Below

Chapter Two

I spend another two days in the hospital. As soon as I eat my first few full meals, they pull the IV from my arm. It takes all I've got not to scratch at the small hole it leaves. It itches like crazy. They run some tests and use words and phrases I don't understand, but I get what they're saying when they tell me I can leave. I'm both grateful and scared. The idea of going back home terrifies me. Over the past two days, my entire life has turned upside down and I'd do anything to avoid having to deal with it. But the doctors say my progress is good. Great, even, given what I went through. They keep repeating that. "You're so lucky, given what you've gone through." The trouble is, I can't remember what I've gone through. Everything from the day of the accident is missing from my brain, like a slate wiped clean.

Except, of course, for the nightmare. It caught me off guard on the first night after waking up in the hospital.  Nellie and I are on the bridge, like usual, laughing and ambling about. And then she jumps up on the handrail—something typical for Nellie. Except this time, she turns around, so she's facing me, and the water and depths below are behind her. Her arms are straight out at her sides and her eyes are trained on me, twinkling, and she backs off the railing.

"NO!" I scream.

Her body splashes to the bottom of the river, so forcefully I feel myself choke as if I were the one who just got the air knocked out of me. And then the current takes her away, angelic hair lain around her face in the water, making her look like she is merely sleeping. But she's not. She's dead.

I stifle a scream as I wake up to a bumpy, unsettling feeling. I'm in the car. Dread pools in the pit of my stomach as I look over at my mom. Her face doesn't betray any emotion.

"Is dad going to be there?"

She knows I mean at the house. And she knows the idea of seeing him terrifies me.

"He's working, sweetheart. But he'll be home the day after tomorrow." She looks over at me and gives me a genuine but timid smile. "I love you, Merritt."

"I know, mom." I feign a smile. For her sake, I tell myself. It's not the first smile I've faked in the last two days, but it's the hardest. Because I know she loves me. I wish I could say the words back to her, but I can't.

The house comes into view at the end of the cul-de-sac and my mom pulls into the driveway.

I wouldn't say my family is rich, at least not rich-rich, but we have everything we could ever need. My dad drives a Range Rover and my mom drives a Lexus. Our garage has four stalls and it's always full. We don't live in a gated community, but there's virtually no crime here because everyone has the most high-tech security systems money can buy. A single blade of grass moves at night and the entire neighborhood sounds like eighty cop cars are barreling down the street. I accidentally set ours off once when I was fourteen and I thought my dad was going to have a meltdown, but he was actually happy it happened because now he knows the littlest things can set it off. He saw it as like a test run, and it worked. I've been extremely careful ever since, because I don't think he'd be quite as happy if I set it off again and alerted the neighborhood that his daughter is a troublemaker.

I wait at the front door while my mom punches in the security code. I know it, but I feel better knowing that my mom won't mess it up and set it off. The door clicks open and we step into the foyer. It looks the same but I feel like a different person walking in for the first time with an outsider's perspective. There's a door to my left that leads out to the garage. Beside that is the staircase that goes upstairs to my room. There's a small antiquity table next to the stairs that holds an assortment of picture frames. I walk up to it without thinking.

"I'm going to go get dinner ready. Is there anything in particular you'd like, Merritt?"

I shake my head. "No, but thank you, mom. Anything but hospital food would be great."

"It'll be ready in half an hour. Get washed up first."

And then she turns and heads towards the kitchen.

I turn back to the photos. There's a professionally-taken one of the three of us from when I was a baby. My parents are holding me between them, love and adoration dripping from their expressions. Then another of the three of us when I was five. Another at twelve. That's one of the oldest photos they have of me. That and a photo of me with an old family friend, a boy my age with coal black hair and icy blue eyes. We were thirteen. That's the last photo we ever took together and it's one of my favorites. But that was a long time ago.

I sigh and traipse up the stairs. My bedroom is at the top of the stairs and to the left. On the opposite wall is a bathroom, as well as a spare bedroom my dad uses as a home office. At the end of the hallway is my parent's bedroom. It's been so long since I've been in there, I don't think I even remember what it looks like.

I turn the nob to my room but slam it shut without thinking, remembering my cat. I wait a few beats. Normally when he hears me come home, he scratches at the door until I enter.

Nothing.

No scratching. No meowing. No tiny padded steps walking around the room. Complete silence.

The door pushes open and I scan my room. The litterbox is gone. So are his food and water bowls, and the cat bed he never used because he's spoiled and only sleeps at the foot of my bed. All of it is gone and cleaned away. And so is he.

The tears come before I can stop them. He's an absolute prick. A complete asshole. He waited until I was hospitalized before taking away the one thing I love most in this world.

My best friend gave me Mr. Meowgi for my twelfth birthday. He was everything I had ever wanted and more. He was this wriggly little kitten with black and white mottled fur like a panda bear. We'd named him after Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid. He was perfection. He was my best friend.

And now my father has taken him away from me. Like he has taken every single great thing I've ever had in my life away from me. I pick up my lamp from my night table and chuck it across the room. It splinters into a million different little pieces. Like the love I once had for my father. There have been times in my life where I've felt like a part of myself could truly love him. I searched for years for something redeemable, lovable about him. I made myself see things that weren't there. And then he shattered everything. Piece by piece, he ripped me apart over and over again until I became this broken part of myself that I am today.

I wish I could pick him up and chuck him against the wall, taking satisfaction as he breaks. But he's Myron Blake, beloved future Congressman and family man. He will never break. He hides behind that title so well, that I think he himself believes it. But I know the truth, even if my mom doesn't see it either. He's a bad man. And I will never allow myself to love him ever again.

I sniffle, wiping my nose on the back of my hand in disgust. I smell. I know I smell. I haven't had a full shower since before the accident, since before I fell into an algae-infested river and the best they were able to do for me was give me a sponge bath while I was unconscious. Which, believe me, did not do the trick at all.

I leave my room, slamming my bedroom door. It gives me little satisfaction. I go to the bathroom and look at my reflection in the aged mirror.

I've always been pale, but right now I look pasty-white. My normally wavy blonde hair is flat and crumpled-looking, and greasy at my scalp. I run a hand through it anyways, releasing a breath as I do. And my eyes... There are dark bags under both of them, looking more like black eyes than ones due to fatigue. And my eyes themselves seem duller than normal.

I turn towards the rest of the bathroom. It's the smallest one in the house, but it's still bigger than the average bathroom. There's a large shower and bathtub all in one. The toilet is next to it, and the sink is across from it, where I'm standing. I walk over towards the bathtub and turn the valve without thinking. Water spews out and I jump back in surprise, falling to the ground as I huddle back against the wall, hugging my knees to me. It's just water. I don't have to be afraid of it.

But as I swallow back what seems like my eightieth bout of tears for the day, I can't talk myself out of the fear.

I go down to dinner with the clothes from the hospital.

I'm Merritt Blake. And I am already broken.