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“Not again,” I snap as another thorn snags my skin. I bring my palm to my mouth to suck on the blood.
Mom turns to me. “You should go disinfect that.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
I almost added that I’ve had a lot worse, but stop myself. She doesn’t need to hear it and I don’t need to remember. But I do. And just because I can’t stop the raging whirlwind of memories in my head… of being captive, of thinking I will die with some smelly, nasty man fucking me, die without ever feeling the sun and knowing freedom, doesn’t mean I need to share it with others in my life. Especially not my parents. Especially after they were almost killed because of me.
Ruin’s wrong. I can’t be saved. It’s been almost seven years since I was freed. If I was going to get better, I would’ve by now. I have nothing to give him. There’s no room in my mind for anything other than anger and hate. I just wish he was right. And wishing’s the worst.
“At least put on some gloves,” Mom says. “There’s a pair in the shed.”
“No need,” I say and get back to pruning.
The thing is, I hardly feel the pricks. It’s just seeing my blood leak out that annoys me. I don’t feel any pain at all. Ever. And I wish I did. Because are you even alive if you never hurt?
I feel suffocating fear, I feel anger, I feel hate, but that’s about it. Even love is hard. I was afraid my parents would die when they got shot. So afraid I could barely speak. But was I sad? No. Was my heart torn in two? No. Because I don’t feel anything there anymore.
Does that make me a monster?
The question has been plaguing me for months. Mostly because I think the answer is yes.
“Did you have a rough night?” Mom asks, glancing at me, but otherwise keeping her gaze on the rosebush.
I don’t know if she’s doing that because she’s afraid she asked the wrong thing, or because she doesn’t really want to know.
“More than usual, you mean?” I say, not really sure why I’m being confrontational. She’s done all she could for me. They all have. There’s just nothing to be done. Not their fault.
She gulps and gives me another quick glance.
“Actually, yes,” I say and I’ve no idea why I did that either.
She turns to me full on, mouth open, eyes wide, breathing rapidly. “Did something happen to you last night?”
While my mom and dad were both very happy that I started going out and hanging out with friends again, they still don’t trust my new friends completely. They’re bikers and it was bikers who took me. Despite my sister dating one of them, despite them getting kept alive by these bikers, and despite these bikers saving me when I was abducted for the second time.
Why is this making me so angry?
But then again, what isn't’ these days?
“No, nothing happened,” I say and toss the shears into the basket by my feet. “Do you want to get some lunch or something?”
It’s not even noon yet, but I suddenly can’t stay cooped up at home anymore. I need to move. Go somewhere. Do something. Anything.
“Yes, absolutely,” she says and tosses her shears in the basket too. “And we can do some shopping too.”
That has been my mom’s response to pretty much everything I’ve requested since I was freed. Anything you want and let’s shop.
It shouldn’t annoy me as much as it does.
But it’s just so normal and I’ll never be normal again. I don’t like faking it because I don’t like fake things.
Fifteen minutes later we’re riding to the mall just outside Pleasantville. The radio’s turned to a classical music station my mom likes to listen to, and the opera very nearly brings tears to my eyes. Or makes them itch a little, more precisely.
Because that’s another thing I can’t do anymore. Cry. I’ve done too much of that in the first months of my captivity, alone in a dark, dirty room. Tears help absolutely nothing. I learned that in that room too.
“Veronica says you went for a ride with a boy last night,” Mom says suddenly. “Did you not enjoy it?”
I had no idea she and my sister shared updates about my movements, but I’m not surprised they do either.
