Ripple Effect: A Novel

by Adalynn Rafe

  Written four days ago:

  Well, it’s Monday, and though I swore I would not go to school today, I had to see the psychologist just to humor my mother. The lady stares at me like she knows a dark secret that I hold, like she knows that something has happened with him, but I refuse to tell her. She’s the enemy, she’s on his side! She asked about my dreams. I told her nothing. She wants to see me again. I told her to go to Hell. Then I decided that, legit, I wasn’t going to go to school anymore. Hazel’s parents are gone and have quite the selection of liquor and fancy lingerie. We’ll sit around in fancy silk robes and watch movies and the rest of the world can screw off.

  Written two days ago:

  The nerve of some people, seriously! Sabrina, the duchess whore she is, came up to me during lunch. She handed me a flyer for a party that is this Friday night at some mansion. Hazel was sitting there when it happened. She said something about an older man having interest in me and wanting me there. Then she threatened me. I can’t believe I told her yes—but I had to! Here I was, supposed to be sitting around in silk robes and skipping out on school, but that freaking psychologist called my mother, and my mother made me go! And then Sabrina attacked me! I left for home and then Hazel came and picked me up because I dreaded being at the school. And Mom doesn’t understand. I also have this sore throat, probably from all the crap he’s put me through. It came around just after he attacked me. On the way out of the school, Darien came up to me and accused me of seducing so and so. He knows the truth about him; I could see it in his eyes. I yelled at him and told him that he doesn’t know me—because he doesn’t!—and he brought up how we were friends when we were kids. Then he called me a royal! I am not a royal! I am so sick of everyone! I hate everyone! Seriously, I think I’m going to do it. I’m going to jump from the cliff and never look back.

  Written last night:

  Hazel has given me the guilt trip for kicking Adie and them out of my life. They kicked me out, not the other way around––when they decided that I was too dark and wanted to tell me how to live my life! They kicked me out with their nagging bossy crap! Hazel loses her place sometimes. In fact, I’ve been sleeping at her house for a few nights. Last night she reminded me that I have to turn in that art piece to Iles. I shouldn’t care, but I do. It is the one that won me the scholarship to the AI. When I went to turn it in, Hazel was talking to Darien in the hall (gag me) and Darien was saying some crap about me to my face. He called me selfish; he said that I didn’t care about Hazel. What does he know?

  I’m angry these days, but I’m numb too. I don’t think it’s the alcohol, but everyone else does. If anything, the booze helps me, keeps me from getting violent. Hazel would disagree, says that I act like an idiot when I drink and sometimes smack her around. Only because she needs it! I don’t belong in this world anymore. I’ll go to the party tomorrow night and then simply disappear somewhere. If I’m so selfish, then suicide seems to be the perfect death.

  I place the journal down for a minute and breathe through the tears that stream silently down my cheeks. It’s all I can do. My heart is breaking in my chest, I can’t breathe very well, and I feel so alone––if just for that one second. Laughter rings from downstairs and brings a smile to my face, reminding me that I am not that Cecily anymore. With dread, I turn back to the journal. I need to know what happened to me, even though it makes me feel like broken glass is shattered in my already bruised chest.

  Written today:

  It was nice to spend a day with Hazel, simply sitting around and enjoying the last moments of normalcy. After this, I’ll never spend another morning with Hazel, giggling about silly things over bagels and smear and laughing about my hangovers. I came home to get ready for the party and Daphne gave me the ugliest look and held her nose as I passed. I flipped her off and went upstairs. Adie was probably crying like a baby, and I hadn’t seen my mother.

  I guess that this is goodbye. I’m taking the money that I have saved up and I am spending it on drugs and alcohol at the royal party. I don’t want to feel the pain when I die. Poor Hazel has to be dragged along by the selfish Cecily. I’m sure she’ll be fine. It will be good for her to get high and get loose. Anger is still inside of me, but now all I feel is sadness. I even thanked Hazel for always being there for me. I told her that if she were dying, I’d hold her in my arms and sing to her. It’s a shame she won’t be able to hold me. It’s too bad, all of this death talk. My Papa didn’t love me enough to stay by my side. I am a disgrace to my mother, just a screwed up child that “seduces” teachers and barks at people.

  There is nothing left for me on this earth and I only hope that I can leave this place and never return. If they don’t hate me here, I just hope they spread my ashes on the river.

  Written just a few hours ago: (before I passed out)

  I love you, Mom. I love you, Adie. I love you, Hazel. I love you, Jema and Daphne.

  I didn’t mean to hurt you.

  I finish reading and the journal drops from my hands as my body becomes paralyzed. I’m sobbing, my shoulders shaking, my heart aching. That hollow spot in my chest becomes consuming. I try to wipe the tears off my cheeks, but they keep coming!

  Suicide . . . I was going to commit suicide tonight?

  The glass in my chest crunches against the smooth muscle and burns excruciatingly. I don’t remember being this dark at all! Why? This makes no sense. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, to keep from breaking into pieces.

  Lunging over my bed and to the shelf where I keep my journals, I roll onto the floor and sit on my knees. I pull out a sparkly blue journal and open it to when my father died. I was thirteen years old. It reads:

  Papa . . . is dead. I think that’s a tear mark there, quite a few actually.

  He left me here alone. I don’t know what to say. Mom won’t stop crying and we just found out today that Adie is sick again. Everyone keeps coming over to bring us food. Reverend Morris and his wife are very kind to us. Sheriff Copper comes by hourly to ensure that we’re good. The people are kind to us. Papa is dead. Adie is sick. I want to run away, maybe to Germany. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be there, waiting for me. But I know that he is dead. And . . . I’m alone now.

  I throw that aside and dig through the pile to find my journal from the next year. It’s orange with a giant purple peace sign on the front. The Life of Cecily Ann Wolf: Age Fourteen, it says on the front in bright marker. The first pages are filled with random things, like who I think was hot at the age of fourteen, and secret codes that me and Hazel shared.

  Finally, I reach something good. It reads:

  Sometimes I think Mom hates me. She spends lots of time on Adie, but pays no attention to me. We were at the market today and ran into the Sheriff. He said I reminded him of Papa. Mom’s face went white and tears were in her eyes. It’s been a year. Shouldn’t she be happy that one of her children still carries on his spirit? It was like I was gross and covered in worms, like she would talk to a banshee instead of me, her own flesh and blood. She’s not the only one who’s sad that Papa died. I’m the one who’s been left alone, not her. She only cares about Adie, and I feel like that is the only reason I’m alive. I see the pain in her when she sees me. I’m too much like Papa, and Mom hates me. I am all alone.

  Sighing, I shake my head and stare down at the words. My poor, poor mother. Of course it hurt her to see me; I am so much like my father. But I needed her at that time, and I clearly did not get the attention I needed to survive.

  I place that one to the side and pull out the next journal. This one has pink Japanese Cherry Blossoms on the front of it. I was fifteen and straight to the point. It reads:

  Adie said that I was a brat. Me and Mom got into fight, it had nothing to do with Adie, and she said I was yelling uncontrollably with Mom. I was not! I was completely calm! Adie is a stupid idiot that I wish was never born! I’m like an incubator for her. Daphne and Jema are her true sisters. I’m nothing, just a bag of bone marrow. You think I want to be my s
ister’s keeper? I don’t want to be, not anymore. Jeez, and all I said was, “Mom, I fell out of the tree and bruised my hip.” Mom said, “Did you slip?” I said, “Yeah. We drank something funny at Billy’s house (random loser from school) and I couldn’t walk or see very well, and I slipped.” Mom’s eyes were all wide and she was flipping her lid, worried that we had been drugged. I told her to shut up and let me talk. Then Adie came in and ruined everything. I hate her! I wish she were dead! Anyway, the stupid kid said the drink was from his dad’s cabinet, it’s called liquor. My mom pretends that she doesn’t know what alcohol is or something. I had never had it before. It smelled horrible, but I still drank it to look cool. It stung my throat. Then we felt all lightheaded and giggly and the kid tried to kiss Hazel! We ran because he has rabies, climbed into a tall tree, and I fell out because I couldn’t walk straight. But Mom doesn’t care, or Adie. I wouldn’t get so angry if they would just let me talk. I’m always ganged up on!

  I remember that. My ribs were bruised, too, and it hurt like no other. I move on to my next journal, this one covered in pupil irises. Sixteen . . . seems like a good year, from what I remember. Randomly, I open to a spot and read:

  Mom, Adie, Daphne, Jema, and Hazel threw me a surprise birthday party for my sweet sixteen. I was so happy that I cried. I have felt so alienated by them for quite a while. Maybe I’ve done it to myself. Hazel said one day that I was being rejective, like rejecting everyone around me. I told her it’s not a word and she glared at me. I’ve realized that all of this anger that I’ve been feeling is because I’m scared of losing the ones I love. So what, I would rather push them away and not feel pain when they leave me? That explains why I’ve had this odd love/hate thing with Mom and Adie. Yeah, the party was nice. We watched Dracula, my favorite movie ever, and then we went outside and blew up fireworks, though they are kinda illegal. Mom even lit a few herself. It was nice to see her laugh a little. I think she’s becoming her again. Still miss Papa, but what can I do?

  I thank the stars that I’ve found an entry where I didn’t want to kill my sister, or hate my mother with a raging passion. But what made me snap? Things seemed okay then, but why would I go through all of this now?

  I return back to my current journal and open the first page. Nothing extreme. I hit July, just last summer, and find a juicy one. This might explain it. I return to my bed, my knees sore from kneeling on the ground. It reads:

  I walked into the house and heard, “I’m afraid she’s getting out of hand and needs to be punished.” Er––excuse me? They couldn’t be talking about me . . . right? I mean, yeah I got in a fight with Adie and them because they called one of my prized paintings ugly and tasteless. Daphne said it was a stick figure. I said it was to represent a child’s perspective of her father. Yes, it’s abstract, but they were so criticizing and mean to me. So you know what I did? I threw it in the fireplace and burned it. Then, they started picking on my clothes. Adie said that my shorts were too short and that my chest was showing way too much. She’s a freaking nun when it comes to fashion! Daphne thought my shorts were cute, at least. But she made fun of my painting! I had to deal with all of this, plus running into Sabrina and she sic’d one of her nasty perverts on me. He grabbed my butt and I punched his face. Then he pushed me even more and I started crying, embarrassing myself in front of everyone. Sabrina stopped him and made fun of me for being a baby. Words can’t even describe how horrible she is. Well, I kind of ripped out a chunk of her hair because I was tired of her crap, and her dad walked up behind her at the same time. He was mad. Said he’d call my mom. So, I walk into my house hearing my mom saying that I’m getting out of hand and that I need to be punished . . . I just can’t believe it! I’ve decided that Mom doesn’t care, legit, and the others just want to boss me around. All I have is Hazel. And I’m going to the Art Institute soon. I only have to tolerate them for one more year and I’m gone. That does not mean that I will talk to them. You don’t talk about me behind my back and you don’t mock my art! I really am alone, aren’t I? And what if someone grabs my butt again and I’m scared, like I am now? He could have raped me and no one would have cared! Papa’s gone and I’m all alone. And sometimes I have nightmares of being attacked, and what if they come true? No one listens to me and no one cares.

  I thought back in my mind now to how it felt to feel alone and vulnerable. I held true to my word and hardly talked to them from then on. That was a few months ago. That was when the makeup got darker and the clothes became more revealing. I felt like no one here loved me so I had to find attention elsewhere. I second guessed myself, became depressed and lonely. Hazel was right when she said that I was crying for help, for anyone to hear me. And why no one helped me––I don’t understand.

  “Cecily?” my mother asks.

  I stare up at her for a minute, like I haven’t seen her for years, like I am her long lost child who is looking for her mommy. “Mom?” I whisper. Regardless of reading the angry journal entries, there is no way I can be angry right now with her. I love her and she is my mother.

  Her breathing increases as tears fill her eyes. Brown hair, coifed perfectly, drapes to just above her collar bones, and her hazel eyes are a little red. She’s my mom! And she loves me! More tears flow from my eyes as my lip quivers and my chest aches. I just want her to hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay!

  Within in moments, my mother is beside me on my bed, just as I wished. She holds me in her arms, the way only a mother can when you’re upset. All I can do is gasp for air as I press my face harder into her shoulder and cry a heart wrenching song.

  After a moment, I compose myself a little better. My cheeks are still wet with tears and my nose runny, but I am at least able to breathe again.

  I look down at the journal and she does too. “I left it here for you,” I whisper, just realizing what the old Cecily had done. “She left it here.”

  “I read it just now,” she says quietly. I can’t look into her eyes—I’m disgusted with myself. “Baby, you should have told me you were so miserable.” It’s not scolding or harsh; it’s loving and caring. “And the punishing thing from a few months ago . . . , sweetheart, I was talking to Gordon about controlling Sabrina. He agreed with me, I assure you.”

  “So you don’t think I’m a horrible kid?”

  “I knew you were depressed, but I had no idea it was to the point of suicide. Was it always like that or did you decide to do that after the teacher assaulted you?”

  My lip quivers once more and I just know that I am going to lose it again. I shake my head, being that it is all that I can do. I can’t get the thought of me lying dead somewhere out of my head, or Leison’s hands on me, or feeling so alone. Luckily my mom has her arms around me and I’m not even close to being alone.

  “Cecily, honey, it is okay. You’re here with me. You’re safe.” My mother sweeps the hair out of my face gently. I look into her eyes and see the raw fear that fills her. Her hazel eyes gleam and her skin is blotchy from wiping the tears away. Regardless of it all, she smiles.

  “Did––did––,” I begin to stutter. “Why didn’t you read it before now?”

  She cups my cheek in her hand. “I should have read it earlier,” she whispers.

  “How did this happen?” My voice is whiny and miniscule.

  Her eyes fill with tears, though she tries to choke them back. “Baby, I am so sorry that this has happened—that I didn’t help you. After your father died, it was so hard for me to get up in the morning. It was you and Adie that kept me going. And I saw the darkness taking over you––so subtly, and you pushed us away so quickly. I know it’s not your fault though, sweet girl, it’s mine. I didn’t show you that you were safe or that I loved you enough.”

  I bit my cheek. “When did you really start to worry, Mom?”

  “Well, I knew that something was very wrong when you were skipping school. Before, you were always smart, always a good student, though you still were very depressed. Then you started with t
he dark art, which suggested that you were scared. I couldn’t entirely figure out why you had turned away from us to begin with, but it makes sense now. I know that being your sister’s hero is hard, and I never wanted you to feel so horrible about it.”

  I nod, just once, and stare down at the pile of dark clothes and makeup. I want it torched and burned.

  “The depression and anger appeared after Papa died.” Mom goes on. “But when you took the turn for the worst––it was overnight, I swear. You skipped school, you started drinking, you wore dark clothing and had dark makeup on. Then suddenly, you only wanted to wear sweats. And you brought home a flyer from school about a party, and my daughter normally wouldn’t attend a party like that. I knew that something was horribly wrong.”

  She softly brushes the hair off of my neck and sees the bite mark. “I’ve noticed the bruises, Cecily.” She holds my shoulders as to never let go. “When did this man do this?”

  “Last Friday,” I whisper, not wanting to talk about it.

  Mom holds my face in her hands and looks at me as if I am a miracle. “What turned you around, baby?” Her thumb strokes my cheek.

  “I don’t know why I changed . . . why I am sitting here right now, and not at the party. I think it was an angel clothed in white,” I admit, though it sounds crazy.

  “Something blessed you, my sweet girl,” Mom says in a soft voice. “Because of that change, I read your journal. I was taken aback when I saw your interactions this evening and needed answers to your rapid transformation.”

  I look at the spot on the floor where I passed out. “I can’t explain it.”

  “You say an angel visited you and helped you change your mind about suicide—then it did.” That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard, but I know without a doubt that it is what happened. “Cecily, this type of change doesn’t happen just because,” she says.