Speak

Chapter 2

   "Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence you have not already tested." 

~ Elizabeth I  

I'm reading one of my stories when my phone goes off with a text message. I exit out of the app and look. It's from Hannah.

I'm walking up to your door right now.

At least she gave me a heads up, but I am still wearing the clothes I was earlier. Partially because I got so wrapped up in reading, but also because I don't know what to wear. Does it matter? I do not even want to go. There will be people, lots of people. I would rather just blend in, or just be invisible altogether. I can't even process my thoughts before there is a knock on my door. Taking a deep breath, telling myself I can do this, I go and answer the door.

When I open the door, Hannah walks in looking sharp in a dark green beaded tank top. She has a look of horror on her face. Yes, I know, I'm still wearing the same clothes from earlier. I don't need a lecture. The fact is, I don't want to stand out.

"You haven't gotten dressed yet?" Hannah shrieks. I take a deep breath, thinking of an excuse. To me, there are a lot more important things in life than frivolous parties.

"I didn't know what to wear," I sign then look sheepishly at the floor. Hannah crosses her arms and looks at me in disbelief.

"Come on, let's see what you have," Hannah replies with a sigh. "Wes is waiting in the car."

I trudge behind Hannah as she strolls the wardrobe beside my bed. I can hear her grumbling, and I know what she is thinking. My closet is filled with nothing but long sleeved shirts, jeans, and maybe a few dresses that only forty-year-old women would wear. She takes a few shirts out one by one, before putting them back in their place. She keeps searching, and all I can think is that I don't want to go, and Wes is waiting, so maybe Hannah should just abort her mission to find something suitable for me to wear and let me stay home.

"All your clothes are so... conservative," Hannah remarks pulling a few more items out, heavily scrutinizing each one.

I wouldn't exactly call them conservative. I prefer to think of my clothes as safe. I know they won't draw attention, and people won't notice the scars on my arms and body. I don't like it when my scars show. Seeing the scars bring the memories and the dark monster that always lurks nearby with them. It still lingers near, my dark monster. It likes to taunt me, threatening to sit on my chest, stealing away my breath. It talks to me, reminding me how ugly, disgusting, dirty, worthless, awful, and deplorable I am.

"I think this might work," Hannah finally says, pulling out a light blue button up blouse and dark grey knee-length skirt. She wants me to wear a skirt? She's not even wearing a skirt? I want to argue this exact fact with her, but she looks at her phone and sighs. Yes, I know, Wes is waiting. Accepting defeat, I take the blouse and skirt and rush off to the bathroom. Quickly changing, I decide that I don't look too hideous. It is not that I care what other people think about me, so much as I care because I don't want their questions.

Here it is the middle of August, and I am wearing a long-sleeved blouse. It seems when I do go out in public, I am asked: "Aren't you hot wearing that?" Then, when I do not respond, because I can't speak, more questions come. Each question stabs me in the heart. I know it would be worse if I just sucked it up and wore something more seasonally appropriate. If I wore anything short-sleeved, anything revealing my arms, the more painful questions would come.

I just want to forget everything about that night, and everything about my life before that, but the scars that I try to hide are a constant, painful reminder of everything I had; and everything I lost. I know I can't turn back time, so instead, I wish that I could just forget everything.