16. SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
brEE
DECEMBER, 2016
"Hold him gently in your hands.
He has been cracked enough as it is,
and his heart is more
shattered than he lets on."
— Unknown
They say every pain is temporary, but I never understood why mine felt like it stretched forever. Maybe it was because my pain didn't have an ending. Maybe I was meant to carry it with me.
They say the pain will mute you, will steal your voice, yet here I was, drowning in it and somehow finding a voice that begged to scream. A voice that wanted to tell the world how hard it was to be me.
Bits and pieces of the past started to surface, fragments I had locked away: the accident, the mental hospital, the doctor—memories sharp enough to cut through the fog. They were almost to the moment when Joe took me from kindergarten, pretending to be my uncle. They were almost to the night they snatched Mel from her bed while I sat in the car, clutching a doll and humming a lullaby. They were almost to the plan they made to erase me when I started remembering too much.
Now, they'd called someone to pick me up again. They locked the doors, their voices calm, insisting I was dangerous, that I had a history of mental issues, and that I might try to escape.
I was trapped. Again.
They returned my clothes—clean, folded neatly, the same ones I had on when they brought me in. The memory of who brought me here was hazy, but the smell was still there; cedarwood, smoke, and musk. The scent clung to my skin like a stain as I slid into the freshly washed fabric. The itchiness of the clothes wasn't from dirt; it was from knowing they had scrubbed them clean of evidence. The evidence they thought I would forget. But I hadn't.
I wanted to burn the clothes, and maybe myself along with them.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held the phone Thor had given me. It was small, black, and simple—made for calls and nothing else. I stared at it, knowing they'd search for me before I left. I needed to hide it. Tying my hair back into a ponytail, I carefully wrapped the phone into the strands, twisting it into a bun. Standing in front of the mirror, I checked from every angle. It was invisible. But it was there.
I thought about leaving the phone behind, but the thought of calling him one last time was too strong. Even if it would be the last time I ever heard his voice.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. I grabbed my red coat and stood, waiting. The door creaked open, and there they were—Mel and Mom, standing in the doorway. I ran to them, the need for a hug overwhelming every other thought in my mind.
Mel's arms wrapped around me tightly, and the tears came, unstoppable. I couldn't hold them back, even if I tried. For a moment, the pain dulled, replaced by the simple warmth of her hug.
We walked to the car together, the cold touching my skin through the thin coat. Joe was waiting inside, in the driver's seat, his silhouette framed by the light. As we climbed into the car, he spoke without turning around.
"We're moving tomorrow morning."
The words hung in the air, but this time, I couldn't sink into silence. I couldn't be the quiet Bree he knew.
So I asked, "Why?"
He glanced at the railway window, his reflection distorted by the frost. "You know why," he said simply.
I met his eyes through the mirror.
"Yeah," I said softly, a bitter edge on my tongue. "Unfortunately, no accidents will hide the truth now."
The car fell into silence. That same, muted, heartbreaking silence that always followed when the truth lurked too close. No one said a word. Maybe they were afraid that if they did, I'd finally tear down the curtain they'd so carefully hung over our lives.
The engine roared to life, and we drove off. The house loomed in the distance, each turn of the wheel taking us closer to it for the last time.
Not much happened between morning and afternoon. As soon as we arrived, all we got were instructions to pack. I found myself in the bedroom, surrounded by the faint smell of old wood and stale air. A purse sat on the bed, and inside it was my notebook.
I sat down, pulling the notebook out. The last entry was from the day we arrived here. It felt like yesterday—but it wasn't. Almost a month had passed. Time had slipped by so fast, yet every second felt like a nail driven into me, an excruciating pain that refused to let up.
I turned the page and began to write: Date: December 6th, 2016. Mood: Fine. Thankful: For life.
As I finished, a tear fell, smudging the ink. I pressed my palm to my lips, stifling a scream that clawed its way up my throat. My fingers gripped the pen tighter, and with a trembling hand, I scratched over "FINE" and "LIFE" so hard the paper tore. In the jagged space next to it, I wrote: Date: December 6th. Mood: Sad. Thankful: For truth.
Something in me had died that day by the river. Maybe it was the quiet version of myself—the one who didn't fight, the one who hid behind silence. Now, what was left was someone louder, someone desperate to stop pretending.
I sat there, realizing for the first time that it was okay not to be fine. It was okay to stop wearing the mask. But it didn't make it easier. I was so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of feeling alive when every breath felt like it shouldn't belong to me.
The door creaked open softly. Mel stepped in, holding a steaming cup of tea.
"Hey," she said, her voice gentle as she closed the door behind her. She placed the cup in front of me. "This might help."
"Thank you," I said quietly, taking the tea in my hands. The warmth seeped into my palms, grounding me, if only for a moment.
"They told us what happened," she said softly, sitting beside me. Her hand rested on my shoulder, and I saw the tears welling in her eyes. "The first time... it's the hardest," she whispered. "But over time, it gets easier. You learn to accept that it's something you... need."
Her words sliced through me. A tear slipped down my cheek.
"Need?" I shouted, my voice trembling. "Is that what you think happened?"
Mel hesitated, her brows furrowing. "Well... yeah. You slept with them, didn't you?" Her voice wavered, as though unsure of her own words.
"No, Mel," I said, my voice cracking. "I didn't."
"It's okay," she started, but I cut her off.
"No," I said, standing abruptly. My movements sent the tea shaking, and I placed it on the small table by the bed, turning to face her. My breath quickened as anger bubbled to the surface.
"It's not okay," I said, my voice rising. "They followed me." I closed my eyes, the images flashing behind my lids—muddy red water, hands around my neck. "They almost drowned me," I said, my voice breaking. I clutched my throat, mimicking the grip they had on me. "They choked me," I cried, "and then they threw me on the ground like I was nothing."
My breaths came in short, sharp gasps now. I could feel the heat of anger and shame rise in my chest, burning like fire.
"Do you think that's okay?" I shouted, my voice shaking.
Mel shook her head, tears streaming freely down her face.
"They forced themselves on me," I said, each word sharp and raw. "They took the only thing that was truly mine. Then they left me there to die." My voice cracked under the words. "Do you think that's okay?"
Mel shook her head again, harder this time. Her trembling hand rose to wipe at her tears. She tried to speak, but no words came.
I sank back onto the bed, my body trembling. Mel sat beside me, her hand hovering near mine as though she wanted to comfort me but didn't know how. I stared at the notebook, the words "Mood: Fine" still visible beneath the scratches.
"I'm not fine," I whispered, more to myself than to her. And for the first time, I allowed the words to sit with me, to be real.
"And no one believed me," I cried, my voice cracking under my tears. "Because they think it's okay." The tears came harder now, streaming down my cheeks.
"I believe you," Mel said, her voice trembling, her body almost shaking. "But... sometimes it's easier to cover it up, to wrap it up. It hurts less that way."
"No, it doesn't!" I shot back, my fingers clawing at my skin, as though I could scrape away the memories etched into it. "No matter how many times I've rubbed my skin with soap, their touch doesn't wash away. It never washes away. "
"I know," Mel broke down, her sobs spilling out in waves. "It's easier to tell myself he loves me. If I let him do what he wants, I'm safer. It's safer if I don't fight back."
Her head fell onto my chest, her tears soaking through my shirt. She was breaking in my arms, breaking apart in a way that uncovered the truth we both had buried for too long.
"It was so much easier," she choked out, "when I couldn't speak. When I couldn't move. It was easier when I was numb."
"Oh, Mel," I whispered, pulling her closer, my arms wrapping around her as tightly as they could. "There's still hope. Maybe—"
"No," she cut me off, her voice shaking. "That night, when I saw you laying in blood... I died, Bree. I died with you."
Her hand found my cheek, her palm warm, trembling. "You'll go out there," she said, her voice quieter now, but firm. "You'll tell them our story. And you'll save us both."
Her words were a dagger in my chest. "No," I said. "You deserve to go with me."
"You have to go to the police station," she whispered, leaning closer. "Tell them everything. Tell them how we were both held here against our will."
A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard, my voice faltering. "They won't believe me, Mel. They didn't when..." I trailed off, my eyes shutting tight. The memories clawed at me—the pulsating sound of their laughter, their breath against my skin. It was all still there, haunting me.
My hand instinctively went to my hair, pulling out the rubber band. The phone hidden within fell into my palm, its weight suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing I'd ever held.
"I can call a friend," I whispered, clutching the phone tightly. "He can help."
My finger hovered over the number one. Pressing it felt like jumping off a cliff, but I held it down until the line rang.
After three beeps, he answered. "Bree?"
"Yes," I whispered. "I have to tell you something." My throat tightened, and I paused, hearing only silence on the other end. "Joe," I said finally. "My dad... he took Mel and me when we were kids. I think he's planning something."
"Where are you?" he asked, his breathing quickening.
"Home," I said, my voice shaking. "We're in my room."
"I'll be there in ten minutes. Twenty, tops," he said. "Will you two be okay until then?"
"Yes," I whispered, clutching the phone. "Thank you."
"Bree," he said softly, his voice steady, "please, just stay safe. Okay?"
"Okay," I replied. The line clicked, and the silence returned.
I lowered the phone, pulling Mel even closer to me.
"We'll be okay," I promised, though my voice quivered. "I promise."
Her tears fell harder, her bloodshot eyes meeting mine. "I can't take it if he touches me again," she whispered. "I pretended I was okay, but I'm not, Bree."
She rolled up her sleeves, revealing a patchwork of cuts and bruises. "He takes my blood," she said, her voice dropping into a broken whisper. "He drinks it... after." Her hands flew to her face, covering it as she sobbed. "I can't do it anymore. I can't."
I pulled her into my arms, holding her tighter than ever, our bodies sinking together onto the cold floor. My heart shattered as she shook in my hands, her pain pouring out in waves.
Suddenly, a loud knock at the door startled us. Our heads snapped up as Laura pushed the door open slowly.
"Dinner is ready."