by L V Chase
Hate to Remember
Marshall High Society Book One
L.V. Chase
Copyright © 2020 by L.V. Chase
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to names, characters, businesses, events, incidents, and locations are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
About the Author
1
Sadie
It’s the last night.
We’re in hiding, but the sound of the hitch of his breath in my ear, the heat of his hand against the curve of my thigh, and the way his chest rises and falls underneath me make it easy to forget all of my fears.
It’s strange to describe what it’s like to willingly give power over to someone who could easily crush me—his hands eclipse my hands every time they meet and whenever we reposition ourselves, he has to be careful to not injure me—but it sends a sense of reverence bursting through me. A reverence for him, for myself, for the way two humans could fall together and create a form of pleasure that’s impossible to recreate in isolation.
As my breathing returns to normal, I recall why we’re hiding in the public garden, within the gazebo. In front of us, the swing hanging from the gazebo’s roof creaks and sways gently in the wind. As I stretch out my legs, my toes brush against the rough wooden walls. I look down at him. He slowly smiles.
I settle my head on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat. It’s still beating fast, the only sign that he’s not as calm and composed as he’s pretending to be. He’s only acting that way for my sake. The anxiety starts to build up in my throat again.
“It’s okay,” he says into my ear, his hand settling on my back. “If it’s not, I’ll find a way to make it okay.”
I lean forward. The kiss between us overflows with worry, desire, dread, and love. We kiss harder, letting the hunger for each other drown out everything else.
I try to forget everything except him.
I forget my parent’s car crash, but I remember the way his hand feels as it moves to my cheek.
I forget what’s going to happen next, but I remember the way his lips press hard against mine.
I forget this mess we’re in, but I remember the way my body fits against his
And then I just forget.
“So, Sadie,” Dr. Murray says, leaning back into her armchair. “It’s your last day. How are you feeling?”
I let the frayed memory of that man who’s face I can’t recall settle in the back of my mind. As far as I remember, I’m still a virgin, but the memory and all the sensations that accompany it tell me that I’ve likely felt and experienced more.
Dr. Murray looks too young to be a shrink. The curls of her pale blonde hair settle on her shoulders like a bouquet of flowers, and her blue eyes drill into me, daring me to show the slightest sign of mental instability.
I lean forward—far enough that only the edge of my ass is on the dark green couch. I want to appear engaged. I want to appear like a young woman prepared to go out into the world. An average, healthy young woman.
“I’m hopeful,” I say, imagining a line crossing through ‘feelings of hopelessness’ on her criteria list. “I’m excited to go back to school.”
“Most people would be anxious. Are you?”
She’s testing me. If I deny my anxiety, I’m in denial. If I talk too much about it, I’m paranoid.
“A little,” I say. I cross my legs, clasping my hands in front of me before playing them flat on my thighs. I don’t want to appear tense. “It’s mostly that I’ll be going back, but I can’t remember anything since the summer before tenth grade.”
“You’ll be starting in a re-districted building with a mix of new and old students. That that should make the transition easier, don’t you think?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
I glance over my shoulder. Behind me, there’s only the metal door and white stone walls. The soft, green furniture is meant to distract me from the fact that I’m in the psychiatric inpatient unit, but the locking metal doors tell me I screwed up somewhere in my life.
“Sadie?”
I turn back around to Dr. Murray. “Does someone watch these sessions?”
“No,” she says. “Why? Are you still experiencing thoughts about being under surveillance?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “No, I was just curious if someone watches the sessions.”
“Let’s discuss how you’re going to deal with questions about the last two years,” she says. “Have you decided how you’re going to handle that?”
“I thought I’d tell them I was traveling,” I say. “I considered Italy or Greece, but people are too interested in those places, so I thought somewhere more obscure—maybe Utah.”
“That could work,” she agrees. “Do you plan to tell them the truth if they ask about your parents?”
I clasp my hands together again, holding them close to my belly. “I’ll tell them the truth. I’m not the only person who’s lost her parents, and it’s been almost ten years. I don’t have a problem telling people about it.”
“You have more courage than most.” Dr. Murray nods slowly, her pencil sliding under her chin. “But your breakdown was triggered by witnessing a car crash. I just think you should be aware that it’s a sensitive subject for you. It’s perfectly fine for you to not tell everyone the truth if you’re not ready.”
I swallow. I don’t remember witnessing a car crash, and I don’t remember the breakdown. It’s part of the two years of memories that slipped out of my brain—dissociative amnesia triggered by a stressful event, according to Dr. Murray.
When I don’t answer, Dr. Murray flips back through her notes. “You’re also going to be living with your grandmother, who has had health problems. You know that you have some control issues. How do you plan to deal with that when it comes to your grandmother’s health?”
“Write about it,” I say. “And have open communication with her.”
Dr. Murray raises an eyebrow at me. She has every right to. I’m saying the textbook answers
to everything.
“It will be difficult,” I continue. “But I plan to do everything I can to take care of myself. I understand it’s a priority.”
“Good,” she says, moving back to an earlier place in her notes. “The good news is that you’ve tested well enough to place into the senior year. That’s quite impressive, considering your situation.”
“It’s mostly easier classes,” I say. “Just enough to graduate. But thank you.”
“I know you were worried about whether or not you’d be able to lead a normal life and graduate with your peers, so this is excellent news.” She beams at me. “You have every right to feel nervous and uncertain, Sadie, but everything seems to be going great for you. And, if your memories come back, it will be even easier. You have the best type of mind for this—strong, adaptable, and willing to accept challenges.”
Right before she leans back into her chair, Dr. Murray glances up at the corner of the room. I follow her gaze. Her bookshelves extend to the corner, but all I can see are books.
A shiny glint catches my eye. Is that a shiny stamp on the bookbinding or a surveillance camera?
“Sadie.”
I spin around to look at Dr. Murray again. She gives me a kindly smile.
“I know that look in your eye,” she says. “Paranoia is part of your problem. Nobody is watching you. You can’t let those thoughts consume you, or you’ll end up back here again.”
She nods gently. “Just…breathe. The world doesn’t revolve around you, and that’s a good thing. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand,” I say.
“Good. You’re a beautiful young woman with your whole life ahead. Society needs more like you. I wish you all of the luck in the world.”
There’s something strange about what she just said, but I’m not sure if it’s the paranoia.
She shakes my hand. As she moves to open the door for me, I look back at the corner of the room. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe my brain is ill, and I shouldn’t pay attention to what it’s telling me. But I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching.
I wish I could give them a more interesting show, but all they’re going to see is an eighteen-year-old hoping to finish her last year of high school like a normal girl. No more chaos. No more stories.
2
Klay
The body for all of its marvel and beauty is a complex piece of equipment, nothing more. It is a slave to every whim and command of its master, the brain.
At least that’s how it’s supposed to be.
As my morning alarm goes off, my brain orders my hand to find the button to shut it off.
My brain orders my feet to touch the floor, to walk to the bathroom, to turn the shower valve clockwise until the water is blistering, and to get underneath the flow.
My body obeys, but every piece of it is exhausted by the haunting of Sadie’s touch. It remembers the way she’d grasp my head, her fingertips pressed behind my ears and tickling my hairline. It remembers the way she’d grab onto my wrist to get me to slow down, so she could walk with me. It remembers how she’d brush up against the front of me, the slightest tease in the middle of school when nobody else would notice except the two of us.
Fuck.
I scrub furiously at my hair, trying to wash away the bittersweet memories. I’m not prepared for her to be back today. It was hard while she was in the hospital for nearly two months, but now it’s begun, and the way I’ll have to act toward her is the second to last thing I ever want to do.
When I get out, the bathroom mirror is coated with steam. I wipe it off. I stare at a bleary version of myself. I remind myself what’s at stake.
If I have to fucking maim her, I’ll do it. It’s better than the alternative.
3
Sadie
I press my head against the school bus window. I didn’t get my license when I first turned sixteen, and it looks like I didn’t get one during my two-year amnesia. With the way my grandmother’s been treating me, even if I had gotten my license, she would have insisted that I take the driving test again.
She’s been a saint, fussing over me, cooking up a storm, and making sure I have everything I need, including more hugs and kisses than I’m used to. She’s turned into the All-American grandma, complete with the permed gray hair, light purple cardigan, and neat brown comfort shoes.
But underneath the coddling and excessive concern, I think she may just have a neurotic view after the loss of her son—my father—in the car crash. She can’t afford to lose her last connection to her child.
I considered asking her about the memory from the public garden and gazebo. As we ate dinner together, and later when I helped her dust her porcelain pottery, I bit my tongue about him. She hadn’t mentioned that I was involved with anybody, and I don’t want to bring it up if she was the one that we were hiding from. There must be a reason he never tried to visit me at the hospital, or meet me after I was released.
But the emotions seep through the jagged edges of the memory. Whoever it was, I was willing to do anything for him. I can’t imagine feeling that strongly about him without him feeling the same way about me.
And god, my body responded to his like I was the fuel and he was the flame. The two of us had been exhilarating, explosive, burning hot enough to drive away everything else.
But despite the way I’ve fixated on this memory, his face remains out of focus. When I’m in the memory, my brain plays everything out as it happened, but when I try to directly recall the details of his face, my brain can’t bring up anything. I can remember the roughness of his fingertips against my face and how breathtaking his kiss was, but his face is an enigma.
I replay the memory over and over. I focus on the sensation of my legs against his legs, the fluttering urgency between my legs, and the way his thumbs pressed down into my hips as I kissed him. My brain tries to connect another memory—one where he’d been more domineering and less sad—but it remains out of reach.
I need to recall his face. If he comes straight up to me in a school hallway, I don’t want to see him slowly realize that I don’t remember him. I don’t want to hurt him like that.
I get reacquainted with the town as the bus stops for people. It’s a small town—several of the houses are hidden down long driveways in the middle of wooded areas. Many of the farms and houses are getting chewed up by time and neglectful owners. Or, at least, that’s what I think until we reach Viceroy Street.
The first mansion could devour half the houses in the town and remain hungry. Three stories high, eight bay windows, and decorative stonework make an impression in a town that seems to be scraping by. There wasn’t another house until the end of the road, where another mansion loomed, a bit smaller than the other one, but no less impressive. Half of the structure is made out of glass and the other half is steel. A black Maserati and a black Jeep sit in front of it, creating a strange dichotomy between exhibitionism and pragmatism while also maintaining the same darkness.
I turn my body to keep my eye on it. Something about the house and the cars tugs on my thoughts like they’re a fishing hook.
Once it’s out of view, I try to switch my focus to the day ahead. School started ten days ago, so everyone else will be comfortable with their new schedule while everything will be brand new to me. My grandmother tried to get me in on the first day, but the hospital didn’t want to release me yet until they were sure I was ready.
I’m ready, now, supposedly. Part of me isn’t sure that I ever will be.
The bus enters the center of town. We pass by three churches, a couple of restaurants, a soccer field, and a football field. I look around for the public garden from my memory, but it must not be on this route.
We roll to a stop in front of the school. I stand up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, and cling to the strap. I wait for nearly everyone else to walk off before I follow them out.
My elementary and middle school buildings had been simple brick structures, bu
t Marshall High School must be funded by the rich people on Viceroy Street. Its architecture is nearly as pretentious as those mansions, and the landscaping seems excessive for an area where people are going to be sneaking a smoke or impatiently waiting for their mother to pick them up.
I walk past the short hedges lining the sidewalk and enter the school.
The halls are congested with students. As I make my way through, I look around for anyone who might recognize me, but every time I catch someone’s eye, they quickly look away. A few people who aren’t looking directly at me turn away from me as I pass by.
Dr. Murray said that paranoia was my problem. I’m looking for an issue to feed my expectations.
But as I walk upstairs to find my locker, people continue to avoid me. I find my locker. I unlock it and place my lunch inside. I turn to the girl a couple of lockers down from me.
“Hey,” I call out.
She turns toward me before quickly focusing on her locker again.
“Do you know where room 211 is?” I ask.
She quickly glances at me again, before slamming her locker shut and walking away.
They must have gotten wind of my time in psychiatric therapy. That has to be it. My grandmother would have had to tell one of the school employees why I wasn’t attending classes for the first ten days, and one of the teachers could have told their families. Their family members would tell their friends, and their friends would spread the scandal to their friends and family. Everyone would be picturing me in a straitjacket, force-fed pills, before I even stepped into the building.
