by Tara Sivec
“You should watch where you’re going, Ravenna. You can’t afford any more accidents.”
I feel my face heat at his words and know my pale skin is turning red. He obviously knows who I am, but the angry look on his face as he glares at me makes me wonder if it’s a good idea for me to know him.
My heart starts beating rapidly as he continues to stare at me without saying another word. I feel a shiver run through my body and goose bumps break out on my arms. All the things I was supposed to feel over in the cell block have suddenly manifested just from the look this guy is giving me, and I’m frozen in fear. The bump on my head suddenly starts to ache and I have a quick image of running through the woods in the middle of the night, covered in rain and mud. I gasp out loud, but just as soon as I try to reach into my mind to grab more of the memory, it disappears in a flash and my brain shuts down.
“Nolan, what are you doing in here?”
I jump when I hear my father’s angry voice behind me and pull my gaze away from the man in front of me to turn my head. My father stands in the hallway with his hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“Just bringing in some fresh flowers, like you asked. There’s a vase next to the register in the gift shop and one in the artifact room.”
My father nods, folding his arms in front of him. “Then there’s no need for you to be dallying inside. The grounds around the lake need to be mowed today.”
Nolan’s arm brushes against mine as he moves around me to head toward my father, bringing forth a whole new round of goose bumps. My father steps out of the way to let him exit through the huge twelve-foot-tall wooden door that leads outside. They share a quiet look as Nolan passes, stepping out onto the front porch before the heavy door slams closed.
When we’re alone in the hallway, my father sighs deeply before turning to look at me.
“Who was that guy?” I ask, rubbing the coldness from my arms.
“You don’t remember Nolan?”
I shake my head and my father shoves his hands into the front pockets of his black suit pants, his face displaying a flash of relief at my reply, which makes me want to ask a hundred questions. All of which I’m sure won’t be answered in the way I need.
“That’s just as well you don’t remember. His name is Nolan Michaels and he’s been a groundskeeper here for almost two years. He has some…issues, and you’ve always been very good at listening to me when I’ve told you to stay away from him. I trust you’ll keep that in mind while you’re recovering?”
He makes it sound like he’s asking, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s just doing it to be polite and this is a command I should heed. I don’t really appreciate being told who I can and can’t talk to, especially when I have so many questions and so many holes in my memory that neither he nor my mother is willing to fill with anything useful. If Nolan has known me for two years, even if I was never allowed to associate with him, he’s got to know something about what happened.
According to the doctor, my parents being vague and not filling my head with their opinions about what happened will help me come to the truth on my own. It’s like pulling teeth to get either one of them to disclose information to me so the idea that there might be an outside party who can shed some light on things fills me with excitement, even if my first instinct with Nolan was to run the other way.
The doorbell chimes through the hallway, indicating the first of the tourists have arrived. With my piercing headache growing stronger the longer I try to make sense of things in my head, I turn and unhook the heavy satin rope blocking the stairs that lead up to our living quarters, quickly reattaching it and racing up the stairs as loud voices fill the hallway while my father greets the tour group.
At the top of the stairs, I walk through the living room, glancing around at the five outer rooms that surround this central location—my parents’ bedroom, my father’s office, a kitchen, spare bedroom and finally, my room. Standing in the doorway of my room, I stare at the pink blanket draped over my bed and the pink paint covering my walls. I lift my chin in determination, stomp over to my bed and rip the blanket from the top. I do the same with the matching sheets and pillowcases until there’s a large pile of cotton-blend bedding in the corner of my bedroom that resembles a fluffy pink cloud. I hate the color pink, but going by what my mother has told me, and the cotton-candy hue everywhere I look, it’s been my favorite color since I was born.
Throwing myself down on the stripped bed, I stare up at my ceiling and wonder if I have the guts to approach Nolan and ask him some questions. When I cross my arms over my chest I wince when my palms press against the area on my upper arms where he grabbed me when I bumped into him. Unfolding my arms, I hold one out in front of me, tracing the faint red marks that his fingers made against the pale skin of my bicep. My fingers trail down my arm to my wrist, over the bruises that have been there since I woke up two days ago and are just now starting to fade from angry purple to yellow. They’re the exact same size and shape as the marks on my upper arm and I quickly drop my hands to the mattress and take a few deep breaths.
I softly begin to chant the things I’m supposed to believe are true.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison. I love the color pink and my parents would never lie to me. My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison. I love the color pink and my parents would never lie to me.”
I whisper these words over and over until I can’t ignore the exhaustion that overwhelms me and my eyelids grow heavy with sleep, my room filling with shadows as the sun sets in the distance. I let my eyes drift closed and try not to fear the darkness behind my lids.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison…”
Chapter 2
“This hurts me as much as it does you. Just calm down and it will be over soon.”
The voice fills me with rage, but before I can vent my hatred, an excruciating jolt shoots through my body, bowing my back and paralyzing my legs. The pain is so intense that I want to cry, but I will never show that kind of weakness. I focus on the sound of the zapping electricity filling the room, imagining all the ways I’ll get my revenge some day very soon.
Silence suddenly fills the room and my body collapses back down onto the table, tremors shaking through it with the aftereffects of the shock.
“If you’d learn to control your urges, I wouldn’t have to do this to you.”
I stare with hatred at the face leaning over me, wishing there weren’t leather straps holding my arms and legs down so I could wrap my hands around that skinny neck and squeeze and squeeze until the life drained out of those cold, dark eyes.
“I know you hate me, but this is for your own good. You have to stop being so bad.”
I’ve heard these words so many times over the years that they mean nothing to me. I can’t stop the way I am. I can’t stop the way I feel. No matter what’s done to me, nothing will change who I am.
“Will you stop being bad?”
My eyes narrow and I focus every atom of hatred I can at the face above me, unable to speak with the plastic guard in my mouth.
A deep sigh fills the room. “So be it.”
I bite down harder on the plastic in my mouth and refuse to close my eyes as the dial is turned up a notch and humming starts to fill the room. Every time this is done to me, I have to listen to the humming of that damn song. The song from my childhood that always used to calm me down now just fills me with rage.
The crackling and whirring of the rise in power makes the lights flicker above my head and the button is pressed once again. Even though I’m ready for the pain, it still takes my breath away when it zaps through my body. Everything from the top of my head to the tips of my toes ignites in agony like I’m being set on fire from the inside out. My body jerks and convulses, rattling against the metal table beneath me. No matter how hard I try to fight through it, flashes
of light flicker behind my eyes until I see nothing but darkness as I collapse back down on the table, my final thoughts of pain, torture, and death. Not my own, though. These thoughts are solely for the people who did this to me.
Every one of them.
I bolt up in bed, a loud, piercing scream filling the room and I realize it’s coming from me. Clamping a hand over my mouth to silence myself, I look around frantically, trying to remember where I am and what woke me up. My heart thunders in my chest as the sun’s bright rays shine through my window and directly onto my bed, warming my chilled body. The remnants of my dream vanish before I can pin any down to remember. Looking down at myself, I realize I’m wearing the same clothes as last night, but they’re now thick with cold sweat and sticking to my body.
As I swing my legs over the side of my bed, my door suddenly opens and my mother stands in the doorway with a worried look on her face. Her hair, once as pitch black as mine, is streaked with grey and pulled back from her face in a low, messy bun. Judging by the pale blue housecoat with tiny pink flowers she wears atop her nightgown that is buttoned all askew, I’m assuming I woke her up with my screams and she hastily threw it on to come to me.
“Ravenna, are you okay? I thought I heard you scream.”
Her soft voice brings tears to my eyes as I gaze across the room at her, looking at me with so much love and concern. As I blink back the tears and swallow the thick lump in my throat, she rushes to the bed and sits down next to me. Her arm wraps around my back and she pulls me against her, using her free hand to gently pull my head down to her shoulder. She rocks us slowly back and forth and right when I start to close my eyes and relax, she begins to hum. After the first verse, the humming changes to the words that go along with the melody.
“The monkey thought ’twas all in fun, pop goes the weasel.”
Her softly sung words fill me with a burst of anger I don’t understand. I clench my hands into fists in my lap, the bite of pain as my nails dig into my palms pushing away the sudden urge to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze as hard as I can.
What is happening to me? What the hell is happening?
Scrambling away from her, I bolt from my bed and rush to the other side of my room where my dresser is. Refusing to turn around and look at her, I yank open my drawers to grab some clean clothes.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I explain in a rush, clutching my clothes to my chest and hurrying into the small bathroom attached to my room. I scurry around the door, using my back to push it closed behind me. When I’m alone, I let out a relieved breath and drop my clothes onto the tile at my feet. Not wanting to dwell on what just happened in my bedroom, I move across the room and turn on the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away all of the uneasy thoughts and strange feelings coursing through me.
When I emerge from the shower fifteen minutes later, I feel lighter and more at ease as I wrap my towel around me and open the bathroom door. Steam billows out around me as I step off of the bathroom tile and onto the hardwood in my room. I jump in surprise when I see my mother still sitting on the bed where I left her. She turns away from me for a moment and I see her quickly swipe at the tears I noticed on her cheeks when I walked into the room. When she turns back around, she’s all smiles as she pats the bed next to her and holds up the brush she has in the other hand.
“Sit down and I’ll braid your hair.”
My feet move robotically across the room and I clutch the towel tighter to my body as I ease down next to her and give her my back. As she runs the brush through my hair and starts gathering pieces at the top of my head to start the braid, I close my eyes and let the feel of her fingers sliding through my wet hair soothe me. When she’s finished and has the ends secured with a hair band, she pats my shoulder and I feel the bed dip as she gets up. I get up with her and walk over to the mirror above my dresser to stare at my reflection. My mother comes up behind me and rests her hands on my bare shoulders. I hate having my hair pulled back, but I haven’t voiced this to her for some reason. It’s too tight and it makes my head ache, but each morning since I woke up disoriented, my mother has come into my room and insisted this is how I’ve always worn my hair. I do as she says, since everyone tells me I need to get back into my daily routine from before the accident, but I can’t stand the sight in front of me.
“You look beautiful,” she tells me with a smile, as I continue to stare at the girl in the mirror who I barely recognize.
“I hate my hair like this,” I suddenly admit to her with a burst of confidence.
Her smile falters for just a moment before it’s back, bigger and brighter than ever. “Nonsense. You hate having your hair in your face. I’ve braided your hair every morning since you were a little girl. It’s how a proper young woman should look.
My recent thoughts of wanting to do her harm make me feel anything but proper.
She turns away from me and walks toward the door as I continue staring at my reflection, wanting to rip the band out of the braid and claw at my hair until it’s a tangled mess around my face.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” my mother adds as she stops in the doorway. Trudy is stopping by to check on you today.”
I turn and stare at her blankly and she bites her lower lip worriedly.
“You remember Trudy, right?”
Trudy Marshall: eighteen years old, blonde hair, and my friend since elementary school.
Giving my mother a cheerful smile, I nod. “Of course I remember Trudy.”
I hate Trudy. She’s a snobby bitch who thinks she’s better than me and wants to take what’s mine.
The mean thought in my head makes my smile falter, but I put it right back in place so my mother will stop looking at me like I’m crazy. Trudy is my friend. She’s one of my only friends and she’s never thought it was weird that I lived in a prison, like so many others. I have no idea where that errant thought came from and I don’t like it.
“She’s been so worried about you,” my mother continues. “She wanted to come sooner but your father wouldn’t let anyone visit for a few days so you could rest. Why don’t you put on a nice dress and I’ll make the two of you some fresh lemonade and sandwiches for lunch?”
I nod distractedly as she gently closes the door behind her and leaves me alone.
I should be excited that someone is coming to visit after feeling so alone the last few days, but something about Trudy leaves me feeling strangely angry about seeing her. My mind is at war with the facts about her that are engrained into my head and a fleeting thought that there’s a reason I don’t like her. Just like every other thought in my head, it doesn’t stick around long enough for me to grab onto and examine it.
Scrubbing my palms up and down my face in frustration, I sigh loudly and walk over to my closet to find something to wear. The metallic screech of the hangers, sliding across the clothing rod as I flip through one ugly dress after another, fills the room. Half of the dresses are different shades of pink, the other half are varying pastels; they are all boring and more fit for a fifty-year-old woman than a teenager. Yanking the least offending one off of the hanger before I try to find a pair of scissors and cut everything in this closet to shreds, I hold the pale yellow dress up in front of me and glare at it. With a defeated shake of my head, I drop my towel and begin getting dressed.
When I woke up in this room three days ago, I felt like I didn’t belong in it, even though the room was familiar and I knew it was mine. I stared at my mother and father standing by my bedside with worried looks on their faces and even though I knew who they were, deep down inside they felt like strangers. When the doctor asked me what year it was, I knew it was 1965. I knew I was eighteen and I knew before I looked in the mirror that I had long black hair, green eyes, and a slim build. I knew the answer to every question he asked me about the prison and my parents, but I faltered when asked about the gash on my head and the scratches and bruises on my arms. When I started to panic and demand answers about what happened to me, I
was told not to worry and that the important thing was that I was safe and my injuries would heal. No one seemed to understand that I didn’t care about the superficial cuts on my arms, the scrapes on my legs, and the bump on my head. I knew those would heal in time. What I cared about, what no one seemed to be in a hurry to help me with, was the injury inside my own mind.
I keep telling myself it’s only been three days. Three short days after something happened to me that no one wanted to talk about. A part of me wonders if everyone around me is lying and they know what happened. That it’s so horrific I’m better off not knowing. I know it’s supposed to take time and three days isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but as each day passes, I get more and more confused and feel like everything I know is a lie. Nothing is falling into place and everything feels wrong.
It’s hard to believe that three days ago, in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm, I was out in the woods at the edge of the property alone. My parents say they don’t know why I was out there. They don’t know what happened that caused me to get hurt and forget bits and pieces of my memories. I’m a good girl, they tell me. I’m a proper girl who wears proper dresses, and a proper hairstyle, but a good girl doesn’t go wandering alone in the woods at night unless she’s asking for trouble.
A good girl doesn’t think of harming her mother.
A good girl doesn’t want to rip the perfectly constructed braid from her head and scream at the reflection in the mirror.
A good girl doesn’t want to slash all of the clothes in her closet because they look nothing like something she would ever wear.