Bury Me(4)

“You should watch where you’re going, Ravenna. You can’t afford any more accidents.”

I feel my face heat at his words and know my pale skin is turning red. He obviously knows who I am, but the angry look on his face as he glares at me makes me wonder if it’s a good idea for me to know him.

My heart starts beating rapidly as he continues to stare at me without saying another word. I feel a shiver run through my body and goose bumps break out on my arms. All the things I was supposed to feel over in the cell block have suddenly manifested just from the look this guy is giving me, and I’m frozen in fear. The bump on my head suddenly starts to ache and I have a quick image of running through the woods in the middle of the night, covered in rain and mud. I gasp out loud, but just as soon as I try to reach into my mind to grab more of the memory, it disappears in a flash and my brain shuts down.

“Nolan, what are you doing in here?”

I jump when I hear my father’s angry voice behind me and pull my gaze away from the man in front of me to turn my head. My father stands in the hallway with his hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Just bringing in some fresh flowers, like you asked. There’s a vase next to the register in the gift shop and one in the artifact room.”

My father nods, folding his arms in front of him. “Then there’s no need for you to be dallying inside. The grounds around the lake need to be mowed today.”

Nolan’s arm brushes against mine as he moves around me to head toward my father, bringing forth a whole new round of goose bumps. My father steps out of the way to let him exit through the huge twelve-foot-tall wooden door that leads outside. They share a quiet look as Nolan passes, stepping out onto the front porch before the heavy door slams closed.

When we’re alone in the hallway, my father sighs deeply before turning to look at me.

“Who was that guy?” I ask, rubbing the coldness from my arms.

“You don’t remember Nolan?”

I shake my head and my father shoves his hands into the front pockets of his black suit pants, his face displaying a flash of relief at my reply, which makes me want to ask a hundred questions. All of which I’m sure won’t be answered in the way I need.

“That’s just as well you don’t remember. His name is Nolan Michaels and he’s been a groundskeeper here for almost two years. He has some…issues, and you’ve always been very good at listening to me when I’ve told you to stay away from him. I trust you’ll keep that in mind while you’re recovering?”

He makes it sound like he’s asking, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s just doing it to be polite and this is a command I should heed. I don’t really appreciate being told who I can and can’t talk to, especially when I have so many questions and so many holes in my memory that neither he nor my mother is willing to fill with anything useful. If Nolan has known me for two years, even if I was never allowed to associate with him, he’s got to know something about what happened.

According to the doctor, my parents being vague and not filling my head with their opinions about what happened will help me come to the truth on my own. It’s like pulling teeth to get either one of them to disclose information to me so the idea that there might be an outside party who can shed some light on things fills me with excitement, even if my first instinct with Nolan was to run the other way.

The doorbell chimes through the hallway, indicating the first of the tourists have arrived. With my piercing headache growing stronger the longer I try to make sense of things in my head, I turn and unhook the heavy satin rope blocking the stairs that lead up to our living quarters, quickly reattaching it and racing up the stairs as loud voices fill the hallway while my father greets the tour group.

At the top of the stairs, I walk through the living room, glancing around at the five outer rooms that surround this central location—my parents’ bedroom, my father’s office, a kitchen, spare bedroom and finally, my room. Standing in the doorway of my room, I stare at the pink blanket draped over my bed and the pink paint covering my walls. I lift my chin in determination, stomp over to my bed and rip the blanket from the top. I do the same with the matching sheets and pillowcases until there’s a large pile of cotton-blend bedding in the corner of my bedroom that resembles a fluffy pink cloud. I hate the color pink, but going by what my mother has told me, and the cotton-candy hue everywhere I look, it’s been my favorite color since I was born.