April Fool's Day

Annika Claiborne (April 13, 2009)

       They say that things heal over time, yet they don't tell you how much time is needed. Is it days, weeks, months- years? How can things get better when I have absolutely no control over things? If my being sexually degraded wasn't bad enough, someone has photos of my being sodomized. I have to get these photos- all of them- and ensure they're deleted from existence for good. As long as these photos exist, they will remind me that what happened to me is a reality- a reality I don't want to accept. 

      My father would have the power to get these photos with no problem- after all, he is the police chief at the Metro- but there is no chance in hell I'm ever letting this spill to him. Even if I did confide to him this incident, where would he start to look for the perpetrator? I don't have a single clue as to who took the photos except for the cryptic emails I've been receiving. Was it a party-goer or a peeping tom? Hopelessness pours over me, devours me, as I try to make sense of this madness. 

The core of all my problems is me- I know for a fact it's what any therapist would tell me, but I think I'll just save my little money I have. I was the one who went to the party; I was the one who decided to do the drugs. Even if I didn't ask to be raped by those two sleasebags, I put myself out there like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. I just haven't been the same since my mother passed- I've been living life on the edge. Life has just been a concept to me as of recent- it is an irrelevant life, it seems, without the warm embrace of my mother. 

There's so many times in life where I wish I had a "rewind" button. I could fix this horrible mess from the party. I could go back and force Ma to be proactive about her kidney before it was fatal. But maybe it's not the Rewind we need; why doesn't anyone ever ask for a Stop button? A chance to end all trying- an end to all the sadness, horror, anger- who wouldn't love that? To "stop" means to no longer be a disappointment- if I stop the tape now, there's no way someone can look at the film and criticize me. 

I'm sitting here looking at my social media, and I see pictures of high school friends with their families, at the movies, playing golf with not a care in the world because in their minds, they're flawless. I love my family, I really do, but I feel very distant from my father ever since Ma died two years ago-She was the glue that kept us together. After she passed, a part of me was also buried six feet under inside her new, dark home- the part of Annika that was fearless and not afraid of criticism. I go to photos I have of her on my laptop; I miss her so much. I miss the way her hair smelled of chamomile as she leaned over to kiss me goodnight or when I annihilated her at Scrabble she, instead of being a sore loser, commended me on how well of a speller I was. I finish reminiscing and close out of my laptop when I see that I have yet another new message. My mind immediately races back to the events of the party: I can find out who has these photos if I just play along with whatever demands they have: they must want something, right? After binge watching Criminal Minds once a few years back, I would say I'm an exquisite negotiator- the bastard doesn't stand a chance. 

I open the message hastily and find, to my disappointment, another small and unclear message. 

"I'll do what U want, but first: U have 2 play my game- M" 

M? What Ms do I know? Could it be Marcy? I concentrate really hard on what I can recall that she was doing for the duration of the party when I remember that she had gotten alcohol poisoning early into the party and became violently ill- there's no way it could have been her. If it was, what would her reasoning be? She and I have always been fond of each other, maybe ever best friends at one time. 

I'm eager to find out so I reply, measuring each word in my head. "What game are we playing? I'm a boss @ Scrabble" Don't you judge me; I'm trying to play nice.