by Carian Cole
“I would like to buy them, please,” I say, not taking my eyes off the photographs. I’m captivated by the magical feeling of the photos and the legend behind them, and now I can’t bear the thought of not being able to look at them whenever I want.
The salesgirl stares at me; then she eyes the four pictures. “They’re quite expensive, two hundred dollars each—”
“That’s fine,” Feather interrupts, suddenly appearing next to me with a big smile. “She’ll take all four. Can you wrap them up for her?”
“Of course!” the salesgirl says, responding instantly to Feather’s confident demeanor, which I know is all an act that she plays very well. “I’ll meet you at the register with them.” The salesgirl carefully takes them down from the wall.
Nerves rattle my stomach. Money is not a concept I’m at all comfortable with, and I just don’t feel like I have a right to spend someone else’s money. Especially my father’s. He barely speaks to me.
“Feather…that’s a lot of money, and I don’t need them. I didn’t know—”
My friend puts her hand up to shush me. “Holly, stop. You’re allowed to have things. I know you probably don’t know this, but your dad makes a lot of money. He took me aside last night, when you were putting your suitcase in your room, and told me to make sure you bought anything you wanted after I told him we were going shopping.”
I bite my lip. “Are you sure? I’m not used to buying things.”
“I know—that’s what I’m here for. I’m a pro.” She grins and loops her arm through mine. “Come on, I’ll let you slide the card. It’s totally addicting.”
It’s nearly eight o’clock by the time Feather and I are on our way home to Merryfield. It’s dark outside but even darker inside her car due to the tinted windows. I squint, my gaze wandering around the interior of the car. The darkness reminds me of being in that hole, the dirt in my nostrils, the sounds of the woods at night frightening me. I could hear things walking around at night, and I never knew if it was my captor or a wild animal. I always tried to hush Poppy by gently putting my hand over his mouth, afraid he would make the bad man mad or bring a wild animal to eat us.
“Did you scream for help while you were in the hole in the woods?” The female officer asked.
“No…never,” I answer.
“Why not?”
“I guess I forgot someone would ever help me.”
I thought we were only going shopping, but Feather surprises me by also taking me to her favorite restaurant for dinner. I look at her uneasily as her manicured fingertips tap out a text message on her phone with one hand as she steers the car with the other. I don’t have a cell phone, and the insane appeal of them is lost on me. What can be so interesting on a little phone?
“Sorry…Steve is telling me about his day,” she says, referring to her sort-of boyfriend, a guy she’s known since she was very young, who is mostly a friend but is slowly turning into more. She puts her phone in the console between our seats, and I can breathe a little easier knowing she actually has her eyes on the road and the traffic around us. “Are you feeling okay now? I’m sorry about the lipstick thing…”
“It’s okay. You had no way of knowing. I just feel bad I embarrassed you.”
“The guy…he made you wear lipstick?” She’s the only person who ever asks for any details whatsoever about what happened to me, and I usually don’t mind telling her.
I chew my lip, torn between wanting to tell her and not wanting to remember any of it. “Yeah,” I finally admit, feeling ashamed, even though the logical side of me knows it’s not my fault. “Bright red lipstick. He’d put it on me before he…touched me.”
She grimaces. “God, that’s fucking sick. That’s like the shit you see in movies. I’m so glad my mom’s husband didn’t do weird shit like that with me. He just liked to get drunk and grope the hell out of me.”
Just thinking red and lipstick starts to make me panic, and I break out in a cold sweat. I clamp down on that sensation, force the images and feelings of fear away. I don’t want to freak out again, or Feather may not want to take me out in public again. I use the breathing and visualization exercises Dr. Reynolds taught me to do when I feel overwhelmed with emotions.
Counting to ten, I squeeze my eyes shut. I bite on my lower lip and try to clear my mind. I force my thoughts away from those memories and into less dangerous territory. I think about Poppy, in his new home, happy and loved. I think about my prince, his words promising me I’ll be okay. I think about my books and the stories that always give me comfort. I think about my grandmother’s hugs. I think about my new Christmas photographs. Soon I feel better. Less out of control.
According to Dr. Reynolds, I suffer from what’s called posttraumatic stress disorder, and I’ll likely have to deal with it for the rest of my life. Her focus was on teaching me how to understand the triggers I’ll face and how to calmly deal with them, especially in public. Which I guess I kinda failed at today. Talking about how to deal with triggers in the safety of her office is a lot different from experiencing it in real life, and now I’m completely exhausted from this day.
I open my eyes and glance over at Feather discreetly. She doesn’t seem to notice my anxiety, her attention on the road and the radio. That small bit of information about my past seems to have satisfied her, so I don’t offer any further details. We’re almost home, and I’m looking forward to being alone and forgetting about the bad parts of the day.
Feather seems to have recovered from her abuse better than I have, and I’m a bit jealous. When we first met last year, she was quiet, depressed, and withdrawn. Now she’s much happier, like a lot of weight has been lifted from her. I often wonder how she feels about me as a friend. Does she feel sorry for me? Disgusted by me? Her head is bobbing slightly to the music coming from the car stereo, oblivious to me watching her. I wish I could be as carefree as she appears to be lately.
We stop at a traffic light, and Feather picks up her phone again and types wildly on the tiny keyboard, illuminating the interior of the car. I hope she’s not telling Steve about me and the red lipstick incident.
The thundering roar of a motorcycle pulling up to a stop next to us startles me, and I peer out the window at the rider. It’s early October but, even with a chill in the air, all he’s wearing is a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing muscular, tattooed arms. A black knit hat covers his head in lieu of a helmet. Long dirty blond hair sprouts from the hem and just touches his collar. He must feel my gaze because he turns sideways toward me.
I gasp—
The lower half of his face is covered by a mask that looks like a portion of a bloody skull. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. He grabs the burning cigarette dangling from a hole cut in the mask and blows a puff of gray smoke in my direction before carelessly flicking the cigarette onto the street between us.
But that’s not what’s got me nearly crawling out of my seat and jumping out into the road. I sit forward slightly and lean closer to the dark-tinted window, not sure he can even see me.
“Did you see that creeper throw his cigarette at my car?” Feather shoves her phone back into the console. “I should run that asshole off the road.”
My heart gallops in my chest, and I lean even closer to the window, my breath puffing against the cold glass, my eyes riveted to his tattooed hand, wrapped around the handlebar grip.
The last time I saw that tattooed hand, it was squeezing the throat of the man who had kept me for ten years.
My eyes widen, poring over him. The way his powerful legs wrap around the rumbling motorcycle, the broadness of his shoulders, his arm muscles flexing, the colorful ink covering the exposed parts of his forearms, the stray wisps of hair blowing in the breeze. An indescribable ache sears through me, a longing like nothing I have ever felt before.
Look at me, look at me!
I want to scream it. I want him to see me. I need him to recognize me.
I’m right here!
&nb
sp; But his gaze doesn’t linger. His head turns away, and he guns his engine.
No! He’s going to leave me again. I’m going to lose him again. There he is, just six feet away from me—the man who saved me. My beautiful, strong prince. My breath catches as he kicks the bike into gear with a scuffed black boot then speeds off down the dark road, disappearing within moments.
I wish I could have stopped him.
I wish I could thank him and tell him I’m sorry for what he went through for me.
But most of all, I want to tell him how I waited for him.
Hoped for him and dreamt of him for so long.
How I’m still waiting.
Is it possible to wish someone right out of your heart into existence?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Now we just have to find each other again.
7
Holly
“Do you know what you want?” Zac asks. I peer up at the café menu written on a huge chalkboard, as we stand in line, completely overwhelmed by all the choices. I don’t even know what half the stuff is. Like biscotti.
It’s been over a week since my outing with Feather and seeing my prince at the traffic light. I find myself peering around the café and out into the street, hoping to see him again. I have no way of knowing how to find him, but this town is very small—I can only assume he must live here. I wonder how close we have been to each other all this time.
For the past year, I’ve asked my parents if they know where he lives, so maybe I can write to him, but their answer is always the same: “leave it alone” or “that’s not acceptable.” I asked them when I first moved to Merryfield and even asked Dr. Reynolds if there was a way for me to contact him, but they were all adamant that it was best for me to leave him alone as he was “mentally unstable.” For now, I push those thoughts away so I can focus on my outing with my older brother.
Next to me, Zac orders a bagel and coffee then turns to me. “Well?” he prods, gently breaking my thoughts.
He came down this weekend just to see me. I appreciate his effort. I know it’s a hassle for him to visit me since he lives in the city, but it breaks the monotony of my days. Usually, he takes me out of Merryfield and Anna joins us and, for a few hours, I feel like a normal person and less of a freak. Zac always tries hard to treat me like I’m just his sister and not some kind of victim. He’s never condescending, never full of pity, and he never acts like he’s in a rush to get away from me. He was even nice enough to hang my Christmas tree photographs on the wall next to my bed this morning, so I can look at them every day.
“Um…” I look at him for help while the young guy behind the counter waits with a bored expression on his face. Behind us, the line is getting restless. The pressure becomes even more unbearable, but Zac seems unconcerned, and I’m grateful for his patience. Decisions aren’t easy for me. For ten years, all I was given was bread, water, dry cereal, Fruit Roll-Ups, little boxes of juice, trail mix, and an occasional apple, cookie, or cupcake used as a bribe.
“Do you want the cupcake? Be a good girl then. Bend over and don’t scream or fight and I’ll let you have the cupcake.”
I’m ashamed to admit that, some days, I wanted that cupcake so bad that I bent over and bit my tongue until it bled to keep from screaming as he touched me. I always regretted it later, when the sweet icing was burning in my tummy, the appeal of the treat long gone.
“Holly?”
I shake my head and force out a breath. Those memories always gut me, but no one needs to hear them. No one needs to know how they continue to torment me. The bad man is dead, and I have my prince to thank—if I can ever find him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I apologize a lot because it makes everything feel better, like saying everything is “great.” I recite what Feather always gets for me. “A blueberry muffin and a vanilla latte with skim milk.” I have no idea if I like anything else, and I’m embarrassed to ask him to describe everything on the menu to me.
“Okay.” Zac grins, his left dimple making an appearance. “Why don’t you go grab us a table, and I’ll bring it over.”
Nodding, I head for a small table by the windows, avoiding eye contact with the other customers, and settle into one of the wooden chairs to wait for Zac.
“You should talk to someone about that,” a female voice says, and I turn to see a girl at the next table pointing at my arm. “I used to cut and burn, too. You can get help. Self-harm isn’t the answer.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I pull my sweater sleeves down to my wrists and push my hair back over my shoulder. “Thank you,” I say as politely as I can. “But I didn’t do it to myself.”
With wide eyes she shakes her head, sending her short, black bob bouncing around her shoulders. “Girl, that’s even worse. Don’t let some asshole hurt you. I been there, too.”
Zac sets the tray of food on the table in front of me, looking from me to the girl as if he’s waiting for an introduction.
“Did he do that to you?” The girl shoots him a look that could melt ice.
“Do what?” Zac asks, his brow creasing.
“Put them cigarette burn marks all over her arms. That’s what.”
The look of surprise and hurt on his handsome face makes my chest hurt, and I struggle to breathe. I want to run back to the car, to my backpack in the backseat of Zac’s car. He always lets me bring it if he takes me somewhere as long as I leave it in the car.
“No,” I reply. “He’s my brother. He would never hurt me.”
“What’s going on?” Zac demands, his defenses rising.
“Nothing, Zac,” I glance back at the girl, wishing she would just go away and mind her own business. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.”
Her eyebrow rises. “You sure about that?”
The couple at the table next to us leans close to each other, their eyes darting over at us as they whisper. About me, most likely.
“Yes, I’m positive. Thank you.” I force my millionth fake smile.
Suddenly her face changes, going from suspicion to shock to pity. “Holy shit.” She lowers her voice to an excited whisper. “You’re that girl who was found in the hole out in the woods, aren’t you? You’re little Holly Daniels. I read about you.”
I meet her eyes and put on my best look of defiant confidence. “No. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There. I did it. I deflected her. I don’t owe anyone anything. I focus all my attention on removing the paper from my muffin as she gets up and walks away, mumbling to herself about assholes and denial.
“What was that all about?” Zac still looks confused.
I shrug, wanting to move on and not make this outing any more uncomfortable than it already is. Since I was found, my family has had to deal with this kind of attention from random, nosy people in both public and private ways. I was mostly shielded from it, being at Merryfield, and I wonder if that’s part of the reason my parents sent me there. Not just for the therapy, but to hide me away.
“She saw the burn scars on my arms and thought I was hurting myself or had a boyfriend that was hurting me, I guess.” I sigh. “Then she recognized me.”
“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “People just don’t know boundaries sometimes.”
“It’s okay. I forgot to pull my sleeves down.”
He dumps a packet of sugar into his coffee, his jaw clenching. “You shouldn’t have to wear long-sleeved shirts all the time. People should just shut the hell up and be respectful of others.” He’s angry for me, and I hate to see him this way. He’s a very calm, soft-spoken guy most of the time, and it bothers me that being around me makes him mad.
I reach over and touch his hand, which is stirring his coffee with a fierce briskness. He stops and glances up at me with a look of surprise on his face. I never initiate touching, and I pull away quickly. Reaching out to him felt like an impulse, almost an involuntary reflex. Maybe it means I’m starting to trust. “It’s okay, Zac,” I say softly. I rub my hand against
my thigh, still feeling slightly awkward about touching his hand. I’m brimming with so much I want to say, but it’s like there’s this cork inside me that keeps me from letting it all out. I want to tell him how scared I am that I’ll never feel normal. That I’ll never feel like part of the family. That I may never have a relationship. That people will always look at me like I’m damaged and dirty. I want to tell him I’m sorry he has to deal with the questions and the stares sometimes, too. “I really don’t want to talk about it but…people recognize me, they ask questions. I have to get used to it.”
“I don’t know how you don’t scream at these rude-ass people.” Zac busies himself spreading butter from a tiny plastic cup onto his bagel.
“You screamed. You know what that means. You scream, you get burnt. You pull away? The dog gets burnt. Get it through your fucking head.”
I shake my head, momentarily afraid to speak.
“So, how was your visit with Mom and Dad?” he asks.
I focus on my brother’s face and wait for the memory to fade back into the dark hole it seeped out of. “Good. The same.” I take the lid off my latte, peer inside, and put the lid back on. “Thank you for letting me stay in your room, it really came out pretty.” He nods, and I continue. “Mom and Dad were nice…but they didn’t talk to me much at all. It felt like they were only seeing me because they had to, not because they wanted to.” He nods again, and I pull a blueberry from the soft, yellow fluff to examine it. “I don’t know, I’m still just trying to fit in. Feather has taken me shopping and out to eat few times, but she usually spends most of the time we’re together typing on her phone. I tried to spend some time with Lizzie during the visit, but Mom acts a little crazy about it, like she doesn’t want me near her.”
