So Many Reasons Why

by Missy Johnson

  Copyright © 2013 Missy Johnson

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Fiona Diggins

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing: March 2013

  BJJ Publishing

  So Many Reasons Why

  By

  Missy Johnson

  Edited by: Fiona Diggins

  BJJ Publishing

  Chapter One

  “Come on man, where the hell are you? I don't give a shit. It's been hours. Fine. Whatever.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Don't breathe. Don't breathe. I bite down on my lip so hard I can feel a warm metallic substance begin to pool inside my mouth. Blood.

  I feel him lean over me. His fingernail slowly trails down my exposed leg. I try not to react. If I'm unresponsive maybe he will think I am asleep.

  Or dead.

  My eyes flew open as I gasped for air, desperately trying to focus on something familiar. Something that would break me free from the nightmare. My steel framed bed. The light blue blanket half covering my body. The tree branch gently tapping against the outside of the window panel. I was okay. I was safe.

  My pounding heart wasn't listening to my head. No matter how many times I repeated those words, night after night, my body failed to believe me. I wiped the sweat off my face and pulled the blanket off me. The moment the cool air hit my perspiring skin, I shivered. My head pounded. The dreams were so vivid, so real, every night I was locked in the same nightmare. I calmed my breathing, my stomach still churned into endless ball of anxiety and fear.

  Propping myself up on my pillows, I couldn't decide if I was hot or cold. I pulled the blankets up around my neck tightly. The feeling of security it gave me was immense.

  The nightmares had worsened over the past few months, as the day got closer. There was no way of knowing when it would happen, only that eventually it would. Ignoring this wouldn't change things, just as fighting it hadn't. My constant pleas to the parole board had fallen on deaf ears.

  Apparently, my feelings could only be considered 'to a point'. My most recent petition had been replied with the justice systems framework for rehabilitating offenders. Through support and reform, their aim was to release offenders back into society. I didn't give a damn about him, or how well he had been rehabilitated. None of that changed what he did to me, or how he had ruined my life.

  Carol clawed at my arm, like every night, trying to lick the salty sweat off my soaked skin. I pushed her away. She glared up at me, like a junkie whose fix I had ruined. She hissed, then bolted out of the room no doubt to hide under the couch. This was her usual post fix behaviour. She'd ignore me for the best part of two hours, then finally when hungry she would try to worm her way back into my affections. Usually it worked too. That stupid cat had me wrapped around her little paw, and she knew it.

  I glanced at the clock. 9:34. I grabbed the phone, my fingers shaking. My hands always shook when I made this call. Why should today be any different? I dialled the numbers that were imprinted in my mind. The first day of every month for the last six months I forced myself to make this call. I had to know.

  If he had a chance at parole, I needed to prepare myself.

  I needed to be a step ahead.

  “Any news?” I asked nervously. My heart was pounding. Eventually I knew I was going to hear the words I never wanted to hear. Just please not today. Any other day just not today. Grant hesitated.

  Hesitation. That was never a good sign.

  “He is up for a parole hearing. In three weeks.” He finally said. Parole. That meant released. Back into the world. Back into my world.

  “Emma, don't worry yet. He might not get approved.” The tone in Grant's voice suggested even he didn't believe that. He was just trying to make me feel better. I'd never met Grant. All I knew of him was he answered the phone every fortnight to tell me I was still safe. Until today. Today I didn't like Grant.

  “You think he will though.” My voice was flat, void of any emotion. The complete opposite of what was going on inside my head. Inside, my anger was bubbling, my mind was on the verge of exploding.

  “You might want to...be prepared.” He finally finished.

  I dropped the phone back and fell back onto the bed. This was not good. I felt the hot tears trickle down my cheeks. Not today. How could they do this to me today? Had nobody considered the significance of today? Tomorrow, or yesterday I could have handled this better. It was like some sick joke.

  The fact that he been granted a parole hearing was bad, to find this out on the ten year anniversary of the attack was worse. And where were my family? My friends? It was so easy for everyone else to move on and forget, I couldn't forget. I remembered every day.

  I texted mom.

  Can't do lunch today. Not well. Em xx

  I couldn't handle my mother today. I could barely handle her on a good day. Our relationship took effort, and I didn't have the energy today. I turned off my phone knowing she would try and call.

  Something in me snapped. I picked up my phone and slammed it into the wall, watching it shatter into little pieces. Tiny broken pieces. Just like me. I was a wreck. I climbed back under the covers and began to sob.

  “Em.” I pried my eyes apart. Tom kneeled before me, gently stroking my hair.

  “What.” I grumbled. I rolled over and glared at the wall. Of course mom would text Tom. She was probably worried she'd find me hanging from the fan if she came here herself.

  “You’re mom texted me. She's worried about you.” He pushed me over in the bed.

  “Em, talk to me. Please.” I felt him up against me, pulling me into his arms. Tom. One of my best friends. I let him hold me. He kissed the back of my neck.

  “I called Grant.” I mumbled. Tom's embrace tightened. He knew without me saying a word how much my life was about to change. For so long I tried not to think about it. Now, the probability of him being released was very high and I had no idea how to deal with it.

  “When?” His voice was edged with anger. Anger he was trying to control in front of me. I rolled over to face him. His eyes looked right into mine. I loved his eyes. So green, so full of love and warmth. Today, the warmth had been replaced with a hardness I'd never seen before. It scared me to see him so angry. Angry over me.

  “It’s not definite.” I finally said. “He has a parole hearing in three weeks.” Tom relaxed slightly. Unlike me, he was clinging to the slightest hope parole would be refused. I couldn't think like that. If I let myself hope, I let myself hurt. I'd been hurt so much in the past I couldn't handle any more pain in my life.

  “So do something.” Tom reasoned.

  “Like what?” The annoyance in me lashed out at Tom.

  “I don't know. Write a letter. Put up a fight. Sitting here feeling sorry for poor Em isn't going to solve anything, is it?”

  “I’ve tried everything, Tom. Victim impact statements, letters to the courts, what the fuck am I supposed to do?” My voice was rising. “My issues don't matter. Not really. If they think he is rehabilitated, and he is taking his meds, then chances are he will be let out. He has been counselling young prisoners for fucks sake. He is a saint.” I laughed bitterly.

  “Fine. You will go crazy thinking about this Em. You need a distraction. A day off.” He
added.

  I laughed harshly. A day off? What I wouldn't give for a day off from my life. One day, to enjoy life without the constant worry that everything was about to collapse around me.

  “Isn’t every day a day off when you have agoraphobia?” I tried to joke. Tom winced at the sarcasm coating my words. Maybe I should print that on a T-shirt. My Gran would get a laugh out of that. Tom, not so much. He grabbed hold of my hands and yanked me out of the bed.

  “Hey!” My protests went unheard as he dragged me down the hall. Before I knew it I was sitting in the bath, pyjamas and all, with the taps running. “What the hell are you doing?” My tangled dark hair stuck to my face as the water trailed down the side of my head, onto my clothes, before finally pooling down the drain.

  I struggled to stand up. The sides of the bath were slippery and difficult to grip. Every time I tried to stand the weight of the wet clothes toppled me back down on my arse, which made my anger fester. Eventually I gave up, kicking the end of the bath with my foot, repeatedly.

  Shit. I tried to ignore the pain throbbing through my big toe.

  “Just fuck off Tom.” I muttered.

  “I'm sorry Em, but I'm not going to let you do this to yourself. You are not going to do this. Not today. Do something else. Think about anything but him.” He spat the last word out with disgust. If only it were that easy.

  “I think about him every day.” I said quietly. I let Tom help me stand up. I didn't fight him as he peeled off my soaking wet pyjama top and shorts. The hot water hitting my now naked skin did feel good. I began to cry. Again.

  “I hate what he did to me. Ten years ago today.” Realisation hit Tom's expression. Followed by guilt.

  “Shit Em. I'm so sorry.” He hugged me, not bothered that his top was getting wet. “No wonder you're losing the plot.” I let him comfort me, relieved someone finally understood the significance of today. My stomach churned, anxiety feeding into the endless pit in my stomach. I climbed out of the bath and let him dry me. He wrapped my pink dressing gown around me. Ten years ago today, my world changed forever.

  'A horrific event that no child should ever have to go through.'

  That was how the newspaper described it. Mom and dad had unsuccessfully tried to keep the papers away from me. In spite of that, I’d collected every article, every news clipping. From that day, my life was defined by what he had done.

  Tom sat me down on the couch with my laptop, coffee, and a large selection of junk food. He'd convinced me to at least try to focus on something else today. Even if it was cheesy movies and junk food. He handed me his phone. I glanced at the phone, and up at him.

  “It doesn't take too much guessing to work out what happened to yours.” He said dryly. I blushed, remembering my morning outburst. I'd never liked my phone anyway.

  “It was the cat.” I lied. As if on cue, Carol entered the room. She hissed, glaring at me through her squinted eyes. Tom shook his head.

  “Your cat is a freak.” He accused. “But you're such a liar.” I shrugged my shoulders. I was lying. And I was a freak too. Carol had been a present from my dad, two years ago. He’d rescued her from a shelter. He told me we were perfect for each other. I didn't know whether that was a compliment or an insult. Knowing her as I do now, I'd say it was an insult.

  Carol was my dad’s way of saying ‘sorry I haven't been around for the last five years.’ That was two years ago and I haven't seen him since. Apparently it 'hurts' him too much to look at me. I'm a reminder to him of what happened. To me.

  “Thanks Tommy. I'm so lucky to have a friend like you.” We hugged. I gave him so much shit, but he was always there for me. He'd been there for me since we were five. He knew I loved him, but I didn't let him know that enough. He kissed my head.

  “Love you too, Em. My little self-absorbed shithead.” I opened my mouth to protest. Tom cut me off. “You’re allowed to be self-absorbed today, but knock it off tomorrow, yeah?” I wacked him across the head, not bothering to hide the smile on my face. “Keep the phone Em. I’m due for a new one anyway. Just try not to break this one.”

  In spite of Tom's objections, I decided to try and study. I had put off starting my Law and Society essay for far longer than I should have. It was the one subject in my course that I hated. Well, hate is maybe too strong a word. I hated the way this subject made me feel.

  Focusing so much on society made me focus on what I was missing out on. The fact that the last time I went to a movie theatre was when I was ten. Or a restaurant. I'd missed out on every moment a normal teenager would look forward to.

  Tom skimmed the assignment criteria. “ You don't have any others you can work on?” He screwed his nose up like he always did when he was unsure.

  “This was your idea.” I pointed out, giggling. He was right though. This essay was a bad choice, but a bad choice that needed to be handed in next week.

  “You can't get an extension?”

  “With six days until it’s due? I doubt it. Besides.” I added. “Apparently the professor is a bit of an asshole.”

  “Surely if you explained-”

  “Leave it Tom.” I said, more harshly than I intended. I ran my hands through my still damp hair. “Just let me do this. Please.” I added softly.

  Tom looked like he was having an argument inside his head. Finally he sighed, and sat down next to me, resigned to the fact that I'd gotten my way. Again.

  I needed to pick two high profile cases, one recent, and one not so recent. The past case I'd decided on was my own. I knew the details in and out, and I had no doubt it was something I could get a very high grade on. Who knew the impact on the victim and society better than me?

  This wasn't exactly taking my mind off him, which was either really good or really bad. My psychiatrist, Dr Mellow (yes Mellow), was always trying to get me to work through what happened. His theory was the more I could talk about Derek and the attack, the less it would affect me. To date, his theory was not exactly working.

  My email alert popped up. I'd just emailed the professor for some clarification. Wow he was quick to respond.

  Miss Mancelli,

  I appreciate your attempt to clarify the essay, but it is due in one week. This is something that should have been started at the beginning of the semester. I can’t fathom to think how you will manage to get a passing grade for this, let alone the exam that will be in six weeks.

  To answer your question, yes victim impact on the crime is great, try and gather as much info as you can on the crime and the perception of the community and the victim. Focus on sentencing too. Was the sentence adequate in your opinion for the crime?

  I do offer tutoring of a Monday after lectures for students who are struggling. I suggest it might be in your interests to attend for future assignments.

  Regards,

  Simon Anderson

  “Asshole.” My face flamed red. Who the hell did this guy think he was? The anger bubbling inside of me wasn't only directed at him. He was partly right. Easily distracted and leaving things until the last minute. That summed me up since childhood. My parents would tell me to do three things, and only the first would get done. What I didn't need was to hear that from some hotshot professor who didn't know me from a bar of soap.

  “What?” Tom hovered over my shoulder, reading the email. He starting laughing. “He has you worked out, doesn't he?” He teased.

  “Didn’t this guy teach the importance of keeping a fair and impartial view of people accused of something within our society? Talk about judging a book by its cover.” I muttered, ignoring Toms comment.

  Suddenly I felt as though I was five and had been asked to stand in the corner by the teacher. I was asked to stand in the corner and think about my actions a lot when I was younger. My report card regularly read I was a smart arse with a retort to everything. Not exactly in those words, but you get the drift. I'd always considered that one of my more endearing features, though not everyone would agree. That Emma was still in me somewhere, tho
ugh nowadays she usually saved her appearances for my mother.

  Back to professor Asshole. Maybe I'd caught him on a bad day, but I was not used to being addressed like that. It was like I was half expecting him to drive over here to spank me on the bottom to teach me the importance of timing.

  I blushed at the thought of that, not entirely convinced I wouldn't enjoy it slightly.

  Mr Anderson,

  I appreciate your thoughts on my academic abilities. However, if you look up my record you will see I have consistently scored above an A for my past units, and I plan to continue this trend. I have no intention of cruising through your class hoping for a pass, and I am offended you think you can paint that picture of me based on the very little you know about me.

  Thank you for clarifying the assessment.

  I will also be unable to attend your tutoring classes as I am housebound with Glandular Fever at the moment, and have been for the past month. Another thing you might have realised had you checked my record.

  Emma Mancelli

  Tom patted me on the back as I pressed send. “What a dick. Don't let him walk all over you, Em.” Glancing up, I rolled my eyes at him. He grinned, knowing better than anybody that nobody walked over me.

  “Asshole.” I poked my tongue out at the screen. I felt better already. Glandular fever was the perfect defence. I'd picked that little gem up from an Agoraphobia forum. The symptoms for Glandular fever being so broad and long lasting, it really was the perfect cover. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed of my Agoraphobia, but I had learnt early on just how much of a stigma was attached to the illness. It quickly became easier to attach a more ‘acceptable’ illness to myself.

  Cass had said Anderson was a bit of a cock, and I was beginning to see why. My reply had been a bit more heated than intended. He'd just copped ten years’ worth of cooped up anger. Any other day I probably would have taken his comments with a grain of salt, or at least with a little less attitude.