Bury Me

by Tara Sivec

  “Don’t worry about me, Ravenna; I’m fine,” she tells me softly. “Just another stressful day at Gallow’s Hill, nothing new.”

  She chuckles to give the words lightheartedness, instead of the deeper meaning I know is there.

  “I love you, Ravenna,” she whispers. “You’re a good girl, and I love you so much.”

  I should be comforted by her words, but they fill me with panic. I feel like she’s only saying this to me because of my father’s threat to her. She’s reminding me who I am to convince herself that everything is fine. That I’m fine and I’m normal, and I’m the same girl she’s raised and loved. I feel like I’ve been craving these words from her forever and that I would do anything to hear them, but it doesn’t make sense. She’s my mother, and she loves me. Hearing her tell me this shouldn’t come as a surprise, and I shouldn’t feel like I don’t deserve her love or her kindness.

  My mother runs one gloved hand down over the top of my head and gives me a sad smile before moving around me and leaving the room. As I listen to her heels click against the hardwood floor as she walks through the living room and down the stairs, I close my eyes and let my head thump back against the frame of the door.

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

  Chapter 5

  My body glides easily through the water, my legs kicking harder to push me closer to the wall. Tilting my head to the side on the surface, I take one last huge breath before diving under, flipping over and pushing off the cement side with my feet to send me soaring in the opposite direction.

  My muscles ache with each lap I swim, but it’s a pain I welcome. It reminds me I’m alive, I’m still fighting, and I’m getting stronger, as opposed to the agony I’m forced to endure on a regular basis.

  This is my treat for being good. This is my reward for doing as I’m asked and never questioning the things that are done to me. My lungs are on fire as I push and pull my arms through the cold water, but I don’t care. This is the only place I feel in control of my life. I’m so tired of the tests that I’m never going to pass and the pain inflicted on me in the hopes that it will change everything about me. I’m never going to change. I’m never going to be a different person. I was born this way, I will stay this way, and I will make them pay for what they’ve done to me.

  Stepping down off of the sprawling front porch that wraps around the entire front section of the east wing of the prison, I take a minute to stare up at the front of the huge stone structure. Made out of its original brick and mortar, it’s quite obvious that Gallow’s Hill is a very old building constructed a very long time ago, with its Victorian Gothic style and pointed turrets on top of each guard tower. The building has remained in surprisingly good condition on the outside, needing only a few repairs here and there to fix a leak in the roof or wayward crumbling bricks. Since the prison relies on grants from the state in order to make any type of repairs, only the most detrimental ones are fixed immediately, the ones that would prevent us from conducting tours. As long as the peeling paint, crumbling stones inside the cell blocks, and loose floorboards throughout the prison add to the creepy factor of the tours and don’t pose a threat to any visitors, they are pushed aside for more effective ways to spend the small amount of money the state gives us to run the facility.

  Aside from the retelling of true events that have happened here and the invention of completely outrageous myths that people buy into, the building itself is one of the main draws for tourists. It’s huge and ominous, even in daytime. Pulling up the long, winding driveway and getting a first glimpse of it through the trees makes visitors feel like they’re starring in their very own horror movie. At least that’s what all of the tourists say. To me, this place is just home. It’s where I was born, where I grew up, and where I celebrated birthdays and holidays. We had family picnics on the lawn during summer days and caught lightning bugs in mason jars when the sun went down. It all sounds so perfect and idyllic as I stand here thinking about it, but something tugs at the back of my mind making me question the things I know. How can we be such a perfect, normal family after the way my father spoke to my mother yesterday? How can I have all these wonderful, happy thoughts in my head, but at the same time see a photo in our living room that makes me want to scream that everything I know is a lie?

  After an hour of staring out my bedroom window and not seeing any sign of people working around the grounds today, I quickly dressed and hoped my instincts were right and that Nolan isn’t here today. I’m tired of the cloying, musty scent of the prison walls. I’m tired of the dreary darkness of being stuck inside, and I’m tired of being afraid to go anywhere just because of one guy. This is my home and I’m not going to allow him to make me feel fearful anymore.

  Turning away from the building, I make my way down the sidewalk and around the side of the building, headed toward the lake located about an acre away.

  With my face turned up toward the sun, I let it warm me as I make my way down to the lake. I let the chirping of birds and the soft breeze that rustles the leaves in the trees take my mind off of my troubles. Regardless of the fact that the 150 acres of land surrounding the prison used to be a place for inmates to farm and be forced to work relentlessly under the boiling sun all day long in penance for their sins, it’s still a beautiful area. Filled with rolling hills and lush green grass as far as the eye can see, it now resembles acres and acres of a park-like setting, instead of a prison farm. Gone are the fields of soybeans and corn the inmates were tasked with cultivating day in and day out. When the prison was shut down, my father let everything grow over, no longer having the benefit of a few hundred workers to keep things going. I like it much better like this, where I can roam the grounds alone without having an escort because when the prison was open, there were shackled inmates everywhere who could pose a threat at any moment, not that I could remember such a time.

  Walking down to the lake means I have to pass the small cemetery on the property, an area that I’ve always avoided for as long as I can remember. Even as I quicken my pace when I walk by the half-acre area surrounded by a low stone wall, I feel drawn to it in a strange way. Part of me knows that I’ve never set foot inside those stone walls. The idea of having people buried on this land, knowing they died inside the prison and had no family who cared about them enough to take them elsewhere to spend eternity has always given me the chills. Another part of me, the part that doesn’t believe half of the memories I have and questions everything I remember, can see myself clearly wandering through the old and broken headstones, memorizing all of the information and running my hands over the cold cement markers. I can feel the grass beneath my back as I rest on top of a grave with my hands beneath my head and my legs crossed at the ankles.

  Soon, there will be a few more graves added to this spot. They will rot and decay and writhe in agony when they show up at the gates of hell, just like they deserve.

  My feet stutter to a stop right at the entrance to the cemetery when I’m hit with that thought, so vicious and unsettling that I have to press my hand over my mouth to keep the contents of my lunch in my stomach. My eyes dart back and forth over the tops of the stone crosses and other markers I can see through the opening into the cemetery. I don’t like this place. I don’t like being reminded that people died in the place that I call home, even if it happened long before I was born. My mind is just playing tricks on me—it has to be. I’m not a mean person and I would never wish harm on someone else. I’m a good girl, a good daughter, and I’ve never done anything bad.

  “I’m doing this for your own good. You’re bad, bad, bad.”

  I immediately take off running, away from the cemetery and away from the words that echo in my head. I make it to the water’s edge in record time and stop next to an outcropping of weeds and pussy willows, calming my racing heart and pushing aside the thoughts in my head that are making me crazy.

  The sun glints off of the
smooth surface of the water, and I have to shield my eyes from the bright glare. With no trees in the immediate vicinity of the lake, there’s nothing to shade me from the heat of the early afternoon sun, and it’s not long before I feel sweat dripping down my back beneath my dress. The water looks cool and inviting and I wish I would have had the foresight to put on my bathing suit before I walked down here. Another wayward thought pops into my head as I stare out at the water: I don’t own a bathing suit. Thinking about the dresses that hang in my closet and the other articles of clothing folded neatly in my dresser, I realize I haven’t seen one in any of my things. I find that strange, considering we have a lake on our property with a dock attached, one that is perfect for running down and jumping into the refreshing water.

  Gazing at the dock a hundred yards away, I drop my hand from shielding my eyes from the sun and make my way toward it. As I step onto the worn and rickety boards that hover over the water, excitement fills me at the thought of running across it and jumping into the water with my clothes on. I can almost feel myself sinking to the bottom of the murky water, letting it cool my sweaty skin and erase all of my bad thoughts while the darkness swallows me up and blocks out the sun. I continue walking along the dock in a daze as I survey the water, imagining my feet sinking into the mud and the sand at the bottom of the lake before pushing off and soaring back up to the surface. I want to disappear under the water and feel alive. I want to kick my feet, pull my arms through the water, and propel my body as fast as I can until I feel the burn in my muscles that makes me feel strong and in control.

  I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs, closing my eyes and lifting my foot off the end of the dock, wanting nothing more than to sink into oblivion. Spreading my arms out from my body, I feel myself falling forward and my heart speeds up in anticipation. Right when I excitedly expect to feel myself splash into the cold water, strong arms wrap around my waist, and I’m yanked backward so quickly that I shout in disappointment and anger.

  “Let me go! I want to swim!” I scream, clawing at the arms around me that drag me back away from the edge of the dock.

  I’m suddenly lifted up from the wood as I kick and shout in protest, the arms around me holding tighter while I longingly eye the water. The thumping of footsteps against the dock swiftly fades away as I’m moved onto the grass surrounding the lake. I continue to yell and fight against the arms that hold me, my shouts of protest immediately cut off when I’m dropped onto my butt in the grass. Ignoring the pain in my rear end from being tossed to the ground and the embarrassment of being dragged away from the water like a rag doll, I scramble up from the grass and whirl around to confront the person who put a stop to my plans.

  My mouth drops open in surprise when I see Nolan standing in front of me with his hands casually resting on his hips. I should be afraid that I’m out here alone with him, far enough from the prison that no one will hear me if I scream, but I’m too angry to worry about my safety.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yell angrily.

  “Saving you from drowning. A thank you would be nice,” he deadpans.

  Once again, I’m struck by how nice he is to look at. Just like always, he’s dressed in a ratty pair of jeans and an old t-shirt that clings to his body, covered in dirt and sweat from working outside under the blazing sun. His shaggy blonde hair hangs down over one eye, making him look cute and innocent, instead of mean and imposing. I’m so furious at being taken away from the water that I forget about being afraid and mistrustful of him.

  “I wasn’t even in the water, so you didn’t save me from anything,” I argue, mirroring his pose by putting my own hands on my hips as I glare at him.

  He shakes his head at me, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

  “Oh no. You don’t get to be annoyed with me,” I continue. “You had no right to drag me away from the water. Who do you think you are, stopping me from going for a swim in my lake on my family’s property?”

  The irritation disappears from his face and his hands drop from his hips as he stares at me. The silence and the way he studies me is unnerving, and it makes me want to run away. Not because I’m afraid of him or what he might do to me, but because I’m scared he’ll figure out all of my secrets, even the ones I can’t even comprehend myself.

  “Jesus,” he whispers under his breath. “You really don’t remember anything.”

  I hate the way he says these words, like he knows everything about me, and he’s shocked that I know nothing.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He rubs the back of his neck nervously, finally looking away from me to stare out at the lake behind me.

  “I thought it was all an act. I thought you were ashamed of…God, I’m an asshole…”

  Nolan trails off, still scanning the lake instead of looking at me. I have no idea what he’s muttering about and I want to yell at him and demand answers, but the quiet confusion in his voice and the look of sadness on his face hold me back. What did he think was an act? What do I have to be ashamed of?

  “You honestly don’t remember. It never occurred to me you really didn’t remember until I saw you on the end of that dock. Jesus, you just about took ten years off my life,” he curses, letting out a frustrated breath.

  “Will you please tell me what the hell you’re talking about?” I ask in annoyance, fully prepared to stomp my foot if necessary.

  His eyes come back to mine, and I’m overwhelmed with the grief I see shining back at me. He takes a step toward me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off of his body. Not even the warmth from his skin can stop the chill that skitters through me at his next words.

  “Ravenna, you don’t know how to swim. You’re deathly afraid of the water, and you never, ever come near this lake.”

  I wrap my arms around my body and shake my head back and forth in denial. It doesn’t make sense. I want to argue that he’s wrong but I can see the truth written all over his face. He was honestly afraid for my safety. He saw me out at the end of the dock and pulled me away before I could jump in. It’s impossible to be afraid of someone who clearly wanted to save me, instead of harm me. I forget about the fading bruises on my wrist that matched the fingerprints he left on my upper arm the other day because maybe he tried to save me one other time, and I just don’t remember. The only things I’m afraid of right now are the things he knows about me that I don’t.

  Without another word, I sidestep around him and take off, fleeing toward the prison. When he shouts my name, I don’t even look back. I run away from the lake, and I run away from the person who could be the key to unlocking my memories. I run because for the first time since I woke up, I’m not sure I want to know the truth.

  “My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old, and I live in a prison. I have dreams of swimming until my lungs want to burst…but I don’t know how to swim.”

  Chapter 6

  I rudely elbow my way through a group of tourists milling about in the hallway, waiting their turn in the gift shop. I ignore the shouts of protests when I bump into shoulders and shove people out of my way as I run down the hallway and race up the stairs. I hear my father call my name in a worried voice, but I ignore him as well, escaping into my room and slamming the door closed behind me.

  Staring at the pristine pink room with the bed neatly made, I scream in frustration, stomp over to the covers and rip them from the bed. Before I went outside this morning, I found a dark blue comforter in the bathroom closet and remade my bed with something I found appealing, instead of something that disgusted me. My mother must have switched the blankets after I left to go on my walk. In a fit of rage, I crumple the pink comforter in my arms, open the window next to my bed, and toss it out into the air. Clutching onto the windowsill, I watch it flutter to the ground, landing in a heap in the grass two stories below, and wish I could follow right along with it. Maybe a good solid fall from a second-story window will jar my brain enough that everything starts making sense.
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br />   With a frustrated growl, I turn from the window and give the metal frame of my bed a few good hard kicks. The bed shakes and rattles each time my foot connects with the frame, and after the fourth kick I hear a dull thump from underneath. I immediately put a halt to my temper tantrum and drop down on all fours next to the bed. Lifting the ruffled pink bedskirt with one hand, I peer beneath the bed. Lying in between a few dust bunnies and one stray sock, I see a book that must have been the cause of the noise, falling out of its hiding spot when I took my anger out on my bed. Reaching underneath the bed, I grab the book and pull it toward me, letting the ruffled skirt fall back into place as I hold the book in my hands and sit back on my feet. Skimming my hands over the worn brown leather, I realize it’s a journal and excitement courses through me, even though I don’t recognize the book. Obviously it’s mine since it was hidden under my bed. Cradling the journal to my chest, I scoot backward to the wall directly below the window and lean against it, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting the book on top of them. Flipping open the leather cover, the first few words on the page, written in flowery, cursive script, make me smile.

  “The diary of Ravenna Duskin. Keep out!”

  The words keep out are underlined three times. Turning over the first page, my smile fades when I’m met with a blank page. I turn to the next page and it’s blank as well. Lifting the book closer to my face to inspect it better, I spread open the binding as wide as I can, my finger tracing down the center of the journal where there are several missing pages, ripped out of the book as close to the bindings as possible so as to leave barely a trace of evidence that they are gone. Shaking my head in annoyance, I quickly flip through the few remaining pages in the book, my frustration growing when I realize I won’t find anything helpful, until I get to the final page in the book. My hand stills on the last page, filled with words from the very top all the way to the bottom. Every space of this page is covered with ink, including the side margins. The words at the top start out very small, almost too small to read, but as they continue down the page, they grow larger, the ink becoming darker and darker as some of the words were traced over multiple times. The pretty, flowing script on the first page doesn’t look like my handwriting, even though I know it must be mine. Running my fingers over the harshly written words on this last page, I know with absolute certainty that these words are mine. This tight, angry block lettering is mine and these words repeated over and over again are mine. I don’t recognize the journal; I don’t remember ever keeping a record of my thoughts and memories, but I must have. The book was in my room, hidden beneath my bed, in a place where only I would find it. My hands shake as I skate my fingers over the words that I feel like are screaming the truth, forcing me to open my eyes and accept the reality that my mind won’t allow.