EVIL WOMAN / ben parish

chapter three

WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I'm back in my bedroom. Not the one I had decorated at the ripe age of fourteen; the one I had when I was a baby. There are the words 'It's A Girl!' hanging on the wall and for some reason, I'm able to see everything so clearly that normally would have came as a blur.

I can tell—no, I know—my mother was the reason behind every sticker and letter hanging protectively against the white surfaces.

Suddenly, I'm wailing. There's tears coating my cheeks and I can feel them as clear as day. They stroll down my face as the feeling of my teeth biting down on my thumb processes.

My door opens up and enters my dad. Dad. The man who had loved me all his life until his final breath.

I'm crying in real life. I know I am because how could I not when I'm staring back in the eyes of the one person I fought hard to forget.

Dad, I'm sorry, I want to say but all that comes out is more screaming. I imagine my bellowing is echoing the small examination room I'm trapped in, causing Dr. Pam to be circled by my agony. I hope she feels guilty for making me go through this all over again; one time was enough but being conscious during a time I barely remember is worse than any form of torture.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice sounds tired, but not as if I'm the cause of it—and I clearly am.

The last thing I feel is his arms being wrapped around my tiny body and my cheek laying on his shoulder. He rocks me in the darkness of my room and hums a melody that I can't hear as familiar. All I care about is how much I regret being the person I was when I was lucky enough to have someone who cared about me.

Within a blink of my eye, the scene changes. I'm not a baby anymore. Instead I'm three. The sight of my house reorganized in a completely different way than I last remembered is registering in my mind. Like the picture of my family wasn't hanging in the living room anymore, it was empty the last time I walked past that wall the day before we all left to embark our survival.

Deep down, I know this is all an illusion but I try to manipulate myself into believing that it's all real.

My older brother, Dylan, comes into the picture with his nose scrunched up. He must have been nine years old from how short he looked and how he's actually reaching down to pick me up. I giggle but my voice is so high-pitched that I barely even recognize it.

"Where are you going, Marley?" He asks me rhetorically since I was too little to understand but old enough to speak; it was a confusing age for me.

Marley. That was enough to shatter my soul. The brother I grew up hating. The brother that I never got along with. The brother that I watched die protecting me is calling me by the nickname he created for me.

Before the rush of guilt and remorse could topple over me, I'm now in a completely different environment. It's a classroom, where I'm sitting in boredom. I was six years old at the time.

The feeling of loneliness crept in, making the pits of my stomach ignite in fire. I could feel every ounce of rejection like it had just happened to me all over again. It was resurfacing for only a second until it smacked me in the face.

This feeling was familiarized but it seemed harsher to a six year old girl that was still learning the ropes.

That was the day that I had ever experienced true loneliness. Of course I didn't know the terminology of it at that age but now I do. Having to feel this again has me realizing why I'm so afraid of being weak because it felt exactly like this. No more worse than having people know you're fragile.

Then, I'm seven and inside my bed. My hands are gripping my blankets as the warm safety coated me. It was peaceful and I thought—for a second—that this nightmare was actually all a dream in the end.