Bury Me

by Tara Sivec

  “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.

  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.”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes at her. “Thanks a lot.”

  The way she has her head tilted to the side has moved her curtain of blonde hair away from one side of her neck. I lean toward her a little closer when I see what looks like scratches on her skin. They are long and deep and disappear into the collar of her shirt.

  “What happened to your neck?”

  Trudy’s hand flies up to the side of her neck, and she covers up the scratches, laughing sheepishly.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m guessing you forgot about the kitten my mom got me for a graduation present?” she asks, nervously pulling her long hair forward to drape over her shoulders, effectively hiding the marks from me.

  I look into her eyes, knowing without a doubt that she’s lying to me, but I have no idea why.

  “I asked for a car, and I got a kitten,” she huffs in annoyance. “How in the hell is a kitten going to help me get to and from college in the fall? Anyway, that little ball of fur hates me. Every time I pick her up she scratches me.

  “So… back to you,” she says with a smile, changing the subject. “You really don’t remember anything?”

  I’m so sick and tired of feeling like people are lying to me. Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?

  “Why were you here three days ago?” I fire back.

  Trudy swallows nervously and fiddles with one of the cuff buttons on her blouse. “We were just going to hang out. You know, talk about college and stuff, no big deal. You invited me over, but when you answered the door you were acting really weird.”

  “Weird how?” I ask.

  Trudy shrugs. “I don’t know, just weird. You were dressed differently, your hair was all wild and crazy, and, to be honest, you were kind of mean to me.”

  My hand reaches up to touch the braid
at the back of my head, once again feeling the urge to rip it out and let my long black hair fall down my back, free of the tight constriction.

  “You called me all sorts of names and told me to go home. I didn’t even realize you knew words like that until you shouted them at me,” she says with an uncomfortable laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

  “You’re just like every other whore, trying to take what isn’t yours. No one is falling for that innocent act you put on, you snobby, lying bitch.”

  In a quick flash, I can see myself clear as day, standing on the front porch of the prison, the thunder and lightning echoing all around as I shout angry words at someone who is supposed to be my friend. Words that don’t match the petite, smiling blonde sitting in front of me, but words I feel deep down inside are true.

  “It’s no big deal; I’ve already forgiven you,” she tells me with an easy smile. “It’s pretty obvious you weren’t in your right state of mind that night for whatever reason. I’m just glad you’re okay. You seem like you’re back to your old self and that’s all that matters, right?”

  It’s not all that matters, not by a long shot. It’s pretty obvious she’s not telling me everything. Aside from the fact that I acted and looked different that night, why was I so angry with her? What would have made me so enraged that I would shout such nasty things at someone who is supposed to be my friend?

  “Do you know the guy who works here? Nolan?” I ask her, trying one last time to see if she’ll be honest about something.

  Her smile immediately falls and she pulls her legs out from under her, shifting her body nervously on the couch.

  “Stay away from that guy; he’s bad news,” she warns me.

  I already got that message from my father and the overall uneasy feeling I had around him made me agree, but it’s clear that I can’t trust anything Trudy tells me.

  “Why is he bad news? What has he done?”

  She pushes herself up from the couch and lets out a stilted laugh. “He’s just not a good guy, okay? I don’t even know why your father lets him work here. I mean, he’s cute and all and nice to look at, but there’s something off with him. I don’t know him personally or anything, but it’s what I’ve heard. Stay away from him, okay?”

  Trudy moves around my legs and heads for the stairs. “I have to get going; my mom wants to go shopping for college stuff.”

  I quickly stand and follow her toward the stairs. “My mom was going to make us lunch. Don’t you want to stay?”

  She thumps down the stairs at a hurried pace, and I follow behind her. I don’t really want to spend more time with her when she’s not going to honestly answer the questions I have for her, but she was here the night everything happened. She’s the key to unlocking my memories, and I have to do whatever I can to open that lock if I want to find out what happened.

  I follow her down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Tell your mom thanks. Maybe another time,” she says as she reaches for the handle of the door.

  It suddenly opens before she can get to it, and I stop a few feet behind her as she jumps out of the way.

  I watch as Nolan steps inside, a surprised look on his face as his glance shifts between Trudy and me before focusing on her.

  “Nice to see you again, Trudy,” he tells her with a cocky smile.

  Her face immediately reddens in embarrassment, and she gives him a wide berth as she quickly moves around him and out the front door. Nolan turns and watches her leave as she yells over her shoulder without turning around.

  “I’ll give you a call later to see how you’re doing, Ravenna.”

  She jogs down the stairs of the front porch and disappears from sight. When she’s gone, Nolan turns back around and stares at me silently. Trudy was right: he really is something nice to look at, even if being alone with him right now makes me nervous. His skin is tanned from working outside all day, and the finely toned muscles in his arms and under his t-shirt prove that he spends most of his time doing a lot of hard manual labor. He’s taller than me and obviously stronger.

  Strong enough to hurt me if he wanted to.

  Trudy told me he was bad news and at least that information feels right for some reason, but she also said she didn’t know him personally. Going by the familiar way Nolan looked at her and said her name, he knows her, and she definitely knows him.

  “Tell your father I finished mowing around the lake, and I’m going to head home for the day,” he tells me gruffly.

  Without waiting for a reply, he backs out of the door, and it slams closed behind him. My feet stay glued to their spot in the middle of the hallway as I stare at the large wooden door.

  “My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old, I live in a prison, and my best friend is lying to me.”

  Chapter 4

  I spend the next few days wandering around the inside of Gallow’s Hill, reciting facts about the prison to myself as I go, hoping the things I know will unlock some of the things I don’t, but nothing works. I feel like I do when I sometimes fill in for my father as tour guide, saying things I’ve memorized from a book instead of things I should inherently know after growing up here.

  I’ve attempted to get some fresh air and walk the grounds outside a few times these last couple of days, but each time I’ve stepped out onto the porch, I’ve seen Nolan working around the yard. Even if his back is to me, he immediately stops what he’s doing as if he somehow senses I’m close. When he turns and looks at me and our eyes meet, I’m immediately filled with fear, and I rush back inside, pushing aside the need for fresh air and sunshine to run away from the man who looks at me with equal parts anger and curiosity.

  While my days are filled with wandering and trying to avoid Nolan, my evenings are filled with uncomfortable dinners with my parents at the small kitchen table in our living quarters. With stilted conversation and vague answers to the questions I ask, I feel like I’m sitting at a table surrounded by strangers instead of the people who raised and love me.

  Needing something to do to occupy myself, I’ve spent the last hour rearranging items in the gift shop and stacking new inventory on the metal shelves that take up most of the small room. I suddenly hear raised voices upstairs, and I pause with a folded t-shirt in my hands, craning my neck to better hear. A loud thump above my head has me tossing the shirt haphazardly on top of a pile of others and moving quickly out of the room toward the stairs. I tiptoe upwards, careful to avoid the loose floorboards, so the creak from the old wood doesn’t alert anyone to my presence. At the top of the stairs I pause as the voices grow louder, and I hold my breath as I listen to my parents argue.

  “There’s something not right with her, Tanner; you’ve got to see that,” my mother complains.

  I hear the shuffling of feet and I move a little closer to their closed bedroom door.

  “Stop borrowing trouble, Claudia. Just keep reminding her who she is and everything will be fine,” my father tells her in an irritated voice.

  “We shouldn’t have to remind her who she is!” my mother shouts. “We shouldn’t have to tell her what kind of person she is! She’s not the same person, and I know it. I know what you did, Tanner. No matter what lies you keep telling me, I know what you did! What happened to my baby? What the hell did you do with my baby?! Where did she go?”

  A loud smack echoes from behind the door, and I jump when I hear my mother’s loud gasp of surprise and whimper of pain.

  “I did what I had to do to keep this family safe, just like I did eighteen years ago. That girl downstairs is Ravenna. She’s the same good, beautiful, perfect daughter we’ve raised her entire life. I will not let you ruin this family as you tried to do once before. Ravenna is going to be fine as long as you keep your stupid theories to yourself.”

  I hear footsteps stomping toward the door, and I race across the living room, dashing into my bedroom just as my parents’ door swings open. Hiding behind my door, I peek out and watch my father storm through the living
room and head downstairs. With a few deep breaths to calm my thumping heart, I wait a few minutes before leaving the comfort of my room, giving myself enough time so my mother doesn’t know I heard what they were saying. When I get to my parents’ bedroom doorway, I find my mother sitting on the edge of her bed, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her in concern, even though I know she won’t tell me the truth.

  She looks up in surprise and plasters on a fake smile. “Ravenna, I didn’t know you were here. I thought you were going for a walk around the prison.”

  Quickly standing, my mother hurries over to the closet, keeping her back to me to hide the misery on her face.

  “I was, but I got hungry, so I was going to get a snack from the kitchen,” I lie.

  She reaches up to the top shelf of her closet and pulls down one of the many hatboxes stored up there, and I realize she was getting ready to run errands before the argument with my father, judging by the pale blue A-line double-breasted suit jacket and matching knee-length skirt she’s currently wearing. My mother never leaves the prison without dressing properly in a designer suit with matching pillbox hat, white gloves, and pearls. With the hatbox in her hand, she moves back to the bed and sets it on top, lifting the lid to remove the sky blue hat nestled inside.

  “I’m heading out to pick up some groceries, but I could fix you a snack before I leave,” she tells me as she sets the hat on top of her head and pins it in place.

  “No, that’s okay. Why were you crying?” I ask, trying to bring her focus back to the original issue.

  Pulling a pair of white gloves out of the hatbox, she slides them on her slender hands and then walks over to me as I lean against the doorframe. She brings her satin-covered hands up to my face and cups my cheeks in her palms. She stares deeply into my eyes and within seconds I feel uncomfortable, wanting to pull away, run from the room and hide, so she can’t look at me like she’s trying to figure out who I am. I don’t want her to see; I don’t want her to know and the longer she looks, the more she’ll be convinced that the words she spoke to my father have some truth to them, and there really is something wrong with me.