Chapter 39
I woke up in a cushioned chair, a cup of coffee and a bottle of electrolytes perched on a small table beside me. Across the room sat Andrea, absorbed in a computer, presumably sifting through the photos we had taken earlier. He glanced over at me with an air of indifference, and offered no word.
Confusion washed over me—how could he act so casually after everything that had occurred? It had really happened, hadn't it? I wished it were just a bad dream, but the memories lingered, the discomfort still fresh, and his scent clung to me.
He approached, and I felt paralyzed. He reached for the bottle of electrolytes, twisted off the cap, and extended it toward me.
“Drink this; it'll help you feel better,” he said. I couldn't wrap my mind around it.
“How can you expect me to take anything from you after what you did?” I shot back, hoping he would deny it, that this was all a figment of my imagination. He hesitated, then set the bottle back on the table.
“At least drink the coffee; it'll help clear your mind,” he suggested, moving to perch himself on the edge of the table instead of returning to the computer.
I sat there, bewildered, weighing my options—scream, run, cry, or lash out—but I was frozen in shock, unable to move or react.
“What happened shouldn't have happened, but it was consensual…” he began, only to be interrupted by my outburst.
“But you—!” My anger bubbled up, and I spat the words out.
“Shhhh…” he held a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. “I didn't. You provoked me. And it can't be proven otherwise; your body was, well, relaxed.”
“But the juice—!” Tears streamed down my face.
“I didn’t. You took a pill from your mother's purse,” he countered coolly.
“My mom? She doesn't take any medication,” I protested, convinced of my truth.
“Oh, but she does, and it has her name on it,” Andrea said.
“You took a pill to calm your nerves for the photoshoot, and it worked, didn't it? Your mom noticed how much more at ease you were with the music.”
“She won't believe you. You'll go to jail for this,” I retorted.
“Well, she might believe me. And just think about how upset she'd be if people discovered that her daughter was a…
well, you know, easy. It would crush her.
People love to gossip, and trust me, they would talk about this for a long time.
I grew up here; I know everyone, and that I'd never harm a fly.
But you? You're dating a guy who has been charged with assault not once, but twice. You climbed out of your friend's window to run off to Rome with your boyfriend. What do you think people would assume you were doing all night? Just holding hands? People saw you with that boy Marco last year; what do you think they thought you were up to?” Andrea’s tone was disturbingly casual, as if he were merely explaining my faults rather than threatening me.
I stared at him, the weight of his words shaking my confidence.
How did he know about Rome? “It's okay. It happened once, and it won't happen again. No one has to know; no one will gossip. You and your boyfriend can leave this place behind and start fresh. Imagine if he finds out about this—what then?” He paused, letting his words sink in.
“If he believes me, you two are done for.
If he believes you, he might do something reckless that will land him in jail.
So what's your choice? You lose him either way.”
What would I do for love? What sacrifices would I make?
Andrea drove me home; my body felt heavy and weak, flashes of him on top of me, the noises, his curses, and then the darkness. I was still grappling with the shock of it all. Neither of us spoke during the drive.
I stumbled out of the car and dragged my feet toward the house, the night air thick with tension. Andrea had called my mom to cover for me, saying I'd be late going through photos.
When I walked into the dimly lit house, the situation escalated rapidly. My mom flipped the lights on and slapped me so hard that I nearly fell. My cheek burned as if it had been seared by an iron.
“How could you do this to me?” Her eyes were red, a mix of anger, disappointment, and sorrow.
“How could you lie to me and run off to Rome to do what? Sleep with that criminal? What is happening to you?” She slapped me again, harder this time.
My dad stood behind her, an expression of disgust on his face as he looked at me, the daughter he barely recognized.
Again, what was my crime? Falling in love and wanting to be with someone? Was this my punishment for it?
I felt utterly defeated, watching everything crumble around me. All I wanted was to escape, to run until my feet bled. I hadn't chosen this path—or maybe I had when I decided to be with Zane.
If I told my mom what Andrea had done to me, would she even believe me?
She retreated to her room, tears streaming down her face.
My dad remained silent, his disappointment palpable.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sank into the couch, staring blankly at the dark television screen. I went to my room.
After a long, painful day, I took a shower, slipped into my pajamas, and sat down to write. With my diary open before me, I poured out everything that had happened and shared every emotion and thought that weighed on my mind.
I felt lost and unsure of whom to turn to for advice. If only I could reach out to my future self for guidance, I thought. Surely she would have the answers I needed.
I wrote, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me, releasing some pent-up tension. But then, reality crashed down on me again, like a freight train. I spiraled into hysteria, with salty rivers of sorrow streaming down my face. No one checked in on me during that chaotic moment.
I struggled to articulate the madness swirling within me—one moment I was laughing, the next I was crying, lost in my own thoughts for hours, staring at a single point, or writing until my fingers hurt.
The emotional weight pressed heavily on my chest, making it feel as if it might shatter. My head throbbed with unbearable pressure, and suddenly, I felt the warm trickle of blood from my nose.
The following day, I didn't go to school. I didn't meet Zane; I didn't respond to his calls or texts. I didn't eat or shower; instead, I remained in bed, fixated on the ceiling, alternating between sleep and tears. The cycle continued—stare, sleep, cry.
The following morning, my mom entered my room.
“Get up, you're late for school,” she instructed before leaving.
I stayed motionless. After ten minutes, she stormed back in, raising her voice.
Thoughts of pills crossed my mind, wondering when she had started taking them and why.
The loudness of her voice was unlike anything I had experienced before.
“I said, get up!” she shouted, grabbing my arm with frustration.
It felt as if she was attempting to lift just a soulless shell, and I crumpled to the floor.
Her eyes widened at my limpness. “This is too much. You're overreacting,” she remarked.
I met her gaze, deep and penetrating, and for a moment, she froze.
If only she knew what I was carrying inside.
I could tell her everything right then. I pictured her reaction—would she offer comfort?
Would she apologize? But the words remained stuck in my throat, and my stare unnerved her enough that she left the room.
I spent another day alone, rejecting food that my body didn't crave.
On the third day, my dad tried to talk to me, but when I ignored him, he raised his voice, and soon both of them were yelling.
By the fourth day, I couldn't bear to listen anymore, so I decided to go to school—or so they thought. Instead, I got off the bus a few stops early and sat on a bench for six hours. I didn't attend school or go to work anymore.
I heard Zane coming to my house a few times, but my parents sent him away. I could hear him calling my name, and it shattered my soul, making every inch of my being ache. I couldn't face him; I couldn't bear to keep such a heavy secret. Or maybe not yet; I just needed time.
Then the school called, which led to more yelling and more threats.
From that point on, my dad drove me to school, waiting until I stepped inside.
Zane found me and desperately sought to uncover what was wrong.
I remained silent, unable to meet his eyes, fearing that if I did, I would break into pieces.
Days turned into a week, then another. Zane continued to speak to me, visiting my house every day, in vain. Each day felt like a repetition of the last. I convinced myself that solitude was what I needed to navigate my way through this pain. Just a little more time—that's all I thought I required.
My body felt frail; I had shed several pounds and hadn't eaten for days. When I attempted to eat, my body rejected it. Just that morning, I found myself throwing up in the school bathroom as soon as I arrived.
Emily kept looking at me in silence, fully aware of everything except what happened with Andrea. I had no energy or will to talk to anyone; I couldn't focus on class or tackle my homework. All I wanted was to fade away. It was overwhelming.
Jessica was also facing consequences because of me; her parents had grounded her as a result of my actions. It was all my fault.
One day, during gym class, the teacher made us run, but I struggled to lift my legs. I pushed myself, but the nausea was unbearable. Then something happened that had never occurred before: I collapsed to the floor, losing consciousness.
When I was about thirteen, a particular movie left a lasting impression on me.
It told the story of a young girl who fainted and woke up in a hospital, only to learn that she had an inoperable brain tumor.
In her final months, she chased after her dreams. Ultimately, she passed away, but she was surrounded by love, and everyone mourned her loss.
I found myself wondering, if I were to face something similar, would my parents rediscover their love for me? Was I seeking sympathy?
I regained consciousness on the gym floor, with two nurses hovering over me. The rest of the crowd stood in clusters, murmuring about the incident. The overhead light was painfully bright, making it difficult for me to open my eyes.
“How are you feeling?” a male voice inquired, but I had no desire to answer. I simply didn't care.
“We need to get you to the hospital; you may have a head injury,” the female nurse added. I expected them to use a stretcher, as portrayed in the movies; instead, they helped me to my feet, supporting me under the arms, and guided me outside to a small, aging ambulance.
The school had already shared my parents’ contact information, and they were on their way.
I was intrigued to see how they would react.
Would they be angry? Would they feel pity for me?
Deep down, I yearned for someone to embrace me and assure me that everything would be alright because, after all, I was still just a child.
By the time we arrived at the hospital, I felt a bit better but still weak. The reality of the hospital experience was nothing like what we saw on television. Everything moved at a sluggish pace; I wondered if someone were truly dying, they might not make it before seeing a doctor.
After nearly half an hour of waiting, a nurse finally brought me to the emergency room, and shortly after, my parents rushed in, looking frantic.
“What happened?” my mom asked, tears streaming down her face.
“How are you feeling? Are you hurt?” my dad added, his concern palpable. A wave of relief washed over me; they still cared, and I was still their child.
The doctor examined me after reviewing my vitals, which the nurse had taken earlier, and informed my parents that I would need a blood test and an IV.
I watched as the nurse filled not just one, but six containers with my blood. I couldn't help but wonder why they required so much.
My mom remained by my side, while my dad paced anxiously. The IV made me feel better, and I noticed the last drops trickling out. Soon after, a nurse came to remove it, applying gauze and a bandage to my arm.
Another forty minutes passed before the doctor returned, asking my parents to step outside. I could neither see nor hear them, and I couldn't help but speculate about their conversation.
Did Zane already know I was in the hospital? What were people saying at school? Was Andrea scared I might spill the secret? I pondered how long I could keep this to myself. Could I live with it? Would everything ever return to the way it had been? What would I be doing a year from now?
Suddenly, the door swung open, and my mom burst in, overwhelmed with tears, rushing toward me. I braced myself for another slap, one that would surely leave a mark.
“Are you pregnant?” she cried out.