked if I was okay. I told him I wasn't. He knew it was her birthday. He said that Micky was Facebook friends with her, and that it alerted her, but they weren't speaking yet. Amanda's wishes. From what he knew, she was okay. That was as much as he could tell me. I asked him to get Micky to email me that picture of her—the one from my desk. I hung up, and a minute later I got the email.

  I stared at it for five hours.

  Then I figured I should do something else to stop me from going crazy. I picked up one of Jamal's self-help books.

  That's where I found this: Transit umbra, lux permanet.

  How fitting.

  Diary, no one else will understand this, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. When I started planning the Vegas trip, a part of me hoped that she'd think I wanted to take her there to get married. I would have. Married her, I mean. People might not have understood. People might have hated the choice we made or be upset we didn't do it properly. But she was my person. Nothing else mattered. Not back then. Now everything matters.

  Because I was the match that started the inferno.

  *

  Seventeen weeks post Amanda.

  Nightmare count: too fucking many.

  Manny seems to think I'm getting better. I don't know. Maybe I am. Or maybe I've just gotten better at faking it.

  *

  Eighteen weeks post Amanda.

  The worst day of my life was my twenty-first birthday.

  The second worst day is today.

  Today, a woman came in carrying a little girl in her arms. There was blood all over them. Especially in between their legs. A boy walked in behind them. They were all beaten and bruised, barely recognizable. But I knew who the girl was right away. Amuhda. Her mom and her had been beaten and raped. Raped. What the fuck is wrong with this world?

  The little boy, barely able to stand upright, held Amuhda's hand while we tried to stop the bleeding. The entire time we worked on her, he stood by her head, whispering things in her ear.

  I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to go back home and fall asleep with Amanda in my arms and tell her how much I love her. I wanted to hear her laugh, snort, cry, yell, anything. I just wanted her.

  Last night I dreamt of her. No shitty nightmares. Just her. She told me she loved me. It felt so real, I think my heart actually broke when I realized it wasn't. All damn day I'd heard her voice in my head. I love you so much, Logan. That's what she kept saying—in my head—over and over again.

  Maybe it was my punishment. Like Karma. Here—have this moment with the girl you love, and the words you've always wanted to hear—and then watch as a mother and her kids almost die on a table battling monsters.

  Fucking monsters.

  I can't sleep.

  The ache in my chest prevents it.

  *

  20 weeks post Amanda.

  I still can't sleep. Lie. I can sleep. I just don't want to. Every time I close my eyes, there's monsters. Only this time, they're not just mine; they're Amuhda's too.

  I know I look like shit. Manny's starting to worry. He says he's calling my dad. I told him to fuck off, then apologized, blaming it all on the lack of sleep.

  Two days ago, I realized I hadn't showered for five days. I still had blood under my fingernails. Good times.

  Diary, you're a fucking asshole, you don't do shit to help me. No one does shit to help me. What's wrong with me?

  My real name is Logan Declan Strauss. Did you know that, diary? Did you?

  *

  Twenty-one weeks post Amanda.

  The last three nights I've had the nightmares. I wake up, screaming in a pool of sweat. Last night I pissed the bed. Jamal's worried, threatens to tell Manny. I'm not dealing with that shit. It was just a nightmare.

  I got locked in a cupboard for my sixth birthday. I think it was for three days. I remember my parents' high-fiving each other; apparently it was a new record. I stopped crying after the first day. After I worked out that me crying made it worse. Funny, how six year olds work that shit out.

  I shared a birthday with this kid in my class. I can't for the fucking life of me remember his name. But I remember him coming to school with a new Gameboy and flashy clothes. I came to school with an eye patch and a bruised back. My mom told the teachers I was going through a pirate phase. My mom was a smartass.

  *

  Still twenty-one weeks post Amanda.

  Location: I don't know.

  Nightmares: Even when I'm not sleeping.

  Dear Diary,

  Manny called my Dad and told him that I needed help. We played two truths for fifteen for three hours. I miss him. Almost as much as Amanda. I told him that. He said he knew. He missed me, too. I needed to hear it. Dad told me to come home. What
the hell good would I be there? But then again, what the hell good am I here? Manny talked to him afterwards and offered a solution, a deal of sorts.

  Xanax.

  Six weeks.

  Then I'd come home.

  Or—I could go home now.

  I chose Xanax.

  Whatever.

  Nothing was waiting for me there.

  *

  Twenty-two weeks post Amanda.

  Xanax.

  Treatment for anxiety.

  I admit, I needed it.

  Dad calls almost every day. He says he can already hear the change in me. It's only been a week, but it doesn't surprise me, he knows me better than I fake it.

  The nightmares are still there, but I don't panic when I have them. It's almost like they're dulled down. I've only dreamed about Amuhda once. She's healing well, just FYI.

  I've been on very light duties here, but Manny thinks I should maybe go into town and start pushing paper, go back to the admin side, just until I get my shit together. There's still a medic site there, but it's closer to facilities so it makes it easier. He says he won't strip me completely of the medical side; I'm here to learn, after all.

  Manny—he's an asshole, but he cares. He cares more than he probably should.

  *

  Twenty-four weeks post Amanda.

  The Xanax helps. A lot.

  I moved to the admin camp.

  The dreams are less frequent, but there are other side effects I'm hoping will pass. I've been told Amuhda is recovering well, at least there's that. Things are a lot less hectic here. I feel like I'm not doing enough, but I know that it's probably all I'm capable of at the moment.

  A new girl started today. She has an accent, from what I've heard of her speak. She hasn't introduced herself yet, but I've caught her looking over at me a few times. She seems nice enough.

  *

  Twenty-five weeks post Amanda.

  I helped deliver a miracle today.

  I swear to God, this place . . . I don't know. There are so many emotions that come with being here. So much sadness and heartache, and then this happens. I get to hold a brand new life. Rebekah, the girl I wrote about earlier, she was there, too. I think our smiles matched each other's. What an experience.

  She came into my room afterwards, her smile still huge. We talked about it for a bit. She's from France. She sat on the bed next to me. I freaked out, jumped up, and moved as far away from her as possible. Is that weird? I think it's weird. I just didn't want her to get the wrong idea. Plus, I kind of just wanted that time afterwards to think about Amanda. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her all about it. I wanted to encourage her to follow that path, but then I thought about it some more . . . And really? Who the fuck was I to encourage her to do anything?

  Nightmare count: too many.

  Flashback count: too many.

  Dreams about Amanda: not enough.

  I look at her picture too long, too often.

  I wonder if she's forgotten about me completely.

  *

  Twenty-eight weeks post Amanda.

  I got a paid position here. I applied for anything and everything, and I got one. I wasn't ready to leave. Or maybe it was that I wasn't ready to go home. They're two completely different things.

  I'm a coward. But I'm also realistic. I just wasn't ready. Dad was not happy.

  A psychologist came to camp today, hired by Doctors Without Borders, to make sure we're all mentally stable. I was with him for two hours. I'd gotten used to the whole talking and listening, and back and forth that comes with those meetings from when I was a kid. I'm not a kid anymore, but it's all the same.

  He said I had PTSD.

  I couldn't argue with him.

  I knew it was something similar.

  I begged Dad to let me go home after what happened the night of my birthday. I didn't want to stay in the hospital. Not with her there, and me not being able to do anything about her state. I was bad, but nothing that bed rest and decent painkillers couldn't fix. The beating I could take—it was what happened to Amanda that I couldn't deal with.

  That first night I came home, I had the first of many nightmares. This one wasn't really a nightmare, though; it was just a replay of what had happened that night. The vision was so raw, so real, it hurt just as much as it did the first time. Then something happened, I'm not entirely sure what, but it was like I reverted back to the seven-year-old me. I think it was my way of dealing with it. I didn't want anyone asking questions, and I didn't want to offer anything.

  Truth is, I know it was my fault. First, the shit that happened that summer with her. And then that. How could it not be my fault? How can anyone ever say that if she hadn't have met me, if she wasn't part of my life, that that shit still would have happened? No fucking chance.

  I switched my phone off and refused to answer the door. I know Jake was there a few times, and even Cameron and Lucy, but they knocked a couple times and left. That was it.

  Dad came in and told me that she'd been released a few days later, and everything was fine. Of course, I didn't say anything. I laugh about it now, because it seems so pathetic, but I hid out in the darkness of my closet. I had no idea why until I told the psychologist today. He thought it was my way of punishing myself, like they used to when I was a kid.

  It makes sense.

  After the fifth day, Dad told me about how he went to 'find himself' after Tina, his high school sweetheart died. He said he gave himself six months to sort his shit out, and then he'd come home. He said it helped him. It even motivated him to make the most of his life, with or without her. I wanted that. I wanted that reassurance that I'd still be able to live a normal life without her. He offered me the same thing. Six months. No more.

  I agreed.

  He made the plans.

  All without me saying a word.

  Then Amanda showed up.

  Diary, I'm going to skip the part where my heart breaks, because there are no words.

  I almost stayed. I almost took the few steps it would have taken to have her in my arms and fake that everything was okay.

  Then I remembered what I’d caused. I remembered the first thought I had when I decided to leave her there in that hospital. What if I leave and her life is better? Like my asshole parents left me, and my dad came along. He gave me this life, gave me a home, and somehow, made me feel worthy of it.

  What if someone else offered her that? Some other guy she meets a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? What if he could give her the world, and all I could give her was a broken heart, and a broken arm? Then what?

  I told her I loved her. She needed to know.

  And then I left.

  *

  Thirty-two weeks post Amanda.

  I've been MIA, and for that, I'm sorry, Diary. Truth is, I've been doing better. The meds help.

  I wrote to her. It took all the courage in me to actually send it. I wonder if she burned it. I probably would have.

  *

  Thirty-five weeks post Amanda.

  Rebekah, that girl from France that I wrote about before, she tried to kiss me. I pulled back so fast I think I scared her. She said she didn't know I was with someone. I told her I wasn't. Not really. But then again, really. Does that make sense?

  She said even if they didn't know it, or I didn't know it, my heart belonged to her.

  'Tell me about her' she said.

  So I did.

  Not all of it. Just the good stuff. It felt nice to talk about her. To remember her the way I wanted.

  When Rebekah left, my thoughts were still on Amanda. I always thought about her.

  *

  Thirty-eight weeks post Amanda.

  Jamal and Manny organized for me to come back to medic camp, just for a few days. I was excited to see them again. But what was even more exciting is why they asked me to come back.

  A fully recovered Amuhda waited for me.

  Call me a pussy, but she was a sight for s
ore eyes. I admit, I cried.

  ‘Hello Mr. Loma,’ she’d said, with the quietest, softest voice I'd ever heard.

  I smiled huge. First time I'd smiled like that since leaving Amanda. She had to have a translator, but we talked for a bit. She said I was handsome, and that I was her prince. I was no one’s prince, but I'd let her call me whatever she wanted. Then she asked me if I would marry her. Poor girl. I told her I couldn't. I said my heart belonged to another girl. Her name was Amanda. She found that hysterical. Amanda and Amuhda. I loved her laugh. She held her stomach just like Amanda does.

  Diary, I know you're sick of hearing this. But I miss her.

  Nightmares: getting better.

  Dreams about Amanda: Too many. And they're all so, so good, that it hurts so, so bad.

  *

  Forty-three weeks post Amanda.

  Dear Diary,

  It took forty-three weeks, but guess what? I think I'm healing. Being here has opened my eyes to so many things, and even though I didn't travel so much, I saw the world. I saw what I needed to, and that was enough. I've learnt to control my anxiety when necessary, but honestly, it's gotten a lot better—to the point where I can go a day or so without flashbacks. The heart palpitations are few and far between, the shakes . . . they're there, but it's better than screaming and pissing my bed at night.

  When I was kid, I used to always find it odd when bullies made fun of other kids and asked them to go cry to their mommy. I remember wondering if they knew that some kid's moms were the cause of their cries, not the other way around.