Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“No!”
He pulls my shirt off my shoulders, thinking I am just being annoying, and suddenly it is all too late.
He stops.
And stares.
I know what he is looking at. A big, ugly scar that runs over my left shoulder, down my back and a little way down my front. It took over a hundred stitches to put me back together at the time, and it was not a neat wound. It was ragged flesh, torn up.
“Who did this to you?”
I’m suddenly very sober. I feel as clear as I have ever been. Still can’t exactly remember what the fuck I am mad about with him, but right now I know what he did isn’t okay. He’s seen my ugliness. He’s seen the thing that’s wrong with me. He feels like he knows me now. He doesn’t.
“Give me my fucking shirt back.”
He releases his grip on it, and I pull it back on over my shoulders.
“Calista. What happened?”
“None of your fucking business.”
But now I can’t stop thinking about it. Now my mind is back so many years I can barely keep count of them all. My alcohol-addled brain knows what happened, can’t hide it like it usually does. My defenses are down, and there’s a…
Ten years ago…
There’s a fire in the distance.
I avoid it out of instinct.
My parents are dead.
The fires of home are not for me. I’m thirteen years old, and the two people I love most in the world have evaporated into the sky. There’s been a funeral, but it was for two empty boxes because nothing of them was ever found. We buried wreckage. They think I don’t know because they didn’t sit me down, look me in the face, and tell me. But I still have the ears of a child. The ones that everyone thinks don’t work, but that hear absolutely everything.
They’ve taken me on a camping trip to try to get my mind off the dying. My extended family are at a house in the woods. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all from my father’s side. My mother didn’t have any siblings. My father had two brothers, both older than him. They’ve got two sons each, also both older than me. They want to ride trail bikes. They don’t care about the deaths, or the funeral, or me. I’m the unnecessary appendage, the walking pay packet funding their vacation.
I’ve slipped away after dinner. Nobody will come looking for me. Nobody wants to interact with the sad little girl anyway. I’m depressing to them. My father’s brothers are doing their best to drink away his memory. One day, I’ll be able to try that sort of thing. For now, all I have is raw grief.
I walk into the woods, not really knowing where I am going, one foot after the other like any waif or stray in a fairytale. There’s a reason children who are lost go to the wilds, I think. I don’t know it, but I feel drawn to the trees and the dark and the prospect of being away from all the pain that the world has suddenly unloaded on me and left me to bear.
I drop my phone somewhere along the way. I do not need it anymore. I’m not going to be able to call home, or get a text from my mom reminding me that I need to be back for a dress fitting for the Ladies of Constitution gala. That’s the last message she sent me. The last message she’ll ever send me.
The moss and gentle lights of late season fireflies feel more like safety to me now. I don’t want to go back home, to the big house that was full of them, and where I was a version of me I already know I will never be again. Thirteen is a magical age, I’ve been told. I’m not a little kid anymore, but I’ve not been inducted into adulthood either. I understand bits and pieces, some things entirely, and other things not at all. One of the things I know for certain is that the person I was died with my parents, and the person who I will be is going to come out of this forest.
I start to get tired, and hungry. I start to regret walking away from the fire lit by my uncle to try to cheer me and the rest of the family up. Maybe they’re not as bad as I think. Maybe they think I just need some time away from structure and society. They think I need to heal out here in the wilderness. Really, they just don’t want more pictures taken of me looking sad, and those pictures being sold in magazines who are bought by adults who like to imagine how sad it must be to be me.
There’s something wrong with almost all adults, I think.