Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,21

he puffs the words out. "I didn't mean-- I shouldn't have said that. Paula, I'm sorry."

I don't let up. Though I know I can't push past him, I still keep trying until he finally lets me go and I can walk into the bedroom and shut the door. I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe deeply, refusing to cry. My cheeks are hot and swollen, but my eyes are dry.

I don't belong here. I won't survive here. I can't even fight here. Brandon goes to training for hours every day. He could have overpowered me easily if he'd really wanted to. I wouldn't have been able to do much more than the man who got attacked if Brandon had really tried. Even now, there's nothing but a door that doesn't lock between us and only his willingness to give me privacy.

The letter sits on the bedside table. Avoiding it for so long has been the stupidest thing I've probably ever done in my life. I've been stalling, trying to avoid the fact that everything has changed. There is no going back.

I pick up the envelope and slide my finger along the top seam, popping it open with small jerks. The couple sheets of papers I pull out are so small and thin in my hand that it almost feels as if the paper will melt from the heat of my body or the ink disintegrate with my tears.

The paper shakes as I open it. Mom's hand writing, normally neat and large, is now small and mashed together. I have a hard time adjusting to this new version of her handwriting, and so I have to sit and stare at it for a while before I start actually seeing the words.

Dearest, I'm sorry. I keep wanting to find the words to explain, something that will make everything clear, and I don't know what to say. I don't have much time, and what I have to say requires time and space.

I should have told you everything. I should have prepared you. But I had hoped that if I kept you clean, they would at least spare you and only punish me. Of course the best punishment for me is to hurt you.

Henri Smith is your father. He is the leader of a very large and substantial tribe in the south that makes the real people in power here nervous. He'll protect you, and he'll be the one to find you a place there where hopefully you can be happy. Trust him.

I don't know how long I'm going to be here, or what's going to happen. But we have to do the best we can. Please try. For me. And I will do what I can for you. Maybe someday we can be together again.

As soon as I reach the last line-- a blatant lie-- I fold the paper up again neatly and put it on top of the envelope that sits on the table. I don't lie down. I just sit still and stare at the letter.

Maybe there's some part of her that believes it. Maybe there is hope. Or maybe we just need that illusion to keep going, and so that's part of her last gift to me. An illusion that will possibly keep me going and doing what I have to in order to adapt and survive.

I don't move for a long time. I don't cry either. I just stare at the blank wall while sitting on Brandon's bed. The light in the room shifts, lengthening the shadows of the old bed posts as the sun works itself past noon.

Things are quiet in the living room. I glance towards the door and listen for sounds of Brandon in the kitchen, but there's nothing. Suddenly I feel very alone.

I get up and open the bedroom door. There's no use peeking if he is out here; I'll just feel silly. But he's not. The living room is empty. On the counter there's a sandwich on a plate left for me. The other plate is cleaned and drying next to the sink. My throat tightens. He didn't have to. I didn't ask him to. He could have just left me nothing.

I sit down to eat the sandwich at the table, taking small bites of the soft bread I watched him make just the other day. I'm not hungry but I eat it anyway because Brandon made it for me. These things don't keep and he's sharing his resources.

This world scares