I used layers of my blood for contrast and spit to thin and lighten. The sling on my arm became the palette where I tested the results. With every new droplet I lost, I brought to life the dirty secret I’d been made to carry.
With each stroke I left on the wall, the monster stirred. When my finger quit bleeding, the rabbit bit me again.
Like the colors had hidden the terrors, I created the lie to hide the truth. Both were too ugly to face, and at the same time, they couldn’t be stopped. But I no longer had colors to conceal the nightmares.
My fingers bled for me, and my flesh tore. My heartbeat filled each digit, and more aching points covered one arm. The monster saw freedom, and it ran for it, clawing, biting, fighting its way out of the prison I’d built.
Walls crumbled, and doors gave way. I could only hope it would forgive me, and if it didn’t, it’d kill me quickly and not let me suffer. Even though I deserved it.
The outside light stripped away the layers of mottled flesh, the hate filled eyes, the sharp teeth, and the claws. Left in place of the creature I feared was the boy who kissed me.
Just one soft kiss.
The barest touch of lips.
Because he loved me.
“¿Cómo te llamas?”
“I don’t understand.”
He smiled. “Name. You name.”
“Paris. What’s yours?”
“Me llamo…”
I only had to dig it out of the festering wound within the remnants of my mind.
“Me llamo…”
I saw his face. His eyes. The color of his skin. The mole close to his ear. How his lips quirked to the side just before he laughed. He smelled of cheap laundry soap, lavender, and the chocolate candy we’d shared.
Sweat burned my eyes, mixing with tears. The muscles in my arms begged for mercy. The colors in my mind screamed.
I fell.
I got up.
I fell.
I got up again.
I laid down the last mark, just as my door opened and the lights came on. When my knees folded, I didn’t fight my way back up. It was done. I was done. There was nothing left to hide.
A nurse, an orderly, and Carmichael stood in the doorway. They stared with slack mouths and horror-filled eyes at the truth.
It wasn’t over. I had to look. I had to name it.
I lifted my head.
A kiss. A dead rabbit. The father who’d sinned and the sister who helped protect him.
The boy.
He lay in the dirt pleading with his eyes. He was so scared. He was in so much pain. He was so alone.
Punched into the negative space and heavy shadows, forever connected by his heart, his mind, and his body, was the madman.
The Liar.
********
“Who is the boy in the picture you drew?” Carmichael sat across the table from me in a small break room. There were a couple of vending machines, a coffeemaker and a box of doughnuts.
I had no idea where he’d gotten the glass of orange juice he gave me. The kitchen was probably open, but I couldn’t be sure.
The bandages on my fingers made it difficult to hold the glass.
“Paris?”
What was the question? I looked around for the rabbit. It wasn’t there. That didn’t bother me as much as the lack of colors. Without them, everything seemed pale and washed out.
“What did you give me?”
“Risperdal.”
“What is that?”
“An antipsychotic.”
I rubbed my fingers against the tabletop. Nothing. I pushed the table. Even the harsh metal scrape made no vivid bursts inside my mind.
“How am I going to paint without the color?”
“I’m sorry, but it was necessary.”
“But I need it.”
“Paris, you were hurting yourself.”
“It was the rabbit’s idea.”
“There is no rabbit.”
Not now. Had it gone to the same place as the colors?
“I need you to tell me the name of the boy in the painting.”
I pressed my thumb against my first finger. A dull throb traveled up the digit and into the palm of my hands. Still nothing. I pressed harder.
Carmichael held my wrist. “Stop.”
There was nothing but an empty void in my skull where my thoughts echoed. “I can’t do this. I can’t live without the color. Please, please I have to have it.”
“When I know you’re not going to hurt yourself, I’ll take you off the drugs.”
I tried to chew my thumbnail, but the gauze was in the way. I nodded. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” He scooted closer. “Tell me who the boy is in the painting.”
“My lie. The rabbit’s secret.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine, ten.” I rubbed my head. The edges of my words tasted funny. Like I was drunk but not drunk. There was no buzz with whatever Carmichael gave me, only numbness. I drank some of the juice but couldn’t taste it. “I’m not sure.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In the shed behind the house. It was at the bottom of the hill. The lake was just on the other side.”
“So you lived there.”
I nodded.
“Was he a classmate? Or a neighbor?”
The static in my mind spiked. “I think his mother was our neighbor’s housekeeper. He was Hispanic. Everyone in the neighborhood was white. They were two dimensions, he was three. They were vanilla, and he was a colored sprinkle.” I laughed.
“How did you meet him?”
“He came out of the woods between the houses.”
“And where is that house located?”
“South Carolina.”
“Do you still own it?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you can’t remember his name?”
I shook my head. “I want to. I want to, but I can’t.” My throat tightened. “I should. After what Harrison did to him, I should. After what I did to him…”
“You were a child.”
“I didn’t tell Julia no.”
“You were probably in shock.”
I muffled a sob with the palm of my hand. “But I lied.”
“About what?”
“When his mother asked me if I knew where he was, I told her I didn’t know.” I curled against the table. “I could have told her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Julia.”
“She threatened you?”
No. She didn’t threaten. She never threatened. She promised. And Julia always kept her promises. “Yes.”
Dr. Carmichael reached across the table and held my hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But wasn’t it? It was supposed to be me. I was the one he was angry with. He came there for me but the boy…why can’t I remember his name?”
“Trauma can do that.”
“Maybe he’s not even real. Maybe he’s like the rabbit. Maybe he’s just in my head.”
“I don’t think so.” Carmichael gave me a sad smile.
“But what if he is? Are you going to keep me here?”
“I don’t know.” I picked at the bandages. Dr. Carmichael made me stop “But I think this may be why you’re so angry.”
“I don’t feel very angry right now.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“I don’t even feel alive.” Was I?
“You are. I promise.”
I laid my head down on my arms. The table was cool against my cheek.
“What else can you remember about the boy?”
“I loved him.” For a moment, I was falling. I jerked my head up. I rubbed my face. “Why am I so tired?”
“It’s a side effect.”
“No more. Whatever you gave me, no more please.”
“I told you. As soon as I know you’re not going to hurt yourself,
I’ll quit the injections.”
I scanned the small room. Vending machines, a coffeemaker, a box of doughnuts on a counter. “Where are we?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m not sure.” My words tumbled through the darkness and piled up into a twisted mess. “Have I been here before?”
“Not till a little while ago.”
The walls were blank. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“The Liar.”
Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “You mean the picture you drew?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s back in the room you were in.”
Then where was this? Two vending machines, a coffeemaker, and a box of doughnuts on the counter. The tabletop was white flecked with gold. The chairs were plastic.
There was a fridge in the corner. Where did it come from?
I picked up the plastic cup of orange juice, but it was empty. I licked my lips. There was only the burn of citrus.
“Would you like some more?”
I wasn’t sure. I pushed the cup over to him. Carmichael got up and went to the fridge. Condiments clicked together when he opened the door.
Two vending machines, a box of doughnuts. My fingers were bandaged. My feet were bare.
“Paris?” He held the orange juice out to me.
I drank some, but other than a slight burn in the back of my throat, I didn’t taste it. I drank some more just to make sure. I looked around. “Where are we?”
“Paris, I need you to think.”
But there were no colors to hold my thoughts together.
“What else can you tell me about the boy?”
“Harrison killed him.” I put a hand over my heart to make sure it was still beating. The bandages made it difficult for me to tell. I stared at them, wondering where they came from.
“Yes,” Carmichael said. “I think he did.”
“I saw him.”
“You did.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did he kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Julia saw.”
“Is that why she’s in the painting?”
“What painting?” I looked around. “He cried.”
“The boy?”
“No. Harrison. He sat down in the dirt and wept.”
“And what happened after that?”
A bare lightbulb swung overhead and spiderwebs tickled my cheek. I breathed through my nose because the dust made me want to cough. It caked my nostrils and made mud with the tears on my cheeks.
I wiped my face, but there was nothing on the bandages when I looked.
“The door opened.” I’d never realized how loud it squeaked before. In the shed, with Harrison crying, it was deafening.
“Who opened it?”
“Julia came looking for Harrison. He was supposed to…I don’t know. But she came looking for him and found him in the shed. She saw the boy.”
“What did she do?”
“She took Harrison inside.”
“What about you?”
“I was hiding, but she saw me.” The anger she seethed was the same as when she hit me. “Why didn’t she kill me?”
Carmichael dropped his gaze. “Tell me what happened next.”
“The hammer was right there. She could have killed me.”
“Paris?”
“She made me help her.”
“Do what?”
“She put him on a tarp, and she made me help her drag him into the woods.” Grit packed my fingernails. “There were too many roots.”
“For what?”
“I couldn’t get the hole deep enough. She got mad. She pushed me down.”
“This is all your fault, Paris. You’re nothing but a filthy whore. I saw the way you looked at Daddy. You made him do this.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Paris.”
I looked around. The fridge kicked on. Small colored magnets held up notes. “What did you say?”
“I said it wasn’t your fault.”
“But I kissed him. I didn’t want to help her. ‘You’re just like him.’ That’s what she said.”
“The boy?”
I shook my head. “I think she meant someone else.”
“Who do you think she was talking about?” Dr. Carmichael furrowed his brow.
I’d never thought to ask myself that question before. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No. I mean. I don’t know.”
He nodded like he’d expected the answer. “Do you remember where you helped Julia take the body?”
I curled my hands into fists and pressed them against my temple. “We dropped him into the rabbithole.”
“Get over here and help me move this, Paris.”
I took one end of the thick piece of plywood, Julia took the other. The swollen wood left streaks of green and black on my fingers. As we lifted it, the middle sagged and water seeped from the wrinkles.
Pill bugs, earth worms, and black widow spiders scattered in the daylight.
Framed by the perfect square of bare earth was a hole. Concrete edged the sides. What hadn’t crumbled was covered in moss.
“Get his feet.”
I wrapped the tarp around his shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t want him to be cold.”
“He’s dead. He’s not going to get cold. Now help me.”
I tucked in the edges. Julia made an ugly sound and shoved me away. She grabbed the tarp and yanked it toward the edge. Gravity did the rest. But he didn’t come unwrapped so he’d stay warm at the bottom of the well.
“Get up.”
I wondered if I should go down there so he wouldn’t be lonely.
“Get up. Now.” She kicked me in the hip.
Julia’s hair clung to her cheeks, and her mascara was smeared. Sweat made her skin gleam and her cheeks glow. There was blood on her dress.
I promptly threw up all over her bare feet.
“Where did she take you?”
“Huh?”
Carmichael held out another cup of orange juice.
“Where did she take you after you dropped the body down the well?”
“To the bathroom.” I sniffed the cup. “I don’t like orange juice.”
“You drank two glasses.”
I did? I sipped it. There was nothing to like or dislike.
Carmichael pulled out his chair and sat in front of me. “Paris, what happened after she took you into the bathroom?”
“She left me.”
“That’s all?”
“She told me to take a bath.”
“Anything else?”
“She got mad when I couldn’t remember how to get my clothes off.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t remember the name of the boy?”
Carmichael held up a hand. I turned to see who spoke. A white man wearing blue jeans sat on a chair near the wall. A Chinese woman in a purple suit beside him. Next to her, a black woman with long braids.
Where had they come from?
“Who are you?”
“This is Mark Moore, a private investigator who’s a friend of mine, and Mrs. Samson, your court appointed guardian. And Mrs. Chang, your advocate. You met her almost two weeks ago.”
I looked at Carmichael. “How long have they been in here?”
“The whole time.”
I ran another survey of the room. Two vending machines, a coffeepot, a box of doughnuts, a refrigerator, and to my left, a flat screen mounted to the wall. The eyes of a confused man stared back at me from the dark glass.
“Where am I?”
“The break room.”
“I’ve asked you that before.”
“Yes, several times.”
I held up my hands and wiggled my fingers. Gauze covered almost every inch of my hands. “The rabbit bit me.”
“You bit yourself.”
&n
bsp; “The rabbit bit me so I could show you.”
“Ask him.”
“Not now, Mark,” Carmichael said.
To Mark, I said, “Ask me what?”
He sat back a little. “Are you sure you don’t remember the name of the boy your father killed?”
Did I? I worried the bandages on my thumb between my front teeth. How did they know about the boy? How did they know about Harrison killing him? I couldn’t remember. Everything was muted. All twisted up. Inside out. Upside down.
Black and white.
There was no color, and I was falling apart.
Dr. Carmichael stood. “C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room.” He put his hands on my shoulders, and I held onto the table.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re just upset.”
This wasn’t upset. I didn’t know what it was, but I’d never felt anything like it. Or maybe I had and simply forgotten. “Please tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re medicated.”
“Why?”
“You had a psychotic episode.”
“What does that mean?”
“You were confused about what’s real and not real. You hurt yourself. I had to medicate you until you calmed down.” Carmichael urged me to stand up, but I refused. “Paris, I think you need to go back to your room.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t have an answer.
“Please stand up.”
I did.
“Now come with me.”
I looked around the room. Two vending machines, a coffeepot, a box of doughnuts on the counter, a fridge, a TV, and three people I didn’t know. Maybe they weren’t real. I pretended not to see them just in case.
Dr. Carmichael led me down the hall and into a room that looked like it belonged in a hotel. “I’ve been here before.”
“This is your room.”
The phone on the end table sat under the lamp. “Roy.”
“What about him?”
“Has he called yet?” Dr. Carmichael sat me on the edge of the bed, and I clung to his arm.
“Not yet.”
“He’s not going to, is he?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I got angry. I told him not to call. I told him I didn’t want him to call.”
“He’ll call.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I stared at the phone. Please ring. Please, please, ring.
“Lie down and get some sleep.”
“I can’t. He might call. If I go to sleep, the nurses won’t transfer the call back here.”
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