9. Chapter Nine #4
Of course he is. There are no tests here. No right or wrong. He's just happy that I’m doing okay enough to still be sitting here with him.
It’s so strange.
So nice.
Really, really nice.
I rest the packet on my thighs, my bunny tucked against my chest and under my chin.
Then I catch sight of the very first thing the questionnaire asks for - my name - and everything nice seeps right out of me.
I’m empty. Cold. Not real.
Not real, not real, not real at all.
“Matt?”
Maybe I can leave the name line blank? Or I could just write Matt and stop being so dramatic about the whole name thing. Out of everything that’s happened, is it really that big of a deal? Is it worth getting upset over again and again instead of just embracing the name instead?
Matt is close enough, anyway.
But… I’m starting to get really sick of close enough and mamá never called me Matt.
I don’t have a memory of her voice making the sounds of that name.
It feels so meaningless without that. It’s just another label my abusers slapped on me, clinging, heavy, itchy on my skin. Slave, whore, pet, slut - and Matt.
Matt, Matt, Matt -
Mamá is gone, though. And maybe my abusers saw me as Matt, at least before I was brought to the compound where we were given numbers instead of names - but the survivors see me as Matt, too. Nolan and Bryce. Carter and Casey. Dr. Singh. Ace.
To them, I’m Matt.
I could be Matt.
I could… try to be, at least.
Besides, mamá would be broken up inside if she found out what happened to her little boy. If she found out that he’s been dead all this time, dead since Mica and brown shoes and only, only, only. Matt is all that’s left now.
Mamá can keep my name from before. She can keep it safe.
Matt will be the ghost.
“Are you with me, Matt?”
I guess maybe I am.
I nod.
“I want to help you tell your story.” I look up at him. There’s no smile anymore. His face is all intensity and determination.
This is important. He may not have said that - or if he did, I didn’t hear it - but I can tell that this part is really important for me to understand.
“But it will always be your story. I want to help you tell it and understand it and own it, but it will never stop being yours. No matter how long it takes, no matter how many bad days and good days, no matter how many setbacks or victories, no matter if you want me by your side every single step of the way or decide you want to do things on your own, this will never stop being your story. No one gets to take that from you. Not ever again.”
The words don’t feel real. I want them to be, though. I really want them to be.
“But here’s the most important part, Matt. Are you ready to hear it?” I nod. He smiles then, warm and bright. It’s nice. It feels good to have something nice again after losing it earlier. “I think you’re going to be able to write yourself one hell of a happy ending.”
That -
That sounds nice.
That sounds really, really nice.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste the salt of my tears on my lips. I tilt my head, pressing my face into the so soft fur of my bunny. It’ll make him wet for a little while, but my tears never ruin him. We’ve already tested it together.
He’s such a good thing - my bunny. Such a nice, good thing. Just like the notebooks and the pretty pens. Just like the hair products. Just like the apple. Just like this whole place might be, like Dr. Singh might be, like Ace might be.
I haven’t had good things in so long.
I don’t want to ruin this, I don’t want him to tell me he was wrong and I’m not ready to tell my story yet, so I try to look at him again. I try to fumble my hand to my chest, even though my bunny is in the way. I circle my fist again and again, big movements for emphasis.
Sorry.
I didn’t mean to ruin this. I promise. I can have good things. You don’t have to take them away.
Please.
I’m sorry.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry -
“You don’t need to be sorry,” he says, sounding so warm and kind. And - and he knew the sign I was using. He knows the sign for ‘sorry’. He must already know ASL. Or - or he’s been learning them for me, just like the others?
So many good things.
“It’s alright. Hey, it’s okay,” he says. I’m still signing the word, over and over. I have to think really hard to force my hand to stop. Press my face back into my bunny. “There you go. You can cry as long as you need to. We’ve got plenty of time. No need to be sorry about it.”
It’s like a dam breaks inside of me then.
I don’t know how long I sit across from him like that, my face in my bunny, crying so quietly, but so hard. A while, I think. Enough time for my eyes to feel raw when I eventually run out of energy and tears. I come back to myself to find my shoulders and back aching, my throat too.
The truth of his words is wrapped around me, but not like a vice. Not like a master’s arms. Not like rope or chains.
My story. Mine.
One hell of a happy ending.
The words are a blanket. Warm and heavy. So soft. Nice.
Another good thing.
Dr. Singh is going to help me tell my story. He’s going to help me write a happy ending.
And I’m going to fill it with so many good things.