Flickering Shadows

Flashbacks (Chapter 8)

FLASHBACKS

THE NEXT MONTH was very repetitive.  Days alone-doing homework or in therapy-and night with Dylan on the roof.  I was up on the roof nearly every night chattering happily with him.  I was happier than I had ever been, and it showed.  I was in the bathroom one day when a girl came up to me and said, "You're pretty!" and left. I almost cried again, I swear.  No one had ever called me pretty in my life.  My skin wasn't as sallow anymore, I had color in my cheeks and my eyes had life.

           Also in the past month, doctors had nailed down a diagnosis for me.  I had severe posttraumatic stress disorder.  I was relieved to not have schizophrenia or something just as bad, but I was also kind of disappointed-PTSD sounded so...lame.

           It was the last night of February, and a fresh snow had fallen.  Dylan and I sat on the roof anyway, in two folding chairs that we had snuck up here.  The conversation had an awkward silence, and then the subject that I had been dreading since I met him came up.  "So, sorry if it's rude by asking, but why are you in here?" Dylan asked curiously.

           "You mean you don't already know?" I said in a flat voice.

           He shrugged, "I know what you did, it's impossible not to.  I was just wondering...what brought you to it."

           "You want a motive, just like everyone else." I accused. "I can't talk about it; it's too hard, plus you won't believe me."

           "Yes I will!" he promised me. He grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His deep blue eyes expressed that he truly meant his words.  He said gently, "Just tell me, I won't laugh or pity you if that's what you want.  Take as much time as you need, I'll listen."

           I was quiet for a long time before I started to speak.  "I was abused, badly.  From the time I was around five up until the fire."

           "Like, just hit and stuff?" Dylan asked in a bored tone.  He was expecting more than that and it irritated me.

           "No; I was abused in every possible way-sexually, physically, and emotionally-every day of my life for twelve years."

           "What happened to you?"

           I chuckled darkly, "What didn't happen to me is the better question."

           I went into the many memories that I had hidden away, locked in a safe in my mind so tightly so I could never remember.  But I have found that it is impossible to forget.  I told him every incident that came to mind.

           My mother dumped burning hot grease from making bacon on my arms. My wild screams and her evil laughs at my agony.  I was five at the time.      

           When we lived on the farm when I was seven, my father branded me on my lower back 'bitch'. I still have the scar.

           My uncle Robby came into my room late at night whenever he was staying over, and with my father's permission, he'd rape me incessantly throughout the night.

           Both my parents sat on the couch while we all stood before them.  They criticized us for hours until we were all nearly in tears.  Every night I was called 'worthless', 'ugly', and other expletives.

            I came back into reality; shaking so hard that I was vibrating.  Dylan looked both intrigued and frightened.  "No one should have to go through that; and I'm sorry you did, Lucy. You don't deserve that."

           "I know," I whispered. My voice sounded so small and fragile. "I just...snapped.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I tried to tell police a few days before, but they didn't believe me."  I said grudgingly.  If they had believed me, I would be safe inside foster care right now. I hope the idiot was fired.

           "I understand that. Do you have severe PTSD then?" he asked.

           "Yeah," I nodded. "How did you know?"

           "Just a guess." He said quickly. "So, were you the only one abused, or were there others?"

           "No.  My twin, Tony, was abused so much worse than me.  Maybe because he was a guy, but I don't know.  My younger sister, Tatum, she was seven.  We both protected her so that she wouldn't be as hurt.  We wanted her to have a chance at a normal, healthy life later on.  We all knew where I would end up, and I didn't want the same for her.  By protecting her, they were more violent with us, but it didn't matter."

           "Don't you have an older sister?" Dylan prompted.

           "I thought we were talking about being abused, not abusing." I answered in a hard voice.

           "What?" Dylan gasped.

           "You heard on the news that Camille was 'caught in the way on my psychotic rampage'. You didn't hear how she had it coming to her.  You didn't hear how she would degrade us for hours.  You didn't hear how she would kick us so hard that it broke a rib or two. You don't know how bad of a person she is; and she didn't even die in the fire!"

I ranted.  "She hurt us to save her own ass."

           Dylan contemplated what to say, "Sorry if it's offensive, but she sounds like such a bitch! I would save my siblings, not help hurt them.  I just can't believe anyone would do that!"

           "Me either."

           A heavy silence descended, and Dylan thankfully changed the subject.  I hoped that I would never have to talk about this again.