Bury Me(8)

Still, Gallow’s Hill remained our own private town, so to speak, and we have everything we need to survive here, leaving little need or want for us to ever leave. Aside from the tours and random charity events held here, our family keeps to themselves for the most part.

Walking in a circle around the living room, I stare at photos of our family that hang on the walls. There are smiles on our faces in each photo, but none of them seem real. None of those smiles reach our eyes, and it makes me wonder just how happy we really could have been living here all these years alone, so far from the closest town and so far from other people. I was homeschooled until high school when my mother thought it was a good idea that I meet other kids and get away from the seclusion of the prison. I only had Trudy as a friend for so long because her father used to work here as a guard-turned-tour guide. My mother made friends with Mrs. Marshall when she would bring her husband his lunch back then, and since they both had daughters the same age, and my mother finally found someone she had something in common with, we all became friends.

I stop in front of a framed photo resting on the mantel of the small stone fireplace in the corner of the room. It’s a black and white photo of my parents and I, taken when I was five years old. It’s the only photo in the room where none of us have fake smiles on our faces. I’m staring off at something in the distance, not even looking at the camera. My father looks stern and rigid, and my mother looks like a strong wind will knock her over. Her face is gaunt and the area around her eyes is puffy. If the photo were in color, I’m wondering if I would see redness around her eyes from crying. I don’t understand why this photo, so depressing and unlike the rest in the room, is sitting on the mantel on display for everyone to see each time they walk into this room. I know I was only five when this photo was taken, but I can remember that day very clearly in my head. A storm was coming and there were dark clouds overhead. I was angry at the time, filled with rage that a normal five-year-old should never feel. I can hear myself screaming at someone, strong arms wrapped around my small body, dragging me into the picture as I kicked and clawed and tried to get away. I hated everyone around me, and I hated being forced to do something I didn’t want to do. The rage and the unhappiness flow through me as I stare at the photo, and I want to rip it down from the mantel, throw it to the floor and smash it into a thousand pieces. I want to stomp my feet on top of the photo and grind the shards of glass into my parents’ faces until they are scratched and distorted and ruined.

I want to ruin them the same way they ruined me.

My hands shake with anger as I lift my arm toward the photo. I see splotches of red at the edges of my vision as my hand wraps around the metal frame, and I grip it so hard my knuckles turn white.

“So you ARE alive.”

I jump, letting go of the photo guiltily when a voice penetrates the fog of my memories. Quickly turning around, I see Trudy standing at the top of the stairs wearing a pair of bell-bottom jeans and a frilly pink button-down shirt.

“Why wouldn’t I be alive?” I ask her in confusion.

She laughs and rolls her eyes at me, moving farther into the room to flop down on the couch, pulling her feet under her legs.

“It was a joke, Ravenna, lighten up,” she says with another laugh. “I haven’t seen you in three days, and every time I’ve called to check up on you and ask about coming over, your father has practically bitten my head off and told me to stay away.”

Moving away from the fireplace, I take a seat next to her on the couch.

“I thought maybe you died or something, and your family was trying to keep it a secret,” she says with another laugh.

I’m not really sure why the idea that I might have died and my family tried to cover it up is funny, but before I can ask about that, something she said hits me like a brick.

“You said you haven’t seen me in three days. So you saw me the day I got hurt? You were here?” I question.

If Trudy was here that day, she knows something. She’ll be able to fill in the missing pieces so my brain doesn’t feel like Swiss cheese.

Trudy stares at me for a few minutes, and her mouth drops open in shock.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. I thought your mom was kidding when she told me you didn’t remember anything when she let me in downstairs. You really don’t remember what happened?”

I feel embarrassment heat up my face and I shake my head.

Trudy whistles and cocks her head to the side as she studies me. “So weird. You look like crap, by the way.”