Author Games: Red Room

Task Eight: Liz Regis

The last house on Third street was remarkably ordinary. It was a demonstrative portrait of upper-middle class suburbia, what with it's white picket fence and the neatly mowed lawn and the car parked in the driveway--the newest model. It had just come out that year.

It was far too early to be calling on them--or maybe far too late. God knew that either of them answering the door at ordinary hours was a long shot. The chances past midnight shrank to infinitesimal. But I couldn't go back to my apartment--it didn't feel right, and every time I so much as stepped in that direction, I'd feel bile burn the back of my throat.

I knocked once on the door, and it opened almost instantly.

I nearly collapsed then and there. "Mom."

"Elizabeth." When she said my name like that, it reminded me of Collins--it shouldn't have, but it did, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. "Henry's not here. Come back tomorrow."

"I know." Even Henry's name was so sweet--even the taste of the truth was so bitter. "Mom, Henry's not coming home."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"He's dead." Saying the words out loud made them feel so final. How was one supposed to tell a mother that her son was dead? How was his sister meant to survive it? "Mom, Henry's dead."

My mother's brow wrinkled slightly, and she looked down at me with those beady eyes, and she sniffed somewhat dismissively. "Come now, Elizabeth. You're not making any sense."

And though it wasn't an invitation, I found the floodgates opening anyway. "There--a case... and then... everything was burning. There was so much smoke. And I thought... I thought I was going to die. But I didn't--Henry did. Collins, too. I watched it, mom. I watched him die. I couldn't stop them."

Her confusion had hardened. I couldn't tell if it was denial or grief or anger. "I think you'd better come inside."

I did, and everything about my childhood home was far too familiar. Even with most of the lights off, I could make out shadows that had scared me as a child, and shapes of furniture outlined against the black. She led me into the kitchen and I sat without being asked to, and she stood over me like a queen or a judge or a raiser of Hell.

"Tell me what happened," she demanded. "And how did you get those horrid bruises? You're all scratched up."

"There was a woman." I took a shaky breath. I had no idea how to summarize everything that had happened--and even attempting to do so felt like I was cheapening the experience, made it feel more like a myth than a memory. "Miss Lawley. Heather."

"I don't care about that woman," Mom snapped. "I care about my son."

I ignored her. "I was investigating her case, and something went wrong. They took me." I lowered my voice, like someone else might be listening. There could be eyes, everywhere. There were cameras, picking up on anything I said or did, I was sure of it. "They took me, and they tortured me. That's where I got these cuts. Look! They're real, Mom--they were real. I swear to you." When she didn't respond, I continued. "They--they got Collins and Henry, too. And I had to choose one to kill, but I couldn't and they killed them both. The cult did. Stabbed them... cut--cut his throat..."

"Of all the--"

"I know you don't believe me! I knew you wouldn't! But there was a cult and they abducted my little brother--"

"You're a terrible liar, do you know that?"

"They abducted him and they killed him!" I was yelling now, and all that pain, all that rage, had tunnelled it's way back into me. I couldn't breathe. Why could I never breathe?

"I'm tired of your stories, Elizabeth!" Mom slammed her palm on the table. She'd never done that before. "My youngest child is missing, and you think this is a time for--for your games? For your stupid fairytales?"

"It's not a game," I said. My throat was so tight, and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. I thought I'd used up all my tears. I thought I'd never cry again. But my voice was so quiet now, and all that rage had faded away. I was just a small girl, without a best friend, without a brother, who just wanted her mom. "Please. I just need you to believe me."

I didn't expect her to. Of course I didn't. But when she turned away, my heart broke all over again.

I spent so much time writing articles and posting online and trying, trying so hard, to get the word out. But the few people who did believe me had little to offer, save for their condolences. Condolences are fine. Welcome, even. But they don't bring Henry back, and they don't bring David back, and they don't bring the people who did this to justice. They were filed as missing persons, the two of them. I had to go in and talk to the police, and I could tell the officer didn't believe me, because he kept looking right on past me, like I wasn't even there.

When they investigated that awful place I'd escaped from, everything turned up empty. No blood. No bodies. No cameras. Just an abandoned asylum, falling apart in all the wrong places. Eventually, the case went cold, and while they hadn't shut it down completely, it had also fallen far from top priority.

I never stopped sharing my story. That's just about the bravest thing a person can do, I think, and I owed it to them. I owed it to everyone. People got tired of hearing it, I think--maybe they just got tired of feeling that secondhand guilt. I know I did. I was always so tired and guilty and desperate. Still am.

There was never a funeral for Henry. They never found the bodies--never found either of them--and my parents, out of some false hope that Henry would come shuffling back, chose not to have one. Maybe they will someday. If they do, I'll be there. I want to say good-bye, one last time.

David's family had a funeral. It was a somber affair, and I don't think they quite believed me about the method of death. It was so hard, after all, to believe that anyone would want to kill David. But, for better or for worse, they believed that I'd seen it happen. And they believed, I think, that I'd never recover. They were probably right.

They invited me over to David's apartment after the service--let me pick out some stuff to keep--but I didn't want anything. Really, I didn't. Instead, I went back to my own place and locked all of the doors and shut all of the blinds and stared at a board peppered black and white. Once, that wall had been covered with headlines of mysteries I'd been commissioned to solve. Now, stapled and glued and pressed up with tape, were articles entitled: "REGIS REJECTS REALITY," and "THE COLLINS CASE: TRAGIC TRUTH OR FALSIFIED FAME GRAB?"

There's more where that came from, too, I'll have you know. I just thought I'd spare you the details. Sometimes the details get mixed up, anyway. Sometimes, all I can remember is that people hate me and call me a loon and either pity or fear me, but I can't remember why.

Sometimes, all I can remember is that knife, and the blood pouring from Collins' chest. That's not the kind of thing you come back from. That's not the kind of thing you use for attention.

I'm still afraid at night. I usually keep the TV on, real loud--it helps to drown out all the little bumps and shuffles and noises that might otherwise indicate that that cult's going to return. It helps drown out my thoughts, too. My thoughts can be so loud--my memories can be so loud--and it's best to drown them out before they can drown me.

I can't stand the smell of coffee, and even the barest hint of smoke makes it hard for me to breathe. Scars still paint and pucker at my skin. They haven't healed yet.

Neither have I. And maybe I never will. I'm not living, but I'm surviving, and sometimes that's all you can do.

There's an apartment, in the center of the city. It belongs to a girl who cried wolf, and the scars that still bleed. It belongs to maps and memoirs and disjointed thoughts. It belongs to the ghosts who still haunt her. Most people will tell you to avoid that place for your own sake. Most people will say that girl went crazy after the mysterious tragedies of her two best friends, and that it's not worth the trouble. Most people give the place a wide berth, and opt to stop a few blocks over for a shitty coffee and a gossip magazine instead.

Here's the thing, though: that girl's still human.

So if you ever feel alone--if you ever feel like you're drowning--come find me.

I'll believe you.