He’s going to lock me up, isn’t he?
Cameron
25
THERE IS NOTHING BREATHTAKINGabout my ceiling, but I stare anyway. I’ve been in this exact position for a long time, so long that I can feel the indentation I’ve made in the mattress.
I called out sick today; Uncle Danny was understanding, and yet the guilt is eating me alive.
Not as badly as the heartache is, though, so calling off work won the battle.
I’m fighting an internal war: one that features morality, loss, and fear. One that makes breathing feel a little too difficult and my conscience heavy.
On the one hand, I’m kind of concerned about this guy who visits me at night. What is he truly? Why is he taking on Atticus’s form? But on the other hand, I feel such a terrible agony knowing I will never have the man I love, that when his doppelgänger shows up, I can do nothing but cling to him.
Just like I did last night, as I sobbed into his shoulder while he jerked me off. And when I woke this morning, prepared to fake my way through the day, I was overcome with guilt. If Atticusknew what I was doing, how I was using him in my mind, would he hate me?
Is this right?
I’ve never been good at answering questions. I don’t want to make these decisions.
“Cameron!” Mom shouts through my locked door, her fists banging wildly. “Come out! I needmoney.”
I ignore her. I don’t move an inch, don’t bother to open my mouth, and it feelsliberating. And a little mean.
It’s the same feeling I felt when we befriended Julian so many months ago; I was so excited at the prospect of seeing Atticus again, yet felt incredibly wrong for using him in such a way.
Julian truly believed Cassie wanted him. He genuinely thought I wanted to be his friend. And sure,nowI do, but back then? I just wanted Atticus.
I still… I still want him. Desperately. And I will never have him.
Another jolt of hot, blinding pain works its way through my chest, and I heave through it. I breathe and gasp and clench my fists. I refuse to cry; I criedallnight. I bet Dad never cried. I bet he never fell in love with a man who doesn’t want him, either.
And if Mom had treated him the way she treats me, he would have left. He would have packed his bags and moved on to bigger and better things.
That is the kind of man I imagine my father was. If he truly was any less, if I ever find out he was just as scummy as Mom is, I think I would fall apart.
No one wants to come from nothing. No one wants to have spoiled blood running through their veins.
I am better than this dingy house, this small life, these useless bones,I tell myself. And then I mentally say it again.
Mom finally stops knocking and retreats, most likely too tired or drunk to continue. The sun has set, and I know that if he’s coming to visit me tonight, it’ll be soon.
So, I turn the lights out and watch the trees sway beyond the windowpane.
I hope he comes; I hope I never see him again.
I move my gaze back to the ceiling, and I stare. For a long time, I lie here, and I stare.
The house settles around me in the absolute silence, telling me Mom is gone. I can’t hear her snoring or the TV playing anymore.
And the longer I stare, the hotter the room gets. My skin moistens, and my vision blurs from how long I’ve focused on one thing.
Another knock sounds at my door. A soft bang, just one.
The handle is still locked, but this surely isn’t my mother.
With shaky limbs, I stand, slowly approaching the door. As I touch the knob, I can feel the metal sting against my skin. I’m fairly certain that I know who stands on the other side of this faded, dirty oak.
