Bury Me(15)

With a frustrated growl, I turn from the window and give the metal frame of my bed a few good hard kicks. The bed shakes and rattles each time my foot connects with the frame, and after the fourth kick I hear a dull thump from underneath. I immediately put a halt to my temper tantrum and drop down on all fours next to the bed. Lifting the ruffled pink bedskirt with one hand, I peer beneath the bed. Lying in between a few dust bunnies and one stray sock, I see a book that must have been the cause of the noise, falling out of its hiding spot when I took my anger out on my bed. Reaching underneath the bed, I grab the book and pull it toward me, letting the ruffled skirt fall back into place as I hold the book in my hands and sit back on my feet. Skimming my hands over the worn brown leather, I realize it’s a journal and excitement courses through me, even though I don’t recognize the book. Obviously it’s mine since it was hidden under my bed. Cradling the journal to my chest, I scoot backward to the wall directly below the window and lean against it, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting the book on top of them. Flipping open the leather cover, the first few words on the page, written in flowery, cursive script, make me smile.

“The diary of Ravenna Duskin. Keep out!”

The words keep out are underlined three times. Turning over the first page, my smile fades when I’m met with a blank page. I turn to the next page and it’s blank as well. Lifting the book closer to my face to inspect it better, I spread open the binding as wide as I can, my finger tracing down the center of the journal where there are several missing pages, ripped out of the book as close to the bindings as possible so as to leave barely a trace of evidence that they are gone. Shaking my head in annoyance, I quickly flip through the few remaining pages in the book, my frustration growing when I realize I won’t find anything helpful, until I get to the final page in the book. My hand stills on the last page, filled with words from the very top all the way to the bottom. Every space of this page is covered with ink, including the side margins. The words at the top start out very small, almost too small to read, but as they continue down the page, they grow larger, the ink becoming darker and darker as some of the words were traced over multiple times. The pretty, flowing script on the first page doesn’t look like my handwriting, even though I know it must be mine. Running my fingers over the harshly written words on this last page, I know with absolute certainty that these words are mine. This tight, angry block lettering is mine and these words repeated over and over again are mine. I don’t recognize the journal; I don’t remember ever keeping a record of my thoughts and memories, but I must have. The book was in my room, hidden beneath my bed, in a place where only I would find it. My hands shake as I skate my fingers over the words that I feel like are screaming the truth, forcing me to open my eyes and accept the reality that my mind won’t allow.

The secrets are hidden in the walls of this prison. They will destroy you before they set you free.

I slam the book closed, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the words, even though I can see them swirling around behind my eyes, angry and shouting at me to pay attention, to see what’s right in front of me. My bedroom door suddenly flies open, and I quickly toss the journal under my bed and out of sight as my father races over to me, squatting down so we’re at eye-level.

“Ravenna? Is everything okay?”

I focus on the concern in his voice and the worry in his eyes, instead of the words I must have written as a warning to myself before the accident. Why did I write those words repeatedly? What kinds of secrets are hidden in my home?

I look at my father in his perfectly pressed navy blue suit and his slicked-back hair and I wonder what could possibly be so horrible about the truth that someone would want to do me harm to prevent it from coming out.

“Who am I, Daddy?” I whisper brokenly, letting my head thump back against the wall.

I don’t know why I’m even asking this when I know he won’t be honest with me. I’ve been avoiding him ever since I heard him fighting with my mother, afraid of the man who would speak so angrily to his wife and then smack her across the face when she tried to argue with him. Have I ever heard my parents fight before? I wrack my brain trying to dredge up memories from my childhood, but all I can see are those stupid family photos that adorn our living room. I can’t access even one solid memory of the three of us together, behaving like a normal, happy family should. All I can think of is the way my parents have acted ever since I woke up, the way they avoid each other at all costs, and the way they stare at everything in the room but each other when we have dinner together. The only memory that screams in my mind so clearly is the one I recaptured when I saw the photo on our mantel. Why did that photo in particular fill me with such hatred and rage toward my parents?