Becca
Chapter 11
Becca
33 Days till Death
The raucous buzzing ushers the next wave of bone-gnawing anxiety. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to drown it out. Nothing good ever comes from checking my phone these days, especially in the middle of the night. It’s a vessel for the emotional warfare they’ve waged. Whether it’s them or the call from the cops that I go to bed and wake up expecting, it’s only going to make my life worse. It’ll only make my anxiety spiral.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It taunts me.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It screams at me to pick up.
Buzz. Buzz. Bu— My hand crushes the device in an iron grip silencing the grating noise, which is only traded out for an obnoxious pulsing against my palm. Unknown caller. I stare at the screen with no number. Only the unknown reaching out to me. I want to pull the blankets over my head and ignore it, but the itching that ensues—both on my skin and in my mind—drives me to slam a finger against the tempting green button.
Bringing the phone to my ear, dread pools in my stomach, the waters rising while I wait for the threats to start. Instead, I’m met with a weighted silence. All I can hear is utter stillness, the absence of sound echoing back at me. I sit up, straining to hear the flutter of a breath.
“Who is this?” The shakiness of my words reveals how unsettled I am.
Finally, a faint static fizzles across the line. If I wasn’t so still, so on alert, I would have easily missed it.
“Hello?” My own breathing is ragged as worry builds within me. Several beats pass and they still don’t react. I pull the phone away from my face, confirming they’re still on the line. “Nate, if this is you, this isn’t funny. I’m tired. This shit can wait until tomorrow.” My lip tucks behind my teeth as I wait for the threat that usually comes. But still, there’s nothing. Nate is many things but never quiet.
“Fuck you,” I shout into the microphone. Finally, I get a reaction. They hang up. While the wait is over, the knot in my stomach only tightens. As if mocking me the ominous drag of nails comes from the other side of the door. There’s no escape.
Peace and safety are foreign concepts to me. My life has become a house of horrors that I can’t escape morning, noon, or night. The monsters hide around every corner. They’re in the walls, under my bed, in my phone, but mostly in my head, I fear— everywhere and nowhere all at once .
During the day I can partially distract myself, once darkness falls and the world slows, I’m left alone with my thoughts. With shadows moving unnaturally and the constant feeling of eyes on me, I turn into a bunny in a trap. With my sprinting heart nearly exploding out of my chest and my tense muscles frozen, I wait for something to come devour me. Whenever I let my guard down, the things that go bump in the night come by and take little bites out of me—a pile of dirt, scratching on my door, and things falling, moving, and breaking, without explanation.
Even in the moments where it’s calm and quiet, I can’t escape the stream of comments reminding me how worthless I am, or the texts demanding I come over, now— some draw blood, others don’t, but they always leave my sanity a little less intact.
Without a reprieve, it’s only a matter of time before it shatters for good.
Everything is a threat. The soft blowing of my curtains makes me flinch. Is one of them going to reach through and bend my body to their will or is the dead woman buried in my backyard going to come drag me back to the dirt with her? Entombing us together, finally claiming me as hers like she promised.
Fear has spread from my mind and nestled its way under my skin. It’s parasitic, sucking me dry of any sense of control. Ever since the night of my birthday party, my body has remained on high alert. The weary tissue and muscle doing its best to recover before the next time it’s violated.
I wonder at what point they will simply split me open and leave me in a heap to bleed out all alone? Used and discarded. “ Just like you allowed her to be ,” my guilty conscience reminds me. And yet, I do nothing. The way Nate and his friends hold my leash is one that comes with years of mastery; their ability to force me to heel has been honed from years of training. And like any abused animal, I don’t run for fear that things will only get worse when they catch me.
So, I cower and wait, finding a little comfort however I can.
From beneath my covers, I mumble the words from Once Upon a December— the way I have in times of stress since I was eleven—on an endless loop. I used to be embarrassed by the childish habit, but now I cling to it like a lifeline. The rope is tattered, tearing further in the ripping current by the minute, but it’s all I have, a fraying thread of hope that I’ll make it back to safety one day .
But I’ve been hard-pressed to find any kind of hope mentally, physically, or otherwise.
When I look in the mirror, I’m not myself, I’m a collection of body parts with their names written all over them. My wrists are encircled with Richard . He loves to hold them behind my back while he fucks me. My lower back is branded with Rob . My stomach belongs to Nate; the sticky mess he leaves behind a film that clings to me. No matter how many showers I take, it’ll never be enough.
I feel another episode coming on as my lungs struggle to shift up and down in any semblance of a healthy pattern. The air’s run out; there’s nowhere I can turn to catch my breath. The poison’s spread. My safe spaces are compromised. It’s seeped into my clothes, my lungs, and my mind.
The memories.
The harassment.
The paranoia.
Too much, too much, too much. It’s all too much.
Numbly, I pick at one of the few fingers still perfected with powder-blue gel, watching as polish tears away from the nail. The uncomfortable tugging reminds me that I’m here. That it’s right now. That I’m not there . That it’s not then .
I’m sitting on my bed, bathed in the glow of the fairy lights strewn throughout my room—around my mirror, along the curtains, the new ones above my bed; anything to chase away the darkness that creeps closer and closer. I’m being boxed in by repressed memories and the unrelenting voices in my head. Things only get worse when the lights go out—fingers prying, teeth nipping, hands gripping—so I don’t let them.
Fear and insecurity didn’t always rule my life. It’s mostly been peace and contentment. But the last few months make me question whether that was even the same lifetime.
The truth is, I don’t know that girl who used to let things roll off her back. The one who smiled through the bad days and always got straight A’s. The perfect daughter. The reliable friend. The good girl. Pretty and soft and sweet.
My life had been majorly uneventful except for one other brief period. But I’d tucked away that part of my past in a little box at the top of my closet, where it belongs; I’ve gone to great lengths to keep everything neat and tidy just like everyone expects. I’ve always been described as the calm, put-together twin. Now, I’m unraveling. There’s part of me that’s begging for help, but the problem is that when you’ve spent your whole life making sure everything is perfect, you don’t know what to do when it isn’t. Sometimes the confession is at the tip of my tongue, but even if I wanted to tell them, how do I tell the people that I love most—the ones who picture me as their sweet little girl—that I’ve allowed myself to be treated like this—how could I admit my greatest shame? Because then I’d have to own my biggest failure, and that’s just not something I’m capable of.
Instead, I suffer in silence, doing what I must to keep up the charade of stability for my family. I must be doing a good job because nobody asks me what’s wrong; my dad doesn’t sit me down for one of his talks, my mom doesn’t find extra reasons to knock on my door, and Aiden’s hardly around these days.
I’ve skipped my classes every day this week. All I can manage is hauling myself out of bed to go sit in my car for hours at a time or sleep on a blanket in the park in one of the other residential neighborhoods nearby—can’t risk my parents seeing me. After a long day of hiding the rapid deterioration of the life I’ve fought so hard for, I come back home and continue to rot.
But today, I chose something different. Something for me.
Pulling up to the shop, I hesitate. I’ve never gotten a tattoo alone. Rubbing a hand over the vine that winds around my thigh to my ankle, I stall for a few minutes, searching for inspirational photos and hyping myself up. If Aiden can do this like it’s nothing, so can I.
And apparently, fate agrees, because there’s nobody in the shop and they’re itching for a walk-in.
“Can I have your ID?” I hand it over and the brunette woman with olive skin covered in traditional tattoos passes me a clipboard with an intake form. “Do you know what you’re looking to get?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly.
“Can you show me an example so I can figure out which artist will be the best match for the style?”
I show her the images I hastily looked up. When I turn the screen toward her, she looks at the art, then at me, her look meaningful and comforting. Standing a little straighter, I’m emboldened in my decision. “I want it on my lower stomach. I want…I want it to be impossible to ignore if I’m naked.
She nods in understanding. “Give me just a few minutes to chat with the artists who are in today, then we’ll get you all set. Do you want some water while you wait?”
“No thanks.”
A few minutes later, she returns and introduces me to Lacy. Her calm energy makes it easy to trust her with such an important task. And once we get the design and placement just right, I’m falling into the most relaxed state I’ve been in while she works despite how painful it is. Unlike everything else that’s been forced upon me these last few months, I’m choosing this. This isn’t like the bruises and scars they’ve left on me. Theirs will fade, eventually. This will stay with me forever and I couldn’t be happier about it.
“It’s perfect,” I compliment the tattoo while I twist and turn admiring the immaculate linework and dotwork shading that create a formidable yet breathtaking head of Medusa. I see myself there in the open-mouthed scream and withering stare. There’s a newfound comfort in the way the snakes wind up and around my midsection, guarding my body, from those who intend to harm it.
30 Days till Death
My bedroom crashes into view as I tumble through the window, my knees hitting the floor with a thud. Throbbing aftershocks shoot pain up my shins, but I freeze and bite my tongue against the grunt of agony that wants to break free. My phone lights up, illuminating the otherwise dark space around me. I squint down at the screen, attempting to force the blob of text into something legible.
Aiden: You okay?
Two little words. They could remain insignificant, casual, or they could become two of the most important ones of my life. Only partially functioning, my intoxicated mind latches onto the lure, dragging the dulled rational part along behind it.
Aiden’s opened a door, offered me a way out. I could step through it, into the safety of his arms, into the support of my family, the warm light flickering from down there is so welcoming. But what’s beyond that? If I allow myself to go down that path, I know what comes next—humiliation, pity, failure, and then, worst of all, the truth. And of course, prison. Even if my parents got a great lawyer, one that cost way more than they could afford, one that would cost them this house, I’d still end up losing everything. They’d lose everything.
If I step back, let the door close for good—block all possibility of entry—then I just lose a little bit more of myself. Just one more piece. And then another and another as I ride this endless merry-go-round of blackmail and misery.
It’s the illusion of choice, I remind myself; there isn’t one to be made. The reasoning cuts me free from the dangerous detour.
Aide n: ????
Aiden: If you don’t answer in three seconds I’m coming in there.
Me: I’m fine
Me: Just tripped sorry
Aiden: Yeah that window ledge can be a bit tricky in the dark
Teasing and laughter are the farthest fear from my mind with all this pain echoing through my body and churning of the poison in my gut. But I play along because I don’t want Aiden coming in here and trying to play the valiant brother. If he had the slightest idea that I was on the verge of vomiting and begging for a blackout so I could forget all about tonight—and the night before and the last five months—he’d be in here taking care of me in an instant. That’s the last thing I want, so I text back. Or, at least, I attempt to. My pulse pounds in my ears making it difficult to hear my own thoughts, let alone make sense of the blurry keyboard.
Me: Ha. Ha.Fuhv pff.
Aiden: Becca Marie, are you drunk?
Me: None of ur busnesd
Aiden: Hope you got into some trouble for once
Aiden: Let me know if you need anything
Me: Yup
My eyes sting as I drop the phone, getting the bright screen as far away from me as possible. Limp and unsteady, my legs are like Jello as I try to get some traction on the ground so I can stand. As my body sways, so does the contents of my stomach. Scrambling, I manage to make it to the trash can just in time. The violent retching loosens a hazy memory. Through blurry vision, I caught Meg’s eye at the worst time, just as Nate was whispering in my ear, his hand sliding down my back. Confusion was plain on her face, but it quickly shifted to accusation. So, even he’s better than me?
It hurt more than Nate’s fingers digging into my skin. The insinuation. The judgment. But I don’t have the energy to right things between us. There’s no sense, anyways. With more people close to me, the higher the risk of my secret getting out. It’s better this way, for both of us. My secrets will only worsen the digs my rejection has made to her self-esteem. As for mine? It’s already destroyed beyond recovery. He’s made sure of that.
My stomach rolls again with the mental image of fingers holding my shoulders down, while another set of hands pressed my wrists into the dirty sheets. Acid burns my nostrils, it’s even more unpleasant coming up, but that clear liquid in those tiny glasses had been the only thing keeping me from running. It didn’t hold the tears back, though.
It was the first time in months that I’d cried during. I’d endured so much, gritted my teeth through it , managed to send myself somewhere in the past. This time, though, I couldn’t do it. Not with Meg’s dangerous curiosity picking at my resolve, a hundred potentially disastrous scenarios running through my mind.
Dirt on my palms grates against the trash can as I clutch it tightly. A flash of me stumbling down the dirt road. Clumsy fingers fumble with the clasp of my short heels that are caked in mud. Frustration mounts as I struggle, and they morph from straps to fingers using a bruising grip to keep me from kicking. I struggle harder until the closure breaks off. Another piece of me chipped away. The other opens without a fuss and I allow myself a deep breath. The itch of sweat and dirt and who knows what else grates on my skin beneath the scraps of clothing.
The shower calls to me with the promise of relief—offering the hope of erasing the last traces of the night so it’s like it never happened—but when I catch a glimpse of myself, it’s clear that no amount of scrubbing or scorching my skin could restore my sense of self. Makeup streaks down my face, forced from my eyes as my body rejects the liquor I tried to drown it in. My straight hair gathers around my face in tangles, the knot at the back of my neck is going to be particularly difficult to deal with. Spilled drinks and who knows what else stains the front of my skirt. Worthless and disgusting. Before the words felt hollow and spiteful coming from people who hated me, but tonight they ring true.
There is no erasing the remnants of tonight, or anything that’s happened since June. My outside finally matches my insides.
“Becca,” a young girl’s voice whispers in my ear as I reach for the shower handle. Taken by surprise, I miss the nob and nearly fall on my face. Dread stiffens my neck as I look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. There is, however, a gravitational pull that draws me toward the medicine cabinet. Something I can’t quite hear coaxing me forward.
A command that sounds like “open” in that too-familiar voice has my fingers wrapping around the edge and pulling at the glass. Drawn upward, my eyes land on an orange bottle filled with white pills. Cautiously, I fit my fingers around it. A resounding “yes” echoes down to my bones. Cupping water in my palm, I take a few sips, wetting my raw throat, so they’re easier going down. A courtesy that hasn’t been extended by others.
Dumping a handful of the capsules into my palm, I take a deep breath, briefly pausing to watch as the coating turns milky in my hand, stripping the pills of their people-pleasing veneer. Something we have in common.
I hesitate, a flicker of sobriety that’s quickly overpowered.
“Swallow,” the girl’s voice in my ear eggs me on.
Tipping my head back, I swallow the meds. Peaceful assurance smooths over my shoulders, tender and calm. Beneath the alcohol, somewhere reason still resides, there’s a kick of dissent. But I remain steady.
Minutes trickle on as my reflection and I watch each other, waiting for signs of the booze and drugs coming to a head, but my eyes don’t bulge, and I don’t dramatically convulse then fall to the ground.
Great , I’ve fucked this up like everything else. Taking the lone pill that remains in the bottle, disappointment sits sour in the pit of my stomach. Another failure.
Sweat slicks my skin and my feet cross over one another as I slowly make my return to my bedroom with my hands pressed to either side of the wall. Once the safety of my closed bedroom door is behind me, I allow myself to sink to my knees. Right palm, left leg. Left palm right leg. Back and forth, back and forth, until I pull myself onto the bed.
In the far corner by my door is a black shape that I can’t quite make out; its edges ebbing and flowing with volatility.
If my heart was pounding before, it’s playing a drum solo now. Tangled hair clings to my forehead. The tips of my fingers are cold and tingling. There’s a war unfolding inside my chill-covered body; it shakes with effort. A thousand thoughts are vying for my attention, buzzing building in my skull like a swarm of flying insects, individually too quiet to hear but together, far too loud to ignore.
That’s probably why I don’t hear the door open. In waltzes the busty blond I buried in my backyard. A dreamlike haze clouds my vision as I blink through my disbelief.
Maybe I’m already dead. If I’m not, I’m sure I’ll be hoping I am if she gets her hands on me. This is quite literally my worst nightmare come true, but she looks like a dream. Platinum and pink hair falls around her, perfectly framing her gorgeous face and the swell of her breasts that spill out of her corset top.
Instead of recoiling and screaming in terror at the reanimated dead woman in my bedroom, my uncoordinated fingers stretch to caress the smooth expanse of her neck, which is notably missing the deep wound Nate left. “Is this hell?” I slur, my lips and tongue swollen.
She cocks her head at me, eyes searching my face with curiosity instead of fury. “You can see me?” Her voice is crystal clear. Even though I’ve been plagued by paranoia for months, I’m struggling to completely dismiss this as some kind of hallucination.
“Yeah, but you’re—” I pant, trying to swallow back the foul taste that creeps up my throat. “You’re not real,” I whimper and weakly wrap my arms around my spasming stomach. “It’s just, it’s just a nightmare.” I slap my cheek with a shaking hand, trying to clear the vision. What should be a jarring reality check is the tickle of a feather. “Wake. Up,” I instruct myself as I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to dispel the vivid apparition that’s been conjured up by the combination of substances currently swimming through my system.
“I can assure you that I’m very much real. You can close your eyes all you want, but I’ll be here. You made sure of that, didn’t you?”
“Stop it.” My breathing is rapid. “You’re just a figment of my imagination.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice? Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”
“You’re dead.”
“Warmer.” Her brow arches, face beaming with satisfaction.
“Are you a fucking zombie or something? A disorienting cramp riots within me.
“Mmm mmm, colder.” She clasps her hands behind her back, studying me.
“A—a ghost?”
Her smile widens. “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner.” Her enthusiasm is nauseating.
I pull my knees to my chest and begin rocking. “No this can’t be real.” I squeeze my eyes shut as she comes closer and closer. My stomach spasms again. “Go away.” It’s a struggle to speak, the words breaking apart in short gasps in my arid mouth. “Please. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a choice,” I explain. There’s no response, so I continue, hoping I can force the vision away and replace it with something better if I appease the guilt-laden part of my brain that’s trying to make me face this.
“Liar, liar,” she hisses back.
“Am I dead, too?” The absurd phrase is gummy in my mouth. Groaning, I clutch at myself. “Oh god, the pills, I—” Vomit rises hard and fast, splashing over the edge of my bed.
“Becca, what pills?” I flinch at her goading tone turned stern and the grip of her hand on my chin. Shock flashes through her eyes, but she pulls it away just in time for me to throw up again. “Becca, what fucking pills.”
“I thought they’d help. I thought it would be easy to just—” Vomit.
This time when she grips my chin, I don’t have a chance to flinch because she’s shoving her fingers down my throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chants as she shoves them farther until I’m retching and making a mess on both of us. “Did you really just try to k—” Instead of finishing that question, she grunts in frustration. “This is why you need me. This is why you shouldn’t have fucking killed me.”
Unrelenting, she shoves her fingertips back into my throat. What should be a jarring force is a mere tickle. It still proves effective. My heartbeat is a sudden kick to my chest that’s impossible to ignore. The power of it makes me choke up a gasping sob, rabid breaths shredding through my tight chest. With each drag of air, the room sharpens in clarity to the point that I have to clench my eyes shut against all the stimuli. It doesn’t stop the vicious onslaught of a headache.
Fighting against the acidic aftermath of my burnt throat, I force out the question I need answered. “Why?” The only response is silence. My room is empty. That should settle me, reassure that animalistic fear that’s risen up in me. But it does the opposite. I’ve been shoved back from the brink of death, and I don’t believe it was a kindness.