Bury Me(7)

“She’s been so worried about you,” my mother continues. “She wanted to come sooner but your father wouldn’t let anyone visit for a few days so you could rest. Why don’t you put on a nice dress and I’ll make the two of you some fresh lemonade and sandwiches for lunch?”

I nod distractedly as she gently closes the door behind her and leaves me alone.

I should be excited that someone is coming to visit after feeling so alone the last few days, but something about Trudy leaves me feeling strangely angry about seeing her. My mind is at war with the facts about her that are engrained into my head and a fleeting thought that there’s a reason I don’t like her. Just like every other thought in my head, it doesn’t stick around long enough for me to grab onto and examine it.

Scrubbing my palms up and down my face in frustration, I sigh loudly and walk over to my closet to find something to wear. The metallic screech of the hangers, sliding across the clothing rod as I flip through one ugly dress after another, fills the room. Half of the dresses are different shades of pink, the other half are varying pastels; they are all boring and more fit for a fifty-year-old woman than a teenager. Yanking the least offending one off of the hanger before I try to find a pair of scissors and cut everything in this closet to shreds, I hold the pale yellow dress up in front of me and glare at it. With a defeated shake of my head, I drop my towel and begin getting dressed.

When I woke up in this room three days ago, I felt like I didn’t belong in it, even though the room was familiar and I knew it was mine. I stared at my mother and father standing by my bedside with worried looks on their faces and even though I knew who they were, deep down inside they felt like strangers. When the doctor asked me what year it was, I knew it was 1965. I knew I was eighteen and I knew before I looked in the mirror that I had long black hair, green eyes, and a slim build. I knew the answer to every question he asked me about the prison and my parents, but I faltered when asked about the gash on my head and the scratches and bruises on my arms. When I started to panic and demand answers about what happened to me, I was told not to worry and that the important thing was that I was safe and my injuries would heal. No one seemed to understand that I didn’t care about the superficial cuts on my arms, the scrapes on my legs, and the bump on my head. I knew those would heal in time. What I cared about, what no one seemed to be in a hurry to help me with, was the injury inside my own mind.

I keep telling myself it’s only been three days. Three short days after something happened to me that no one wanted to talk about. A part of me wonders if everyone around me is lying and they know what happened. That it’s so horrific I’m better off not knowing. I know it’s supposed to take time and three days isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but as each day passes, I get more and more confused and feel like everything I know is a lie. Nothing is falling into place and everything feels wrong.

It’s hard to believe that three days ago, in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm, I was out in the woods at the edge of the property alone. My parents say they don’t know why I was out there. They don’t know what happened that caused me to get hurt and forget bits and pieces of my memories. I’m a good girl, they tell me. I’m a proper girl who wears proper dresses, and a proper hairstyle, but a good girl doesn’t go wandering alone in the woods at night unless she’s asking for trouble.

A good girl doesn’t think of harming her mother.

A good girl doesn’t want to rip the perfectly constructed braid from her head and scream at the reflection in the mirror.

A good girl doesn’t want to slash all of the clothes in her closet because they look nothing like something she would ever wear.

“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison,” I recite to myself as I slip on a pair of shoes and head out of my bedroom.





Chapter 3





Our living quarters at Gallow’s Hill are pretty small compared to a normal home, but in the grand scheme of things, the entire six-building facility and the 150 acres surrounding it are technically considered our home as well and this small area is only where we eat and sleep. It’s like living in our own little town.

The living room and four rooms attached have been here since the building was first constructed. Wardens and their families always lived on-site of the prison due to the fact of it being located so far from any major city or town. Back in the early days when there weren’t any cars or other faster means of transportation, if an emergency at the prison arose in the middle of the night, it was easier to have the warden here at all times to attend to it, instead of waiting for the time it would take to get him here. In the early days, guards and other employees were tasked with making sure the warden’s family had everything they needed to live comfortably, so the family never had to leave for such things as groceries or other supplies. For the first few years of my life when Gallow’s Hill was still a working prison, my father would send the guards out for birthday decorations, Christmas presents, school supplies, and anything else we ever wanted or needed. It was like having our own personal butlers to do our bidding and we became very spoiled. After the prison closed its doors and was turned into a historical building, we no longer had anyone to wait on us hand and foot and my mother was put in charge of running all the errands? and then it fell to me when I was able to drive.