by Leah Holt
He got really close to my face, and all I could smell was his horrible breath. He stunk like booze and fish, it was gross. I thought he was going to hurt me, the look in his eyes was pure evil.
He put his fingers in my hair, and he grabbed it really tight. Then he pulled my head back so I had to look up at him. I think he was trying to scare me, but I'm not afraid of him. I'd rather die than live here with him.
So I punched him, I actually clocked him in the face. For a second I thought that was it. I braced myself, closing my eyes and waiting for him to kill me. Shit, a part of me was happily ready for all of this to be over.
I held my breath and prayed, wishing for it to be quick and simple.
He didn't, and I guess that makes me lucky. I don't know. My parents weren't lucky, so why should I be graced with any pity?
Instead of lashing out at me, he laughed. That sick crazy man laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Then he told me I was a spitfire like my mother, with the stubbornness of my father.
That made me more mad. How dare he act like he knew my parents! If he knew them, he would have known how great they were and he wouldn't have killed them.
It wasn't until after he left me alone that I noticed my pinkie finger isn't bending right and it's starting to swell around the knuckle.
I'm trying not to move it at all, it's starting to hurt really bad. What happens if it's broken? Will it get better on its own? I don't know if these people are willing to help me fix it. Maybe I'll just keep this to myself and not tell them.
I don't know, I'll just see how it is tomorrow. Dad always said that pain was a part of life and you just had to suck it up and deal with it sometimes. Would that count for this? Is this the type of pain he was talking about?
I'm going to listen to him even though he's not here. I wish I knew where he was, I wish I knew if him and my mom were watching me right now.
But my gut is telling me that they're not. I don't think they'd let that man keep me here if they were. They'd find a way to tell the police that a murderer had their daughter, even if it was through a whisper in a dream.
I'm not sure I believe in guardian angels anymore. Not now, not after this.
How could they exist and allow something this horrible to happen?
Did I do something wrong?
Did I deserve this?
Is this my fault?
— F.
March 28, 2010
Dear Diary,
I saw Birch again today.
He seemed different, like he was trying to pretend he was happy. I'm still not ready to trust him, but he's nice to me. He talks to me like he knows me, like we're friends.
He let me play a game on his phone today. It was a dumb game, but it was the best game I had ever played. I can't remember the name, but I had to fit these blocks all together to make a row.
I thought about calling the police, but he never took his eyes off me. I didn't have a chance to do it. Even if I did, I had no idea where I was. I couldn't give them any clues or directions to find me.
It was a dumb idea, and maybe I should have done it anyway. I don't know. I guess it's too late for that now. Sometimes I feel so stupid. Even that night the man came, I should have called the police, but I didn't. Instead I hid like a damn coward and did nothing.
I'm such a fucking idiot. What's wrong with me?
Birch told me that the man is his father. He says he's really not a bad guy, and he knows I won't believe him, but that he really does mean well.
I don't know what the hell he meant by that. Did he know why I was there? Did he have any clue what he had done to my parents?
There's no way he could know, I don't think he'd be saying that stuff if he did. I asked him if his dad knew he came down here, but he wouldn't give me an answer. He shrugged and went to sit against the wall beside the door in the corner.
He always sits in the right corner, I don't know why. I asked him about it, but he wouldn't tell me. He just said that we all have favorites, and this corner was his.
I don't know how someone could have a favorite corner, I guess everyone is different though. I had a favorite spot on the couch at home, and a favorite cup I use to drink my milk out of. But a corner, that was just odd.
Birch said that when I get out of this room he'll show me a really cool place to go swimming. He talked about it like it was the most incredible place in the world. I want to see it now. The way he described it, the way his eyes lit up and he smiled when he spoke, it actually made me excited about it.
I made him promise to take me, I guess I'll have to see if he keeps his promises or not.
I like Birch more than the other man. I wish he was the only one I had to see.
— F
April 5, 2010
Dear Diary,
I'm getting out. I'm not staying here anymore. The man, he told me it was time for me to stop acting like he was the devil. He told me I had to stop hurting him every time he came down.
Screw him.
I think I know how to open the door. The hinges are loose, they wiggle when it opens. I noticed it last night after Birch brought me some water. I'm going to use you to knock them out, then I can open the door. If it works, I won't be able to write you anymore. So I'm saying goodbye now. I'm going to go to the police, I'm going to tell them everything about what he did.
He won't get away with this. He deserves to be punished for taking my family from me. As soon as it's safe, I'm leaving. I can't forget who I am, I can't forget who my parents are.
I will not go through life pretending I'm someone else. I'm Fiona Deltorro, no one can take that from me.
Goodbye Diary.
And thank you.
— F
* * * *
That was it, there were no more entries after that. I sat in shock, my fingers trembling as I touched the last few shaky letters of inked pen on the paper. A single tear balanced gracefully on the edge of my lid, afraid to let go.
I wasn't sure what the hell I had just read or who it came from. That couldn't be me, there was no way that happened.
Did it happen?
Is that what happened to me?
“Do you remember writing any of that?” Shaking my head no, Detective Jones nodded gently. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”
“What?”
Holding out his pen, he pushed a blank piece of paper across the table. “Will you write something for me?”
“What? Why? This was written by a girl, I'm not a girl anymore.” Angling my head, I flipped the pages over my thumb, feeling the cool air blow across my palm.
“I know, but I want you to write for me.”
“I don't know what to write.” Running the tip of my finger around one of the flowers on the cover, I glanced back and forth between the detective and the diary.
This is ridiculous. This isn't mine, I didn't write this.
Taking my hand, he curled my fingers around the pen. “Just write anything, write me a paragraph about something you remember. It can be anything, from any point in time.” Pushing the diary to the side, he slid a piece of paper in its place.
Pinching the tip of the pen, I rested it on the thin, blue line. I tried to think of something to jot down, but my brain was pounding and turning in every direction. I couldn't focus on one single thought, I was drawing a blank.
“I don't know what to write.”
“Alright, I'll talk and you write what I say.” Scratching his chin, he glanced up at the ceiling. “My name is Fiona, and today I went to the store. I bought some milk and bread, and then I grabbed a bag of chips.”
“Why—”
“Listen and write, that's all you need to focus on.” Repeating himself, I copied down the words naturally, allowing his voice to be the only thing inside my head. “Good,” he said, as I placed the pen down and sat back in my seat.
Pulling my hands into my lap, I looked at my fingers, stretching them out against my thighs. Bending my left pinki
e finger, I noticed a bulge in the knuckle and how it curved slightly. Opening and closing my hand, my finger wouldn't go completely straight, it stayed arched.
No. . . No it can't be true. I didn't write that, that didn't happen.
It's dated eight years ago—
Could it be. . . No, it's not me.
Nervously, I bumbled my hands around each other, trying to force my finger back into place. I couldn't accept what I read, it was some sort of trick, some type of tactic he was trying to use to against me.
“You're wrong you know. I didn't write that, that didn't happen.”
“I would love it if you were right, but I can't ignore the truth, and you won't be able to ignore it either.” Taking the paper, he bundled it up with the diary and went to the door. Opening it enough to stick his head and shoulder out, he whispered to someone in the hall.
“What are you doing with that?”
“We're going to analyze the handwriting, see if it's a match.”
“I'm not that girl, there's no way I wrote that. That shit didn't happen, not to me.”
Crooking his jaw, his brows softened. “Does that mean you're willing to finally tell me your name now? Are you ready to tell me the truth?”
“No, that's not what I mean. I just. . . I just. . .” I had no idea where I was going with that.
How could he drop this shit on me like this?
I came in here expecting to be interrogated about a murder. I expected to be grilled about Birch and Nick and what they had done. I thought I had lost everything all over again. My heart was breaking at the idea that Birch was going to prison.
But I got this instead. I was being tormented with diary entries from a poor little girl who had been through hell. Notes from a girl who had watched her parents die and the man who executed them had taken her away.
I didn't remember that. I remembered the family that had cared for me and given to me like I was their daughter. I felt the love and affection of a father and mother when mine were nowhere to be found.
I felt trapped, pinned against a wall without an exit. My legs trembled, eager to flee, my muscles shook, filling with hate for all the memories I couldn't recall.
“You just what? Go on, finish what you were going to say.”
Taking in a deep breath, I focused on his face. “I just don't remember writing that. And Nicholi has been nothing but good to me, I can't imagine him doing something like that.”
“Sometimes things aren't always what they seem, Cyprus.” Opening a green folder, he pulled out a small photo and kept it upside down. “Sometimes, what we see is only what they want us to see.” Placing the image on the table, he slid it in my direction.
“What's this?”
Rolling his hand in the air, he frowned. “It's reality.”
Thumbing the sharp edge, I picked it up off the table and flipped it over. I went numb, the world around me fading into black as my brain swelled and throbbed against the inside of my skull.
Oh my God. . .
Gaping with wide eyes, I couldn't believe what I was looking at.
It wasn't possible, not after all this time.
I had no past before the Rottera's, there were no memories or images of anything but Birch and Nick's faces the day I woke up.
But I couldn't deny what was peering back at me from behind a glossy, one dimensional window. . .
The girl was me, and I did have a family.
Chapter Eight
Cyprus
Dropping the picture, I dragged my hands through my hair. “Where did you get that? How did you get that?”
The picture was of a family, it was a mother and father with their child. I couldn't sit there and pretend, I couldn't ignore the faces of who I was looking at. That was my family, that was me with my parents.
Those are my parents.
That's definitely me. . . That's me.
I can't believe this, how did he get this?
The picture was taken when I was young, about twelve or so. I was standing between two adults, and I could see the resemblance of both of them in my face.
The sharp curves of my high cheekbones came from my mom, along with the puffy curls I had battled day after day. While my chin was slightly boxed and short like my dad, our eyes mirror images of each other. Deep hazel globes, with specks of gold and green, peered up at me. I was the perfect mix of both of them.
Tears started to fall seamlessly down my cheeks as my eyes kept glancing around the image. I couldn't look away, it was surreal.
It was everything I had wanted for years, to see their faces, to know the people that had left me behind. And it was nothing like I had imagined.
I often thought my parents were probably drug addicts, junkies that had finally had enough of me. That thought made the abandonment easier, it gave rise to an internal hatred and acceptance for people I didn't know.
But that wasn't who I was seeing. I wasn't looking into the scarred faces of addicts with frail bodies and track-lined skin.
What I saw was normal, it was what you would expect to see in a family photo album or a frame on the wall.
We were standing in front of a lake, the water glistening like diamonds in the background. There were sailboats gliding around in the back, and a long pier with men fishing off the side. I could see the clear blue sky and giant puffy clouds, as the sun's reflection sparkled off the ripples in the water.
The smiles on all our faces were serene. We looked happy, like we were on vacation and having the time of our lives.
But I didn't remember that moment, I couldn't find the memory in my brain anywhere. It just didn't exist.
“We've been looking for you for a long time, Fiona.”
No, this isn't real. It can't be real—
He's screwing with me, he's trying to turn me against Nick and Birch.
I'm not this girl! I'm Cyprus!
“Don't call me that!” I yelled, unable to place the emotions I was feeling in the right box. “No! No one looked for me! You're lying!” Slamming my palms on the table, I growled like an angry lioness, protecting herself from a poacher. “Those aren't my parents, that's not real! None of this is real!”
It felt like the detective was trying to kill me. He was trying to pit me against the family he sought out to destroy, and ruin everything I had. I couldn't let that happen, I couldn't let him wipe my world clean again.
There was no way I could just sit back and allow this man to erase everything I had. I had a family, I had a boyfriend who loved me and everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.
But she looks just like me, how is that possible?
Everything was exploding all at once. All the hurt of not knowing who I was, all the sadness of feeling abandoned and not loved; the happiness of seeing the faces I had searched for and of knowing my real name; all of it came crashing in like a nuclear bomb, blowing apart my insides.
Sweat started to bead up on my forehead, running down my temples and cooling against my chest. My breathing became erratic and labored as I smiled and cried, frowned and screamed.
“Why?! Why now?!” Fisting my hair, I tugged at my scalp. “This isn't real, this isn't happening!” My voice fell into a whisper, lost and broken in truth. “That can't be me. Can it? Is that really me?”
The denial I felt was raging. I didn't want to accept the picture, I wasn't ready to receive what I longed to find.
They were dead to me. I had left them in a past that didn't exist anymore. I had a good life, with people who cared about me. Nick wouldn't do this. . . Would he?
What was the reality in my story now? Where did the truth end and the lies begin?
Birch had found me in their woods, but who put me there? Was Nick the man in the journal? Was he the one who had done this to me?
There was no way for me to process all of that and pick apart the details. None of it made sense.
“Yes, that is you. And yes, we did look for you. We did everything we could to locate you. We
spent years searching, but turned up nothing.”
“Why should I believe you?” Touching the picture, I traced the woman's face, desperately wishing for my past to find me. I wanted to remember, I wanted my mind to flood with painful memories so this happy family wouldn't be what I lost.
If my past was worth losing, then this man couldn't taunt me with these fake smiles. If I could recall a single ounce of pain from being in the hands of those people, then everything I had could be a blessing. I wanted desperately to stuff the picture down the detective's throat and make him eat his lies.
But that wasn't what I was seeing. Their arms were embracing me, their smiles glowing and broad, not sinister and cracked out.
I had brainwashed myself into believing that fate had delivered me into the hands of the family I was destined to have. That I had found love through a tragedy and something great had been born within the carnage.
What happened? Why did this happen?
“This doesn't make sense. Why did it take this long to find me? I've been here the entire time, is this department really that stupid or just that blind?”
“I know this is a lot to take in, but I have no reason to make this all up. What you should be asking is why he had you. What did he gain from stealing a child?”
Steal me? He didn't steal me! He found me, he saved me!
Biting my tongue, my eyes turned to slits. He was feeding me bull-shit and telling me it was prime rib. None of this was possible, not one fucking ounce of it.
Why would Birch lie to me all these years? It didn't make sense. He said he loved me. How could he look in my eyes and knowingly lie to me about this?
I wasn't ready to believe that everything he had spoon fed me was a giant sack of shit. It hurt too much to think that the man I loved could pretend for all these years.
A sharp knife sliced my chest, exposing delicate nerve endings and brittle veins. If this was true, then Birch was in on it the entire time. He had seen me, he had been there in that room, he had taken part in the lies and helped his father fill my head with them.
Every emotion I had was strung out, spread in so many different directions I expected them to break. A noose had been placed around my neck, and there was no ground for me to stand on.