Bury Me(59)

Bringing my hand up in front of my face, I stare at the small drops of blood that stain my fingertips, resisting the urge to lick them clean. Instead, I rub my fingers together and let it smear, the tension slowly leaving my shoulders.

I let out a slow, relaxing breath, forcing myself to calm down before I make a mistake, and Nolan leaves in disgust or fear. As much as I didn’t want him down here a few moments ago, I’m glad he’s here now. It’s time for him to see who I really am.

“When this was a working prison, this entire area was used for solitary confinement,” I explain to Nolan, speaking softly as I begin walking again, moving slowly, deeper into the basement.

Talking puts a stop to the memories, but I’m okay with that for the time being. Too many thoughts and feelings are at war inside of me and I need a moment to quiet my mind before it all becomes too much for me to handle. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between wanting to know everything and suddenly scared to death it’ll destroy what’s left of my soul when I finally remember it all. I hate being afraid. I refuse to be afraid, and after everything I’ve learned about my life so far, I know that nothing can break me. I let my knowledge about the prison and random facts roll easily off my tongue, giving me time to push aside my fear.

“It used to be sectioned off with six-by-eight foot cells made out of chain-link fence that stretched from floor to ceiling, but due to a busted pipe a few years ago, most of the cages were removed so the workers could move around easier to fix what was broken,” I tell him in a monotone voice, stopping in front of one of those cells. “Now it’s just one wide open, empty space with the original stone floor and crumbling stone walls, with just this one cage left for the tours.”

“I feel like all we talk about is my life. You know everything about me now, including my favorite color, what I eat every day, and a bunch of other useless facts. Why don’t we ever talk about you?”

“Believe me, your life is much more interesting than mine. If I told you about my life, you’d probably have nightmares. If you don’t want to talk about yourself anymore, let’s talk about this creepy prison. I know a few things, but I’m sure you have a bunch of good stories I haven’t heard.”

I pause in the middle of my explanation to Nolan when another memory I couldn’t stop hits me. I can see myself sitting on the pink comforter in that awful pink room but once again, I don’t know who I’m talking to, and I can’t remember which part of that conversation was mine and which was someone else’s.

“They were like animals in cages down here,” Nolan mutters, pulling me away from my thoughts as he stares at the cage in front of us.

“Pretty much,” I agree, continuing on with my story. “But you have to remember, these were for the worst of the worst. The ones who started prison riots, killed other inmates or even guards. Their punishment was being cast off into the basement, where there aren’t any windows to let in sunlight and no privacy whatsoever. They lost all sense of time because it was always dark, and many of them went completely insane if they were down here for a long time. They didn’t even have beds; they had to sleep on the ground. The guards back then needed to make it so awful that the men would think twice about doing anything bad again because the punishment was so severe.”

“I wouldn’t have to do this to you if you’d just stop being bad.”

“This will only hurt for a minute. If you’re a good girl, I’ll tell you more stories about the place where you were born.”

My chilled skin suddenly heats up like I walked into blazing inferno. My head starts to pound with a piercing headache, and even the solitary bulb that barely gives off enough light to see more than a few feet in front of us is suddenly too bright for my eyes. I squeeze them closed and press my hands to either side of my head, wanting nothing more than to make the pain go away.

This memory decides to give me everything, and I can see an older man leaning over me as he straps me to a table. His hair is the color of salt and pepper, neatly trimmed and slicked back off of his forehead. He’s wearing a dress shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck, and I stare at the old, wrinkly extra skin that spills out from the tight collar of his shirt, dreaming about the day when I’m older and stronger and can slice it off with a knife. I hate him. I dream every day about killing him, and I know immediately who he is, realizing now why as soon as I heard his name from Dr. Beall, all my memories of pain were associated with him.