by E. L. Montes
“I have no idea. But I felt suffocated. I still feel suffocated, Charlie.” I adjust to sit up. “For God’s sake, I’m in my early twenties and my parents control everything I do. It’s as if I have no say whatsoever in my life. Sure, they’re never here physically, but they manage to control every little thing anyway: school, work, therapy. For once I just wanted to feel in control. They treat me like I’m incapable of doing anything. Like I’m a pet puppy who can’t be left alone without destroying everything, so they keep me caged.”
Charlie gives my hand a tight squeeze. “I know the past few years have been difficult for you, Jenna. Especially the last eight months.”
“Don’t,” I interrupt flatly. The last thing I want to be reminded about is the last few months of my life. I’m aware of how difficult it’s been. I’ve lived through it. But I’m still here, fighting through it, managing somehow. It can’t be so bad if I’m surviving each day. It could always be worse, right? At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s the only thing that’s giving me hope.
That’s the end of the conversation. Charlie knows how much I can handle, and she’s learned throughout the years not to push my limits.
She stands. “Want to take a dip? I can’t take this heat any longer.”
“Sure.”
Sometimes I wonder how I became so lucky to have her in my life. Neither one of us can replace Brooke for the other. She meant different things to each of us and we’ll never be able to fill her shoes. But in some small way, having Charlie around helps me hold on to a piece of my sister that I’d lose otherwise. And I think it’s the same for her. She’s been there for me through and through for the past few months. It’s taken up to this very second for me to realize it. Knowing that I’ll always have her, that she’ll always be there for me, makes me grateful. Like today. I needed someone to pull me out of bed and force me back to reality, and she was there.
Charlie sits at the island in the kitchen, chatting away as I whip up scrambled eggs and bacon. She hasn’t left my side since last night. Being the good friend she is, she insisted we rent movies, eat junk food, and have a good old-fashioned girls’ night. The last time I had a night like that was about a year ago—when Brooke convinced me to watch Grease for the thousandth time. She had a massive John Travolta crush and refused to believe he acted in other movies. I smile, remembering how Brooke would jump up and dance along with the scenes.
Charlie didn’t realize it, but I needed her last night more than anything. I didn’t trust myself alone; I could’ve easily fallen back into a depressive spell. It isn’t difficult to succumb to my gloomy moods, but with Charlie around I’m able to avoid my racing thoughts for a short period of time. We stayed up all night, talking about nonsense and watching comedies. My mind was free of everything I’ve been dealing with the past few days. I even laughed. That’s something I haven’t done in a very long time.
Who needs Dr. Rosario?
“On the latest issue of Cosmopolitan: ‘100 Ways to Satisfy Your Man,’” Charlie reads, flipping through the pages of the magazine. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Ooooh…” She looks up at me, intrigued. “Did you know that a female can have several stages of an orgasm?”
I turn off the gas range on the stove and toss our breakfast onto plates. “And here I thought there was only one.” I smirk.
“Well, it’s been a long time since you…” She wiggles a finger, pointing toward my lower waist. “You know.”
She always has to go there. I glare, warning her to cut it out. “Thanks for the reminder.” She catches the plate as I slide it her way.
Charlie raises her hands, palms forward in surrender. “Look, last remark about this subject and then I’m finished.” She waits for my approval. When I sit down across from her and silently start eating, she takes it upon herself to go on. Leaning over the counter with her hand cupped around the side of her mouth, she faux-whispers, “They have magical toys to help you reach any stage you desire.”
Just as I’m about to toss a piece of toast at her, my mother steps into the room. “The last thing I want is to walk in on my daughter and her friend discussing sex toys,” Mom remarks.
Why does this keep happening to me?
With wide eyes, both Charlie and I watch as my mother gracefully passes us, opens the fridge, and removes a container filled with green juice. She never misses a morning without having her self-made, healthy energy drink. She’s wearing her workout gear and the silky strands of her red locks are tied back perfectly in a ponytail. “You girls are up early,” she points out, pouring herself a tall glass of the green tar.
“More like still awake. We haven’t slept yet,” Charlie responds.
My mother nods in acknowledgement. “Ah. That explains the dark circles under Jenna’s eyes.” I laugh at her judgmental remark. This woman can ruin my day and make my blood boil within a split second. Why? Why does she feel entitled to say anything at all?
Angrily, I clink my fork against the plate, stabbing my scrambled eggs. I refuse to allow her to bring me down. I refuse to let her words ruin my perfect morning. With my mouth full, I keep my head low and enjoy my breakfast as Charlie tries to make light of the situation.
“So, Mrs. McDaniel, I see you’re going for your daily run. Keeping the body in shape for Mr. McDee, huh?” My best friend never fails to amaze me, but at this point even my parents are aware of her bluntness.
“Charlie, we’ve been through this numerous times. I’d like it if you’d refer to me as Laura. Mrs. McDaniel just seems a bit old, don’t you think?” Ha. I snort, silencing the room. I peek up to find my mother’s piercing eyes narrowed in on me. “Is there something you’d like to share, Jenna?”
Because I feel it’s my daughterly duty to be a total bitch when she is to me, I respond with an arrogant smile. “Well, Mother, last I remember you’re not getting any younger. In fact, a fiftieth birthday is slowly approaching, isn’t it?”
There it goes. My mother has a thin vein on her forehead that shoots across from the base of her left eyebrow and disappears into the right side of her hairline. When she’s upset, it pops out a bit more than usual. When she’s furious, it pulses. Right now it’s popping, not quite pulsing just yet. But I know I hit a nerve. Well done, Jenna. Well done. She knows how to push my buttons, and I know how to push hers. When we’re together, we’re lethal.
My smile falters as I watch the look in her eyes slowly change from ticked off to competitive, challenging even. Her stare still glued to me, she finishes her drink, places the cup down, and flashes a knowing smirk. “Dr. Rosario rang.” My heartbeat hammers rapidly at her statement. “You're going back. No question about it.”
The stool screeches along the tile floors as I stand abruptly. My heart feels like it’s struggling to break free of my chest. “I thought there was a confidentiality agreement between her and me.”
My mother's smile brightens. It’s a fake, mechanical, smile, like that of a Stepford wife. “Yes, anything spoken between the two of you is most definitely confidential. But when I'm paying for the weekly visits, it's her duty to notify me when and why she stops charging my account. It was an agreement we had.”
I can’t believe this. It’s just another way for her to control me. “I'm not going back,” I say sternly. I want to make her very clear of my intentions.
I’m. Not. Going. Back.
“Jenna, yes you are. These therapy sessions are good for you.”
Good for me? “You have no damn clue what's good for me!” My face heats in rage as I lean over the countertop. My fingers grip the edge to keep me from lunging at her. “You waltz around here, claiming to know everything, but you don't. You don't even know your own daughter. I question if you even knew Brooke at all.”
“Jenna, stop,” she demands.
Uncontrollable anger rushes through me. “Or maybe that’s it. You knew Brooke so much more than me. You paid so much attention to her that you failed to see that you had two daughters, not just o
ne. You make it very clear, Mother, that I’m a lost cause, that I’m useless in your life, in this family, and in this home. You manage to make me feel everything ugly—not only on the outside, but also on the inside. You make me more broken than what I am.”
“Oh, honey,” she says softly, eyes filled with pity. “You need to stop blaming others for your failure.”
“Mrs. McDaniel…” I hear Charlie gasp in pure shock.
I’m furious. She does this. She knows how to hit every single nerve of mine. She knows how to make me ill and disgusted with a simple look in her eyes. She knows how to work me up. The question is why. Why does she continue to do this? Why does she feel the need to control my life? Does it make her feel powerful knowing the control she has over me? Is it because she’s so desperate to push me away she’ll do anything to manipulate my emotions?
“Jenna…” Charlie’s voice is distant. I barely make out what she’s saying. The voices in my head are overpowering everything—even my own thoughts. “Breathe,” I hear her say faintly. I can’t. It’s hard to breathe. My fingers grip the granite, my eyes are unfocused, and my body is trembling as I try to fight for air.
She doesn’t love you, She never has, She hates you, Why would she love you, You’re a pig, You’re disgusting, She wishes it were you that was dead, not Brooke, She would’ve rather buried your body six feet underground, You’re a waste of space, Why are you even here, Go kill yourself already and get it over with, She doesn’t care what happens to you, She’s never cared…
The evil voice continues to dominate my thoughts. Every time I try to fight through it, I falter. It roots itself down deep within. Running. Running usually works. I push away from the counter, turn around, and dash out of the kitchen, into the foyer, and out the front door.
You stupid fucking bitch, You’re a joke, No one cares about you, They all think you’re crazy, because you are, Just do it already, Kill yourself, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it. DO IT!
I scream at myself to sprint through the voices. I need the voices to go away. I need them out of my head. They’re invading my mind. Houses, trees, parked cars all dash by in my peripheral vision. They all seem to be zooming by quickly, yet I feel stock-still, like I’m in a slow-motion movie. I’m not running fast enough. Forcing myself, I push hard, one foot in front of the other, faster and faster. Each long block fades in the distance with each one I pass.
It burns: my shins, my chest, my throat. Everything. My breathing is ragged. Choking in air, I continue to dart down the street, round a corner and down another street. The quicker I run, the more my skin feels the harsh breeze of this early summer morning. I push forward, daring the wind to take me away—away from my thoughts, from my fucked-up life, from my screwed-up mother. Each taunting word from the voices forces me to keep going.
Minutes. Hours. I’m not certain how long it’s been before I collapse by a corner. Queasy and drained, I bend over. Sweat coats my face, neck, and arms, and I have to grip my knees for support. The urge to vomit settles in. Breathing is difficult to do. Everything is blurry. I vomit, over and over again, hurling the little breakfast I managed to eat all over the green grass of the street corner. The same street corner where kids are now lining up to wait for the school bus.
“Gross,” one of the kids yells.
“Are you okay?” another asks.
“She’s not wearing shoes,” a little boy points out.
I barf again.
I hear the school bus pull up. All the kids hop on, and then it drives away. There’s no way any more bile can come out of me. Exhausted and weak, my body collapses to the ground. My heart is still hammering as I struggle to scoot over and lean my head against the pole of the street sign.
In a complete daze, I focus straight ahead at the house across the street. The image before me is…well, perfect. A white picket fence surrounds a beautiful brick home with matching white shutters. The neatly manicured lawn beckons me to lie soundlessly on its bright green surface. It's this temporary comfort, this temporary peace, which tugs at my consciousness. But it’s beyond my reach. My eyes roam over to the left side of the lawn. Catching my breath, I admire the oversized pink dogwood tree. It gives the home a pop of color, a cheerful color. I look up at the terrace on the second level, which appears to wrap around the entire home. It looks like the perfect place for the owners to relax and enjoy a glass of wine or simply sit and enjoy the sunrise.
Picture-perfect.
My home, twice the size of this one, is twice as beautiful on the outside, yet on the inside, it’s filled with darkness. Filled with taunting judgments. Filled with sadness. There’s nothing flawless behind my house’s closed doors. The image of the house is just a facade for those who pass by to smile at. It’s an illusion engineered to make them think, “There’s the perfect home with the perfect family and the perfect life.” If only they knew the truth. The truth that haunts me endlessly, the truth that longs to break free. Instead, the truth is hidden behind flower boxes and shiny glass windows and wood and walls and lies.
Just like me.
I continue to stare at the home, trying to discover if there’s something else behind the brick walls other than perfection. I can’t be the only one in this world, in this state, or even in this damn neighborhood that’s screwed up. My mind shifts to a few years ago, when I was just as confused as I am today.
I like it up here. As high up as I am, I’m not afraid. The roof is my sacred place to get away. No one knows this is my escape, not even Eric. Well, except for Brooke. The only reason she knows is because she followed me one day, which is a usual Brooke thing to do. Still, she swore never to tell, and she hasn’t as of yet. I like it this way. Quiet. Even when cars zoom by in the distance or birds sing during the day or the crickets chirp at night, it’s peaceful. Just me and my thoughts.
But something is happening to me. My thoughts are slowly being taken over by someone else. I hear voices; I don’t know whose. It started with one voice a few weeks ago. The voice said awful things about me and even about Eric. Then it multiplied to two, then three different voices—all consuming my thoughts. The voices are draining me. I try to shake them off, pound my head with my fist, anything to get them out and make them stop. Nothing works. I can’t ignore them…except when I run. I run and run until the voices vanish, and by then I’m exhausted and collapse.
The first night it happened, I was scared and alone. I was home, sitting in bed studying for the SAT exam. Everything had been going great. My grades were improving and I’d applied to several colleges, hoping to be accepted into the same university as Brooke. Eric and I were doing better than ever. I’d never felt such a high in my life, even with all the pressure from my mother to do better in school. But then darkness descended and clouded over my world. My mood instantly changed. I felt like someone was in the room with me, spying. I grew paranoid. Then the voice began. It called me stupid and other foul names. It spat out hurtful words. It made me feel disgusted with myself.
It’s becoming more and more difficult to concentrate in school. The voices are getting worse. I don’t know how to control them. Dinner with my parents is always bad. I can hear them chatting about their day, very distantly, but the voices are overpowering them too. It’s hard to even hear my own thoughts. Because of this, I’ve been excusing myself from dinner every night. I think Mom is catching on, though. She’s been watching me a bit more than usual.
Then there’s Eric. He has no idea what’s going on with me. I’m afraid to tell him. All of this is bottled up inside, and I’m going through it alone. I don’t know any other way. I keep lashing out at him, which isn’t fair, but I have no clue how to handle…whatever this is.
Why is this happening to me?
Earlier today, the voices were poking and prodding, yelling. Each day they’re getting louder and speaking faster. I sat on the edge of the sofa at Eric’s parents’ home. Eric rented a movie and ordered pizza for our date night while his parents were out.
&nbs
p; He sat beside me on the couch, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me in closer to him. Usually, I’m a puddle of mush in his arms, but today I felt off about him. He was on the phone for a few seconds in the kitchen, whispering. When he came back to the couch and settled beside me, I tried not to let it get to me, but the voices were persistent. “Who were you on the phone with?” The question came out in a harsher and more demanding tone than I had intended.
He looked at me and shrugged a shoulder. “It was Jim. Why?”
“Jim?” I questioned.
Eric raised a brow. “Yeah, Jim. Is that a problem?”
“Yes. I know you’re lying.”
His eyes widened at the accusation. “Excuse me? Why on earth would I lie about being on the phone with Jim?”
Angry that he would lie to my face, I stood and pushed him away. “You were whispering in the kitchen, Eric.”
His features etched in confusion. He raised a hand, palm up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jenna. I wasn’t whispering.”
“Were you really talking to her?”
“Who?”
“Don’t act like I don’t know what you’re keeping from me.”
He got to his feet and brought his hands to my shoulders. His body towered over me, and his eyes pierced into mine. “Jenna, listen to how you sound right now. What are you talking about? And who is ‘she?’”
“The other girl you’ve been screwing with!”
Shocked, he let go of me and took a step back. “You’re crazy.”
Then the voices began to chant his words over and over again.
You’re crazy, You’re psycho, You’re crazy, You’re psycho, You’re crazy, You’re psycho…
