by Dani René
Tate suddenly leapt off the merry-go-round, leaving me to go in circles by myself. I rushed to my knees and kept turning to see him pacing and mumbling, “This is not happening.”
“T-Tate?” I started to shake. The playful boy had morphed into an angry young man.
Ignoring me, he threw his cup in a rage. “How is this possible?” Leftover milkshake splattered from the force. “She wasn’t real!”
As the merry-go-round came to a stop, I noticed Tate holding the right side of his neck. There was something monumental under that palm. I just knew it, so I slowly stood. I was torn between running away and trying to learn more.
When Tate finally faced me, then stumbled forward, I knew my chance to run had ended. I knew I was no longer spinning from the merry-go-round. Now, life was taking me for a ride. His hand dropped from his neck to expose a thin scar, just like mine.
In front of me, Tate dropped to his knees. The pain, the hurt on his beautiful face, which no longer beamed with dimples, was shredding my heart. Everything about him screamed how defeated he felt. “I didn’t know you were real.”
Dread built in my gut and throat. We both knew there was an ugly truth, even before seeing all the evidence.
Staring up at me, Tate slowly lifted the long sleeve on his right arm to expose the corrupted slight swirl I knew all too well: the signature mark of my attackers.
A thunderstorm erupted in my lonely chest as I reached out to touch the raised skin that would never be the same again. I had to know it was real and that Tate wasn’t some imaginary friend my subconscious had invented. We never lost eye contact—the soul to soul connection—as my fingertips grazed the branding.
Tate sounded broken as he told me, “I’m so sorry I never came for you.”
How can such simple words have so much meaning? Because it meant someone else knew me. Someone, like my father, would have tried to help me.
My legs crumbled. Tate may not have succeeded, as my father didn’t, but if he had…
Gasping for air, I found myself on my knees, face to face with Tate. My panting chest kept bumping into his. My breasts soft. His hard. Opposites, colliding and joining.
Was it divine intervention or simply coincidence? I don’t know, but for the first time in my whole tortured existence, I wasn’t alone.
There was Tate.
Damaged. Just like me.
I could see it in his exposed heart.
My eyes welled for the ill-treatment that I was sure he had experienced, and because I now had a comrade. As sad as that was, I was thankful to no longer be alone in the madness.
With such sorrow and surrender, Tate raised his right hand. On his palm was an oval burn mark. “I’m left-handed.”
I found myself raising my left, so many notions falling into place. “From a spoon.”
Our painful pasts and futures lingered in the air between us.
Pity, sympathy, and complete understanding crossed his face as he nodded. “They boiled it in a pot first.”
My stomach churned at the memory. “It felt like fire.”
His whisper was weighted down by a sadness only the two of us would ever understand. “For days.”
Even though we were speaking of a horrid time, our hands stayed facing each other as if silently speaking to the broken spirits who they belonged to.
A tear slipped down my cheek. “Yes, for days.” Drifting forward, my hand touched Tate’s.
As if completely lost of all hope, Tate’s forehead drifted down to mine. “You’re real.”
My fingers closed around his as I softly asked, “How do you know me?”
Still connected, physically and emotionally, he replied, “When I was a little boy, I had a best friend. Her name was Lucy. At least, that’s what I called her. The brothers never stopped me.” I was surprised he referred to my abusers in the same manner. It was as if their names brought too much reality to this situation we both hoped didn’t truly exist. Tate continued. “She held my heart in the palm of her hand. But, after one night, I never saw her again. I thought—I thought I had dreamt her up.” He took a few deep breaths. “The brothers put my tiny Lucy in a small duffle bag—”
In my bedroom, sitting on my bed, I instantly think of the memory I spoke to Doctor Landon about… “The bag I’m in makes a swish sound as it’s dragged across hard flooring. It’s drowning out the crying…” It was Tate who had been crying.
Tate’s breath smelled like vanilla as he whispered, “I cried so long and hard for that little girl who was thrown down the stairs. My brothers left me home after that. I never saw you again. I’m so sorry. I eventually believed I had made you up in my mind.”
Comprehending his desperation on the deepest of level, I moved my cheek so it could lay against his. I needed this affection as much as I wanted to give it. Even though I didn’t remember him yet, I sensed the unity we two little children had. We had already been fighting beasts before hearing of scary fairytales.
A body close to mine, one that meant me no harm, was like touching an angel. Slowly, as if not believing this miracle to be true, I released his hand and raised my arms to hold him.
Tate responded by melting into me. His arms wrapped around my waist, as hungry as I for kindness. “Does it make me an asshole to say I’m glad you’re real?”
“Only if it makes me one.” I had wanted another destroyed soul to be with me through every act of violence. I wanted someone by my side while my life was gutted. But, now knowing Tate had suffered, I felt I had been selfish to ever wish for him at all.
I should have wanted professional assistance—Police or someone to stop the vicious crimes, but when you are lost in traumatic cycles, common sense can be far from your reasoning. Escaping had never been a hope for me. All hope was consumed with the need to survive each episode.
It’s like your world and the real world never meet. Not truly. My abuse had me feeling isolated, like an alien lost on earth. I felt I didn’t belong. I felt I was walking a planet and seeing it from eyes no one else had. Therefore, no human would understand what I was hiding.
Only Tate.
Again, I look to my bedroom window, hoping to see Tate crawling through. But only the moon is present, so I slip into another memory to have him close.
Leaving Tate’s car parked in the street, we stood staring at the outside of my dilapidated two-story home. Tate was dumbfounded. “I’ve been past this house a million times. I live two blocks over. Had I only known who was inside.”
Standing next to him, I stated, “No one knows who’s inside.”
A warm hand slipped inside mine. “I do now.”
I gazed at my abused hero who could never save me. “I’m glad.”
Was it surprising we didn’t speak of rescuing each other? Maybe. I’m not sure. I’ve never—we never—had a life without severe abuse. I’m not sure what the proper reaction should have been. Maybe the abused don’t have “proper” reactions. Maybe enduring is enough.
Walking through the front door, Tate gawked at the staircase as if it were deadly. From the top, his stare traveled down until reaching the floor under his feet. “This is where you landed.” His eyes closed with a grimace. “Your little cry… It was so helpless.” His head fell forward. “So was I. I’m sorry.”
That fall had caused a headache that lasted for a long time. Now, I’m understanding I had an actual head injury. My mother had given me a child’s pain reliever with no professional care, not knowing I was in need. Maybe that is why I have amnesia now. Either way… “I remember you now, Tate.”
In my room, Tate studied my carpet. “No stains. I have one.” Then he observed my bathroom. I didn’t bother to mention my bed had been moved over the prior stain. After a labored exhale, he nodded. “They learn quickly.” As he walked around my room again, I studied how male he was. His feet, his hands, thick thighs… All equaling strength.
I sat on the edge of my bed. “How do they overpower you?”
Tate observed as if r
eading my mind; he was considerably stronger than me. He ran stressed fingers through his shaggy hair. “My mom.” Before he finished with, “I’ll do anything for her,” I was already nodding in complete agreement.
“Your dad?”
He ran a hand down his exasperated face then spoke as if a programmed robot. “Drowned. Freak accident.”
My stomach twisted. “You mean they killed him.”
With an incredible amount of awareness, Tate’s eyes snapped to mine.
My chest ached as I nodded. “I was there for mine.” Trying not to experience the loss all over again, I gazed at my dad’s picture on my dresser. “My dad… had an ‘accidental’ fall.”
With fear-laced blue eyes that I wished never had to know tragedy, Tate stood there motionless for a while, then those eyes watered. His voice cracked, probably mimicking his already broken heart. “Have I made you up?”
Seeing his evident pain, my throat tightened. “No.”
As if needing more proof, Tate sat next to me, his palm cupping my cheek. So he could trust his senses, I leaned into his touch, appreciating his burn scar because it made me feel closer to him. “I’ve been alone for so long.”
Losing my breath from pity and my own aching loneliness, I nodded, empathetically, and kissed his palm before nuzzling into it again. “Me too.”
After a moment, he decided to confess more than his father’s murder. “I tried to tell a teacher once.” I gasped at the young man braver than I. “I was young. All this was hard to articulate, so she didn’t believe me.”
My shaky hand reached up to touch his innocent face that had seen too much in his short life. “I’m sorry.” I exhaled disappointment. “I never tried. I was there when…” I whispered as if the brothers could hear me, “they killed him.” Tate swallowed while staring at me as if sensing how trapped we believed we were. “Even if I got someone to believe me… Who would protect my mom? They hate me so much—”
“They would be sure to kill her as revenge, no matter what it took—”
“They would punish me.”
Now, Tate kissed my palm. He inhaled against my skin as if wanting to capture me in his lungs. “Through all this hell, I have found me the perfect angel.”
Now knowing more through Doctor Landon, I can see some of the mistakes Tate and I made. We let fear control us. That terror of the unknown crippled us. If you don’t believe you have legs, how can you run? If you are blind to freedom, it will never be yours.
“Lacey? Do my brothers…” His hand reached out and gently touched my hip. “Do they…” He swallowed. “I’m a guy, so they don’t… you know, but… you’re a girl. Do they… do more than ‘hurt’ you?”
Even though the rapes weren’t my fault, Tate not experiencing the same abuse somehow made me more shameful about the horrendous acts. I wondered what he would have thought about the incest. I was fearful he would think less of me. Since my opinion of myself was critically beneath healthy standards, the only best friend I had ever had, no matter how many years ago, thinking I was disgusting was like a death sentence. Tate coming back into my life, even though I barely knew him, was a surge of hope. One I needed most desperately.
I already lacked the ability to lie to Tate, but I also lacked the will to tell him the truth. So, I only stared at him, not offering fuel for his growing suspicion.
Tate’s eyes closed in remorse. He spoke with a truth I could feel in my bones. “I’m so sorry I ever wished you to life.”
“All the wishes in the world can’t change what is already done.”
“I want to change what happens next.”
“We both know the risk isn’t worth it. My only option is—” I eyed him, wondering if I dared to speak my true thoughts.
Absolute sorrow laced his voice. “Maybe, with each other, we will want to live.”
And there it was. The truth. Our lives were so horrid we struggled to want to live.
It was hopeless.
Tate’s scarred hand left my cheek and grabbed mine. Our fingers interlocked with a haunting desperation. Then we stared at each other, forming a silent bond that wouldn’t end.
“Lacey, I won’t give up until you do.”
I burst into tears while forcing a smile. “That’s a lot of pressure for a girl.”
He shook our connected hands and teased, “A pretty girl.”
Shakily, I exhaled the fear building inside me. He was asking for me to keep fighting. “Yes, a pretty girl.”
Tate’s free hand caressed my cheek. His thumb grazed my lips before he told me, “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
I stared at his mouth, wanting a taste. “Neither have I.”
Saddened, he softly asked, “How could they use you yet never want a kiss?”
I told him the truth. “They prefer this mouth to scream.”
Tate’s mouth opened, but his appall was only slight. He had experienced plenty to know what I was referring to. His own torture had taught him well.
Deep inside me, a surrender took place, knowing I was no longer alone. Tears dripped down my face. “I would love to be your first.”
As if knowing this would become our only solace, Tate’s eyes watered as his lips gently touched mine. A soft sob escaped us both with a beautiful moment like we had never known. The tenderness, the kindness, and the friendship had us silently praying for more stolen moments. With how our lives were, we never knew when the next one would be.
I sniffled, then forced a sad smile. “You taste like vanilla.”
“See?” Tate’s fake smile caused his tears to finally fall. “Sugar fixes everything.”
Soft lips touched mine again…
Wiping tears for the lost souls, I look to the window and whisper, “Tate, where are you?”
Chapter 5
Memories to Life
I wish to run from the hurt, but my feet can’t find the ground
Without the earth… I will never be found.
There wasn’t enough sugar in the world to keep the brothers from finding out about the growing love affair… I whisper a prayer, “Please, let there be a merciful God.”
So tired from all this emotional upheaval, my swollen eyes want to shut, but my mind has been pried open and now demands on continuing the beautiful and painful journey of my poisonous past. Watching the empty window as if a sailor’s wife waiting to see a ship float into a harbor, I lie down on my side, hoping the pillow can carry me until Tate comes.
With the brothers preoccupied with college, Tate and I had a suspended-in-the-clouds romance. Our connection effortlessly grew. There was an unseen link that could be felt between lifetimes. I was sure of it.
Wounded souls and hearts with holes
May you forever be
Lovers of the night, willing to fight
May you forever… be
Tate and I let our battle scars lead us to a peaceful place no abuser could reach. Every caress of his lips belonged to only me. Every embrace and kind word I offered him, no one else heard that from me. We were peace and grace while being set on fire.
Fire…
Late one night, my mother was still at work when all four brothers came home for an unscheduled visit. In my darkened room, I quickly laid in my bed and covered myself, hoping they would think I was asleep, and that they would give a damn.
They didn’t do either.
Some women may have celebrated their menstrual cycle, as they should since it means life—a chance for reproduction—but I loathed the bloody week and the criminal acts it brought me. The brothers were ruthless…
In my dark bedroom, I laid on my side in the fetal position, crying. I didn’t fear being overheard because the brothers had left in a car once they were done with me. I watched my window open, and Tate crawled through.
I reached out my scarred hand.
Grabbing my hand, he rushed to kneel next to my bed. “I didn’t know they had come home. How bad?”
Tears dripped… “It hurts. So deep.
”
Tate’s face reddened as he tried to control his fury. “Do you need a hospital?”
That was never an option for us, but I appreciated him willing to risk his mother’s life for me. I did need a hospital. The damage done to my womb would cause permanent damage. “No, I will be fine.”
He looked to my nightstand and grimaced before laying his forehead to my hand. “Lacey, let me take you to the hospital.”
“Please, throw them away.”
Tate’s body seemed to tremble as he stood and grabbed the enormous cucumber and other objects I had just been violated with. “I will get you those antibiotics.”
We both stole every leftover drug that had been subscribed to our moms or brothers for any ailment—
I try to remember ever being taken to a doctor by my mom. I wince in pain as I start to understand the twins were my mother’s favorite, to a gross degree. I can’t say whether or not she knew of the abuse, but I can say she was a very absent parental figure.
Tate returned from the bathroom with a cup of water and two pills in his palm. He set the medication bottle on the nightstand. “You know the drill. Finish that bottle. Okay?”
I accepted and swallowed my only chance of avoiding an infection. “Will it ever end?”
Urgently, and with anguish in his eyes, he made his way around my small bed to crawl in behind me. Holding me tight, he burrowed against my neck with a heavy whisper, “It will. I swear it. Someday.”
Maybe Tate’s promises were gold because my attacks did stop. Tate’s didn’t, which was peculiar…
“Oh no… No, no, no, no.” I rush from the bed at Serenity and to the window. My hands lay on the cool glass, silently begging for river eyes to appear.
When Tate missed two days of school, after the brothers visited home, I went to his house in the middle of the night and knocked on his window. From his bed, Tate opened his eyes and smiled, bringing me immense relief. I snuck in, whispering, “You scared me.”
