In Your Head

seven

**

One Year Earlier

October 1998...

The awkwardness fills the air no matter how far apart we are, sticking to the corners of the room. Whispers emerge from the area, other girls getting to know each other, or maybe they've known one another to begin with. I don't participate though, I can't be bothered. I only stick close to the coffee table, already on my third cup. I'm not a huge fan of hot coffee, iced is my thing, but that isn't an option now. So I don't know why I'm drinking it but I guess I'm stuck with this, maybe so there's something for me to do.

Glances from the other girls every now and then warm my face, a spotlight beaming on me. But the moment I look towards them their eyes revert, turning back to each other. What did I expect? Attending a support group meeting with a bunch of other kids in town. All their stories unfamiliar to me, but mine is written above my head like a sad tragedy, following me around like I've been marked. This isn't new to me, everyone in town is like this. It's only been a month since I came back, the news is still consuming the TV, every newspaper with blown up pictures of me or the man that tricked this small city that feels like an entire nation for two years.

An antsy feeling crawls over me, jittery as my eyes flare around this community centre not knowing where to look, what to do with myself. I want nothing more than to leave this place already. Believe me, if this was the end of the session, you can bet I'd be hauling ass out of here so quick my body would morph into smears of light, a flash before your eyes. But we're only taking a break right now as if this is a game, Amber letting us take a minute to ourselves. I don't get why, if anything this is more awkward, uncomfortable than talking about our feelings, waiting for the sad looks and understandable nods from the other ten girls. I wouldn't have come, I really didn't want to, but Amber—the therapist my mother pushed me to see—practically forced me into this.

"Why don't you come to one of the teen support group meetings I hold every month? I'm sure there will be other girls there that can relate to how you feel," she said last week after our session, catching me as I was leaving her office like every Tuesday for the past month. I honestly didn't like the idea then, but she insisted. "Just come to our next week one. And if you don't like it, then you never have to go again. But who knows, maybe you'll meet another girl there who knows exactly what you're going through. You never know."

"No, I think I do know. No one can relate to what I'm going through," I said to her before seeing myself out. But still, when I got home and mentioned it to my mother, she liked the idea as well.

"Come on Kar, maybe she's right. Maybe you'll end up enjoying your time with the other girls, and talking to others your own age who know what you've been through," Mom said, yet again in that soft tone, but it was slowly morphing into a nag.

So here I am, making both of them happy instead of myself. But whatever, I guess it's not that bad. I haven't spoken at all through the hour I've been here, but I don't have to. The radios, the TVs, the newspapers, the whispers, the picture of the man with the tapered hair and dark eyes that was in his early thirties do all the speaking for me. But maybe the last one is the most powerful representative, because whenever a picture of Val turns up anywhere, there's a red string tied between us. Our names linked together that wasn't under my agreement, but forced. Like everything I am or ever was before this has shifted into something he created, a victim of his. Now, I'm only a brand. Whittled down to words that mean nothing.

This is my life now.

Small voices fluctuate, their tones loudening then softening again. But the whispers are different this time, the stares from the girls non-judgmental like the rest of our town. They don't look at me like I'm indifferent, a creature not from here, but like distant relatives sharing similar experiences. And maybe I don't want to admit this, but I think Amber and my mom were kind of right; there is a weird sense of comfort here. Surrounded by other girls who have gone through what I have. Maybe not to my extent, but similar. In this past hour I've heard them speak. I've heard their stories. I've seen their tears fall as they speak of what happened to them. I've seen one girl hug her knees, feeling broken just by her words. And I peered at the other girls' faces as they listened too, feeling the same way I did.