Bury Me(28)

For the first time since I can remember, my mother looks old and tired. She looks every bit of her forty years of age, possibly even older than that if I stare at her long enough.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, even though it’s glaringly obvious something is wrong with her.

“I’m fine, just feeling under the weather,” my mother answers, still not making eye contact.

My dreams last night were filled with pain and hurtful words, scathing looks, disappointment, and outright hatred with flashes of my parents’ faces aiming all of this unkindness right at me, their daughter. I can’t ignore that and I can’t just push aside what I feel deep down inside: that all of this is wrong. My life, my actions, my past…my entire being feels wrong and I know it all started the morning I woke up, disoriented and confused. A minor head injury with sporadic memory loss shouldn’t make me feel like a completely different person than who I’m supposed to be.

I realize as I stare at my mother that I’m not concerned about her well-being in the least. I’m not worried about her nor do I even care what’s going on with her. The only reason I asked if something was wrong is because the silence was getting on my nerves, and I had to say something. I know it’s mean and heartless that I don’t care about my own mother, but sitting here looking at her, I feel like something shifted inside of me last night and I didn’t even fully realize it until just now. Staring at this woman standing in my doorway, I feel nothing but hatred. It’s come and gone at different times over the last week and it’s always made me feel guilty and ashamed, but not now. I don’t even have the desire to try and push it away this time. Just like swimming, it feels right and like something I’ve always done. It feels natural to detest this woman and it makes me feel good. I welcome the anger and the hatred. I crave it, feed off of it, and I’m no longer scared of these feelings.

I barely hear her answer because my mind is occupied with other things. The overwhelming animosity I finally allow to break free and take over, instead of trying to suppress it, makes me feel alive. It makes me want to take it and run with it, revel in it, punish the ones who have hurt me and make them pay. I’m filled with anger and hate; it lives inside of me and I love it. I have always loved it and I’ve never been ashamed, no matter who tried to make me think otherwise.

“I’m doing this for your own good. It will all be over soon.”

My hands clench into fists in my lap, and my fingernails dig painfully into my palms as I imagine what it would be like to punch my mother in the face: the feel of the bones in her nose snapping beneath my knuckles, bright red blood dripping down over her lips and off of her chin. I smile to myself, imagining the feel of that warm, wet liquid dripping down my hands.

I went into the water last night a confused girl who refused to believe the memories that completely differed from everything I’ve been told about myself. I came out of the water a fighter, letting go of the girl they want me to be because she’s dead. She doesn’t exist and I’m not sure if she ever did. That cool lake water cleansed me of all my doubt and insecurities. It baptized me anew, and I am never going back.

“You are bad. Bad, bad, bad.”

Dr. Beall’s footsteps pound up the stairs, and my mother leaves the room without a word.

“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old, I live in a prison, and I’m a very bad girl.”





Chapter 11





“The cut on your head seems to be healing very nicely. How are you sleeping at night? How are the headaches?” Dr. Beall asks as he presses his thumbs gently under my eye and pulls the skin down to look deeper into them.

“I’m sleeping just fine and the headaches are long gone,” I tell him with a cheerful smile as he drops his hands from my face and leans back from me.

“Good, very good, Ravenna. Your father tells me you’ve been acting a little strangely the last few days. Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile drops from my face and I narrow my eyes at the older man seated on the bed next to me. My father won’t speak to me about my behavior, but he’ll run his mouth to a virtual stranger.

“I’m missing large chunks of my memory—of course I’m acting strange,” I tell him in annoyance. “My father seems to think lying to me about everything is the solution to the problem, and I think otherwise.”

“If you’re still missing pieces of your memories, how do you know your father is lying to you?” he asks calmly, crossing his legs and clasping his hands around his knee.