Exit Wound

by Alexandra Moore

  I sighed heavily and wiped my face with the cheap hospital-issued tissue paper.

  “I remembered everything, Ben.”

  He looked at me with more fear in his eyes than I had ever seen.

  “Frances—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? It’s your name.”

  I never had a chance to respond. Soon enough, doctors flooded the room as did our friends. It was a time for celebration on behalf of my miraculous recovery. The doctors told me there would be more to living now that I had a brain injury even if it was minor. I had to wait and hope that Ben would loosen his grip on the lie I knew he was telling. No matter what it was that I had experienced, I knew something, and that something was that I had no idea who I really was anymore.

  EPILOUGE

  After a day full of celebration and appointment-making, phone calls, and final arrangements, I was moved to a private room, and I finally got Ben to myself. He was sitting quietly in the far corner, avoiding my gaze. We both knew what was going to be our next topic of conversation. I wanted him to bring it up though it was obvious he would rather I give the first fatal blow.

  “Ben?”

  He looked up as if he had been sleeping. He was distraught, and he didn’t know what to expect next.

  “Yes, Bea?”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “What do you want to be called?”

  I didn’t know what I wanted to be called. I didn’t know my options anymore. My entire life it was Frances or Bea, but never Beatrice. Now I had to cut straight to the chase and figure out what truth my near-death experience had to the life I’ve lead. I took a deep breath and readied myself for the emotional conversation for which we were long overdue.

  “I think it’s time we talk about our dad, Ben.”

  He looked confused and worried all at once. I didn’t want to look at him after that. It was too hard to watch his emotions spread across his face.

  “Why do you want to talk about him?” he asked.

  “He never left us, did he?”

  His eyes widened with the obvious fear of my newfound knowledge.

  “He never left, not in the way I had been told, did he, Ben?”

  “Bea, there’s a lot that has happened…maybe you’re confused.”

  “I am not confused!”

  I knew he was lying. It showed across his face. There was guilt, and there was sadness and remorse.

  “Tell me the truth, Ben. The real truth.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do it, Frances. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You keep saying that, and I don’t know why. Please tell me something to help me understand.” I was begging now, tears streaming down my face. “Ben, I saw things. I don’t know if it was the in-between or limbo or what, but I saw things. I won’t know how true they are or if they are real memories until you tell me the truth. The whole truth.”

  “Brenna, don’t do this to—”

  He said exactly what I had needed him to. I’d caught him in the middle of a sixteen-year-old lie.

  “Who is Brenna?”

  Ben stood abruptly, knocking his chair loudly to the tiled floor.

  “Tell me the truth, Ben!” I shouted.

  “I’m not doing this! I’m in too deep—it’s too late to change anything.” He was pacing back and forth, running his hands up and down his face and through his hair. He was a mess.

  “Change what?”

  “You want the truth? I lied. Mom lied. We lied together. We had a father, and he loved us. You especially,” he laughed bitterly. “You were the most perfect daughter he could ever want. When you were born, you were all he wanted. It was as if I didn’t exist anymore.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Ben kicked the chair back up and sat down in it, spreading his legs and propping his elbows up on his knees. “He died.” He laughed again. “Our parents were living in separate places. They shared us like we shared toys. He was dropping us off from the beach, and you didn’t want him to leave.”

  As he was saying this, I could see it in my head. I remember the same bathing suit I saw in the memory from the in-between and from the photographs I found of Ben and me together when I was cleaning out my room.

  “You ran out into the street, and a driver was coming through over the speed limit.”

  My mouth hung open, and I covered it with my hand. I could remember it now. It was coming back. It was another lightning bolt, and it tore right through me.

  “Our father, Brennan, he loved you so much he named you after him. He pushed you out of the way and was hit by the car himself. It was a fatal crash. The car ran straight over him, and he didn’t survive the hit-and-run.”

  Breathing erratically, I was crying horribly with what felt like little screams trying to come out of my throat.

  “Why did you lie, Ben? Why did you—?”

  “Because Mother was in love with him despite all the crap even though she was crazy. If she couldn’t have him, neither could we. She began drinking more than her daily sacrament wine, she changed your name, and all due to the fact that it reminded her of him too much. The alcohol was the only thing to fill the hole in her heart, and your name had more of him than anything else.”

  I didn’t really know who I was anymore. Who was Brenna? She was just a girl in pictures I always assumed was named Bea. But who was Bea? She had changed so much in such a short time—it was hard to tell who was really who. What made them different? What made them the same? Were they different? Were they the same?

  “Who am I, Ben?” I asked tearfully.

  “You were born Brenna Seirian Rose Morrison. Mother changed your name to Frances Beatrice Morrison the week of our father’s funeral.”

  “But, Ben, who am I?”

  “I just told you—”

  “I know the names I’ve been given. Who am I? Am I Frances, or am I Brenna?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all up to you now. Who do you think you are?”

  I had to really think, and the more I thought, the more lost I was. As far as I was concerned, I was no one. Maybe I wasn’t anyone at all.

  Ben had to leave when visiting hours were over, and now, my room was silent. There would be no real answer to my question anytime soon. I knew I could try and persuade him to give me the answers about Brennan, our father, that I wanted—though as days passed and he would come visit, I found it was too much to bear. Ben and I argued so often for so long, and some days, I’d forget entirely what we had been arguing about until Splinter mentioned it to me.

  “So this is it then. You won’t tell me a single thing?” I asked him.

  “Not right now, Bea.”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “It’s your name!”

  “And apparently so is Brenna!”

  Silence came over us, and he sighed.

  “Look, I need to head to New Hampshire to make sure everything is in order. You’ll be alone for a week, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.

  “Maybe you’ll be able to let this go in that time. I’ll see you when you get back.” He pressed a kiss to my head, and once he left and the nurse returned, she asked me a question.

  “Are you sure you’ve made your mind?” Looking to her, I nodded

  “Yes, I don’t want any visitors. Not my brother, not my friends or his bandmates, no one.”

  “You’ll do much better if you—”

  “I know what I’m doing. Please just give me the proper paperwork so we can get this over with.”

  When Ben came back the next week, he was surprised to find out I asked for no visitors. He came back every day, and every day, he became angrier and more demanding. He only wanted to see me, and I refused to see him. I can’t remember when he stopped coming, but I knew I had to do this by myself. If he couldn’t tell me who I was; I needed to figure it out for myself…even if that meant reopening every single scar until it bled the truth for me. Because the exit wou
nd that was left behind from this summer was one I’d never forget, and I needed to gain every ounce of strength I had in order to fight the demons that were living inside my head. I wasn’t going to lose this fight; I needed a reason to fight back, and through all the rehab and physical therapy, I discovered the reason to fight back was so I could prove that I was not in ruins. I know what can be done to destroy a city, to destroy a populous or even a single person, and now I knew the warning signs of someone who was out to destroy me. I wouldn’t let it happen again.

  With camera people coming in and out constantly and social media outlets questioning everything about who I was and what I was doing, I needed to be prepared. I couldn’t back out of the spotlight anymore; I was no longer my brother’s secret. I was open, naked, and vulnerable to the whole world.

  I refused to let them see me that way. I fought, and I fought until I thought I had dealt with everything. Then I’d wake up from seeing Everett’s bloody shirt or Mackynsie’s mangled face, and I’d do it all over again. It wasn’t a matter of doing it just to get better anymore. It was a matter of doing it so I could look back and say I survived even if it didn’t matter anymore. This wasn’t my ending. I was determined to get my life back. This was only the prologue.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank the following people for their contribution into making this book, my life’s work and dream, become a possibility.

  Cary L. Schultz Stanley, my wise beyond her years best friend and soul sister: thank you for always listening to me rant about this book, day or night, finals or no finals, lots of homework or no homework, bad day or good day. Thank you for putting up with me for so long, and thank you for inspiring me to be a better person and to forgive more often.

  Megan Jackson, the most amazing CP and Beta-Reader I could have ever come across in my life. You helped me day and night with this story, and you fell in love with it just as I did so many years ago. Thank you for being patient with me, and for dedicating all of your free time to editing this novel for me. When this is in print, I owe you another coffee date.

  To my Local Library and Writing Group: Thanks for being excited with me when I finished this novel, for telling me how good it was, and for celebrating with me when I told y’all I got this publishing deal. I am so grateful for you ladies and gents. I hope I’ll be able to be a good writing group manager always.

  Mom, Dad, Munner, Grandpa: Thank you for putting up with me for twenty-one years, Mom. Thanks for choosing me, Dad. Thanks for putting up with the late night paper jams, low-ink beeping and printer hogging, Munner. And Grandpa, thanks for taking all my crap, and promptly ignoring it. I love you all, even though you do really drive me mad.

  And finally, to Kristopher R. Benitez: My best friend, and love of my life. I’m glad I can call you both. Thank you for always putting up with my craziness, and for just rolling with the punches. Thank you for all the times you’ve spent just listening to me rant about this book while I was writing, editing, revising, or doing anything remotely work-like with it. Thank you for giving me the chance to share this experience with you. Because that is something I want to be able to do the rest of our lives. So prepare to become bored and annoyed with me as I embark on making more stories, because you’re going to hear about it a lot more very soon.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My name is Alexandra Moore. I’ve been creating stories since I could talk. I’ve been putting them onto paper since I could write. Writing books is my dream and my passion, along side with rescuing African Pygmy Hedgehogs, retired race Greyhounds, French Bulldogs, and other various animals I’m probably allergic too.

  I’m convinced I’m the blood of the dragon, and the Mother of Dragons.

  When I’m not watching GoT, I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy (again) on Netflix, and crying over all the MerDer feels. I also spend time with my Boston Terrier Tank and my boyfriend. Both are my cuddle buddies, and I’m afraid the dog is around more often. I don’t bite (unless provoked) so feel free to tweet at me, or leave a comment on one of my InstaPics. I can’t wait until my book is in print, and to share my thoughts with the rest of the world.

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