Beneath the Skin

by Kyla Stone

  53

  It is a day in late March that feels like spring, if you close your eyes and manage not to see the soggy brown earth, the rapidly melting pelts of snow. The sun kisses my cheeks. A breeze lifts the dark fringe of my hair. Shadows from gravestones elongate across the matted grass.

  This is how I feel. I am afraid. But I know now I am stronger than my fear. I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know the direction the road turns ahead, or the places it may go. I only know the way behind me is closed.

  I am still. Everything inside me is still.

  I stare at the name engraved in the stone. This is the first and last time I will ever visit my father’s grave. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve come, but it seems right. It’s another form of letting go. Frank’s been dead for months, but only now does he seem really, truly gone. The nightmares may never go away. But I will survive them.

  I feel a deep ache, a hollowed out feeling like something precious and elemental has been torn right out of my chest. I think of how the nurse described my mother after they took Zoe Rose away from her in the hospital, how her arms continued to cradle nothing, empty air. I will always have this. The ache of emptiness where a father’s love should be. The stone-shaped pain of my mother, who was here, then not here, whose absence is a jagged wound barely scabbed over.

  But these wounds are not fatal.

  I breathe deeply. It is so natural, so right, to breathe. To live. It is right to experience sorrow, regret, guilt, passion, rage, pleasure, joy, pain, love. It is right to wake up every day and keep going, to force your way through, to fight for the good things. You have to fight for them. They don’t just come. You can’t wish for the good things to find you. Life doesn’t work that way.

  No one comes to save you. If you’re really lucky, you have a true friend or maybe two, to support you, to brush you off and help you get up when you fall. But ultimately, it’s up to you. You have to do it on your own. You are your own chrysalis.

  You choose whether to let it all go, everything you knew, everything you thought kept you safe, kept you in control. You choose whether to believe in something bigger than yourself. If you know, in your heart of hearts, that there’s more than this, more than the muck of the ground. There’s a blue sky up there, beckoning for you.

  I do not touch the stone or whisper any final words. I rise and walk back through the gravestones toward the car, where Lucas and Arianna wait for me. The sun is in my eyes. I squint but do not look away.

  The Beginning

  Thank you for reading Beneath The Skin!

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  Sneak Peek

  Check out a sneak peek of Who We Are Instead after the “About the Author” page.

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  Author’s Note

  Beneath The Skin is entirely fiction, but the issues explored inside this book are not. Sidney’s story weighed on my heart for over a decade before I wrote this book. I personally struggled with cutting, depression, and eating disorders from the age of thirteen until my early twenties. Much of Sidney and Arianna’s pain is my own.

  While I have not experienced the hell Sidney lived through, her darkest struggles reflect some of my own mother’s story. My mother suffered horrific sexual abuse at the hands of her father, my biological grandfather. I remember being twelve-years-old, hunched over a chicken sandwich at a restaurant much like Bill’s Bar and Grill. My bare legs stuck to the hard yellow booth. My Mom sat across from me, her face taut and pale. She didn’t touch the fries on her plate.

  That day, she told me her story. She told me of the abuse she suffered. She explained why I’d never met my grandfather. My mother protected me, saved me from a fate that befalls far too many young girls. As of the publication of this book, my biological grandfather is in prison for the third time for the sexual assault of a minor.

  My mother didn’t have to kill anyone like Sidney feels she must. When my mother was fourteen, a concerned teacher expressed an interest in her and asked her pointed questions about her home life. Mom took this as her sign. She burst into tears. Slowly, painfully, the truth came out. That teacher believed her and helped my mother escape her situation.

  Words have power. We must speak our truth if anyone is to hear us. If they don’t listen, speak louder. Yell. Scream. Go to someone else.

  Telling someone was the first stepping my mother’s long and arduous journey toward healing. She still had to choose hope. She had to choose life, trust, and faith. She refused to perpetuate the cycle of abuse. My mom is a cycle-breaker, much like Sidney. It takes tremendous courage to break the chains that ensnare generations of families. You can do this, too. You can break the cycle.

  You are stronger than you know.

  You are beautiful and smart and talented and important. You matter. If you or someone you love struggles with cutting, depression, eating disorders, or abuse, there is help.

  If you’re being abused or were abused in the past, it’s not your fault. Please tell someone. If they don’t believe you, tell someone else. Speak for yourself. You’re worth it.

  Please use the following list of resources for help.

  SEXUAL ABUSE:

  • National Sexual Assault Hotline: National hotline, operated by RAINN, which serves people affected by sexual violence. It automatically routes the caller to their nearest sexual assault service provider. You can also search your local center here. www.Rainn.org. Hotline: 800.656.HOPE

  • National Child Abuse Hotline: They can provide local referrals for services. A centralized call center provides the caller with the option of talking to a counselor. They are also connected to a language line that can provide service in over 140 languages. Hotline: 800.4.A.CHILD (422.2253)

  • Darkness to Light: They provide crisis intervention and referral services to children or people affected by sexual abuse of children. Hotline calls are automatically routed to a local center. Helpline: 866.FOR.LIGHT (367.5444)

  • Cyber Tipline: This tipline is operated by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children . Can be used to communicate information to the authorities about child pornography or child sex trafficking. Hotline: 800.THE.LOST (843.5678)

  • National Children’s Alliance: This organization represents the national network of Child Advocacy Centers (CAC). CACs are a multidisciplinary team of law enforcement, mental and physical health practitioners who investigate instances of child physical and sexual abuse. Their website explains the process and has a directory according to geographic location. www.nationalchildren’salliance.org

  • Stop It Now: Provides information to victims and parents/relatives/friends of child sexual abuse. The site also has resources for offender treatment as well as information on recognizing the signs of child sexual abuse. www.stopitnow.org. Hotline: 888-PREVENT (773.8368)

  • Justice for Children: Provid
es a full range of advocacy services for abused and neglected children. www.justiceforchildren.org.

  SELF-HARM:

  • To Write Love On Her Arms A non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. www.TWLOHA.com

  • 1-800-SUICIDE – Hotline for people contemplating suicide.

  • 1-800-273-TALK – A 24-hour crisis hotline if you're about to self-harm or are in an emergency situation.

  • S.A.F.E. Alternatives. A professional network and educational resource base committed to helping you and others achieve an end to self-injurious behavior. www.selfinjury.com

  EATING DISORDERS

  National Eating Disorder Association (NEDA): The National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) is the largest non-profit organization in the United States working for the awareness and prevention of eating disorders. NEDA also provides treatment referrals, support networks, and resources for those struggling and their loved ones. For crisis situations, text "NEDA" to 741741 to be connected with a trained volunteer at Crisis Text Line. Helptline: 1-800-931-2237. www.nationaleatingdisorders.org

  Project HEAL: Project HEAL is a non-profit organization that fundraises to provide grants to individuals who cannot otherwise afford eating disorder treatment. www.projectheal.org

  Crisis Call Center

  800-273-8255 or text ANSWER to 839863. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week

  http://crisiscallcenter.org/crisis-services

  Acknowledgments

  First off, I want to express my gratitude to my amazing readers. This book is for you. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it.

  Many thanks to my fantastic group of beta readers who read this manuscript in its early stages and offered invaluable advice. Without you, this book wouldn’t be what it is. I want to personally thank Janice Marden, Becca Cross, Kieren W. Moseng, Kathy Sanocki, Jeremy Steinkraus, Lena Hillbrand, Marjorie Frakes, Nidhi Upadhyaya, Rotceh Cova, Maranda Russell, Jazmin Cybulski, Tami Austin, Kelley Cantrell, Miranda Navarro, September Horton and her daughter Elizabeth, and a huge thank you especially to Mallory Burgey and Leslie Spurrier for going above and beyond in their critiques.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart to my good friend and fellow author Sarah McDugal, who took many hours out of her hectic schedule to read and correct my errors.

  To my cover designer, Clarissa Yeo, you are simply the best. You captured the essence of Sidney, creating a cover that still makes my heart leap every time I look at it.

  Thank you to my parents, who supported my dreams way back when I was still telling stories into a tape recorder.

  To my husband, who never doubted my ability and always believed in me. Thank you for your encouragement and support.

  About the Author

  Kyla Stone is an emerging author of YA and Women’s Fiction. She lives in Georgia with her family and two very spoiled cats. She loves reading, photography, board games, traveling, and dark chocolate. This is Kyla’s debut novel.

  Visit her at:

  KylaStoneBooks

  www.Amazon.com/author/KylaStone

  KylaStone@yahoo.com

  Sneak Peek

  Who We Are Instead

  “What happened?” I ask. My hands tremble as I rinse the tray and stack it on the shelf.

  A security officer stands in the doorway of the dark room, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s slender, with pinched, watery eyes and a narrow face. “Miss McKenna, I’m sorry. I must inform you that your father had a heart attack. A bad one.”

  My heart constricts. I take a deep breath. “I need to go to the airport.”

  The officer looks at me like he’s prepared for tears, hysteria, and now he’s got no idea what to do. But I won’t lose it. Not today. I can’t. I’ve known this was coming, knew it like how you can sense a storm by the electric charge in the air.

  “Miss? That’s not all. Your sister has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Run away, is what I was told.”

  A jolt of fear scrabbles up my spine, followed by a cold, dull anger. Not again. I stare down at the counter, at the small square faces gazing up at me from the rows of negatives. They’re all of children at a playground, an assignment for Advanced Portraiture II. They don’t matter now. Nothing here matters now. I leave the negatives, the solutions, the developed photographs drying on the rack. I take only my camera.

  The officer touches my shoulder. “My condolences.” He mumbled something about the dean collecting my father’s hospital information. His skin is very pale, almost translucent. Veins web his cheeks, a large one like a blue worm throbbing at his temple. I’d photograph his face in color, in a cool, natural light to capture the delicate netting of blue, his veins like scaffolding propping up his features, threading skin to bone. But there’s no time for pictures now.

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” My voice catches in my throat. He turns back the way he came.

  I clutch the base of my camera, the black strap wrapped around my wrist. I walk past the closed classroom doors, the job openings and graduate school applications stapled to faded bulletin boards, posters advertising banquets and theatre productions papering the walls below large framed student photographs, one the stark shadow of a chair, another a gritty close-up of an orange, another a girl with a lampshade pulled over her head.

  My heart thuds in my ears, drowning out the drip of the drinking fountain, the low rumble of professors’ voices through the doors, the steady rustling of warm, restless bodies.

  My legs thicken, grow heavier. They’re harder and harder to control, to order one leg to lift and push forward, then the other. My mind is trapped in a thicket of fog. It’s hard to think.

  I stop suddenly. My advisor. I need to tell him first. I pivot back toward the teachers’ lounge.

  I enter his office, knocking on the opened door. Dr. Jack Wells sprawls in his office chair behind his desk, squinting at me behind the sheen of his glasses. I tell him what I know.

  “When do you plan to return?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, relieved he didn’t apologize or offer up empty condolences I don’t know how to respond to. “A few days? A week maybe, I don’t really know. I have to find my sister. I’m sure she’ll come skulking back in a day or two.”

  “You’ll fall behind in your studies. That gallery opportunity is only two months away.” Dr. Wells scrapes a hand through his black hair. His face is long, lean, and tanned, his eyes quick and dark like a raven’s, absorbing everything, even light. He’s the best professor of photography in the South.

  I tighten my grip on my camera strap. I need to be back by then. I will be. The gallery competition for the Metropolitan Museum of Art is huge. The winner’s prints will be displayed next to the likes of Annie Liebowitz and Steve McCurry. Not to mention the included internship and stipend with Photography magazine. With Dr. Wells’ guidance, I’ve made it through the preliminary rounds. I’m a finalist. This can make my career. “I know.”

  He frowns. “The committee needs to see your submission by February 7th. That’s only three weeks away. Are your prints prepared?”

  “They will be.”

  “Do you have a ticket yet?”

  My heart stutters in my chest. No, of course I don’t. How much is it going to cost? I try to remember my bank account balance. It won’t be enough.

  The hard lines of his face soften. “You can reimburse me later. Just get back as soon as you can.”

  I nod. It’s all I can do. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll call the dean with the ticket details.”

  I get to the dean’s office somehow, obtain my father’s hospital information, and hurriedly pack a few bags. I take a taxi to the airport. I don’t look back at the University of Tampa campus rapidly fading from view, the square, squat buildings casting long shadows in the brilliant white sunshine, the palm trees rustling in the breeze. If I did, I
might not have the strength to leave.

  On the plane, I try to read, but the sentences keep jerking on the page, my gaze unable to settle on more than two or three words before sputtering off in some other direction. I can’t find a comfortable position because I’m stuck in a middle seat between an overly muscular WWF wannabe who keeps slinging his bulk across my armrest and a snoring business-type with his own giant-sized pillow. The zippered end pokes into my ear. The air is hot and stuffy and smells like salted peanuts. The grinding drone of the plane’s engine bores into my brain.

  I stare out the oval window across snoring Pillow-guy, into the cold blackness and the wheeling fleet of stars. How am I going to do this? How can I keep things together, take care of everything? At school, it’s simple. How easily everything in life comes, the scholarships, the grades, the friends, when they’re all frivolous, when it doesn’t really matter. When the only things that matter are already gone, or almost gone, as good as gone, already put aside in my safe, tidy compartment of lost things.

  Except they aren’t gone, not even all that lost: my father maybe dying in a hospital bed, my sister roaming the streets, ribbons of smoke trailing behind her, stalking circles of lamp light like an alley cat. And then the house, crouching silently, empty but breathing, rattled with tremors, the shivers of guilt, of loneliness, of secrets, just like a living thing.