Bury Me(27)

There are still so many unanswered questions, but I’m finished trying to make myself believe that my dreams and memories can’t possibly be real because they don’t make sense. I’m no longer scared of the images and memories that flash through my mind—I crave them. They are the missing pieces, and I know they will all click into place.

After I finish wiping the stairs and the floor, I climb into bed and wince when I flop onto my back. The excitement of realizing I can swim overshadowed the fact that I was pushed into the lake. I didn’t imagine the hard shove against my back, and the soreness I currently feel in the center of my spine as I gingerly turn onto my side proves it. Lying here in bed, I think it’s pretty telling that my first instinct wasn’t to go running to my parents; it was to hide the evidence. The truth of the matter is that I don’t trust them. They haven’t gone out of their way to figure out what happened to me in the woods, so why would they behave any differently if I told them someone tried to drown me? They would probably tell me I imagined it, remind me my head still isn’t quite right, and I should get some more rest and forget all about it.

I should probably be scared that someone was outside in the middle of the night watching me, snuck up behind me, and shoved me into the water. Maybe the culprit is still out there, waiting for another chance to get me alone.

Or maybe the person is right here, under the same roof with me. That thought should petrify me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it fills me with anger and determination. I’m not afraid…I’m pissed. Furious that someone thinks I’m weak and won’t fight back. Livid that I’m supposed to just accept the lies I’m told as the truth and not question what I feel. Irate that twice now, someone has tried to hurt me and I have no idea who or why.

I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, welcoming the dreams that show me who I really am, letting go of my refusal to believe them.

*

Running a brush through my high ponytail, I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My mother has no idea I took a pair of scissors to one of my nightgowns and a pair of jeans. She has no idea I walked outside and spoke to Nolan without a bra under the flimsy top and my hair a wild mess around my shoulders. As much as I want to walk around here and flaunt it in my parents’ faces that I am not going to cower to them and that I refuse to just accept the things they tell me, I’m not going to just yet. That clothing, along with having my hair wild and free, is one of the few things in my life that feels right. As much as I feel better to dress and look like that and as much as it finally makes me feel like me, instead of my parents’ puppet, I’m not ready to share it with them unless they do something to prove to me without a shadow of a doubt that I can trust them. I don’t want them ruining the only thing that makes me feel normal instead of crazy, by taking one look at me and then feeding me more lies about good girls and proper ladies and all the other crap that makes me want to hate them. For now, I’ll put on their stupid dresses, and I’ll pull my hair back from my face to keep them off my back, even if looking like this makes me miserable.

My parents have their own secrets, and now so do I. Somewhere along the line, I learned how to swim and there has to be a reason why they don’t know. Until I have all of the answers, there’s no point in sharing anything with them.

A soft knock sounds at my door and I set my brush down before moving to my bed and taking a seat on the edge.

“Come in.”

The door opens and my mother steps in, staring down at the floor instead of at me.

“Dr. Beall is here for your check-up,” she tells me in a dull monotone voice. “He’ll be up soon; he’s chatting with your father right now.”

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t come near me for her usual pat on the head, and doesn’t flutter about my room, picking up things and putting them away. She also doesn’t fill the awkward silence, while we wait for Dr. Beall to make his way up the staircase, with useless, happy chatter about the weather and what her plans are for the day, or suggestions for things I could do to keep me busy. She’s been so over the top with her cheerfulness and doing whatever she can to pretend that what happened in this room the other day never occurred that I’ve gotten used to it, and it comes as a complete shock to see her like this. I don’t remember ever seeing her without makeup, but it’s obvious she isn’t wearing any now. I can see the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, and the wrinkles and blemishes that are no longer hidden with her usual thick layer of pan-cake foundation.