by Nessa Morgan
Zephyr sits close to me, not intruding, just letting me know he's here for me.
I tug out the letter, feeling the weight of the thin paper against my hands. It appears my father had a lot to say, the words taking up the entire page, his sloppy script growing larger and wider the more he has to say.
My beautiful baby girl:
I miss you. You must know that. I miss you being near to me. Do you miss me as much as I miss you? Do you miss your Daddy? I bet you do.
There are so many things happening and I doubt you will ever understand. Don’t let me even begin trying to explain, just know it’s all a lie. Everything, every single word, is a lie. I would never hurt you. I love you too much to hurt you. I hope you know that. I hope you believe what I say is true, because it is.
I would never lie to you, baby.
Your mother, she was a bad woman. An evil woman. She didn’t want me around you because she knew that you loved me more than her, you wanted me more than her. She was a bitter, jealous woman. Your mother, she could never begin to understand the feelings you, your brother, and sister held for me. I was important to you three. You especially.
And she took you all from me.
She expected me to function, to live, without all of my children in my life. How can I do that? How could I do that?
I couldn’t, Josie. Not without my baby girl, not without you.
I just wanted my family back. Was that too much to ask? I just wanted us, all of us, to be a family again. But she wouldn’t agree with that. She didn’t want me anymore. She wanted all of you to herself. She was greedy.
They say greed is a sin. It is a sin. It’s one of the seven deadly sins. And she died for her greed, baby girl. Because she was selfish, your mother is dead.
And I couldn’t let her keep you, all of you. I couldn’t let her do that. I couldn’t let her take all of you from me.
The rest of the letter goes on and on about how much he loves me, how much he misses me, and how he believes I will never be able to survive without him here to guide me through life. It’s disturbing how delusional he seems, how crazy his ramblings are. It’s even crazier to know he believes them so much.
I crack open another letter, then another and another, followed by more, one more disturbing than the next, until all that lies around me are the empty envelopes like carcasses crumpled on the floor—twenty letters, thirty letters, fifty letters. I read through two-thirds of the bin before Zephyr grabs my hand to drag me forcefully from the room, away from the disease of the bin.
“What are you doing?” I protest as he takes me down the stairs, dragging me until my steps match his pace.
“Have you not been listening to me?” He asks.
I shake my head.
“We’ve been sitting in that room for over three hours.” He pushes me into the closest seat at the dining room table. “You’re eyes have been glued to every sick word that psycho has written to you. You need something else to do for a while. Something sane that won’t leave you traumatized.” Zephyr fills a glass of water and places it in front of me. “Maybe we could go BASE jumping.”
“Zeph.” I stand up, ignoring the glass placed before me, protesting loudly when he pushes against me to sit back down. “Hey,” I object, falling into the wooden seat, hearing it crack and settle against my weight.
“Now, I’m going to attempt to make you something to eat. You need food.” He stands away from the table, walking into the kitchen. He looks so foreign when he grabs the pots and pans from the cupboards. He looks confused when he opens the refrigerator, his eyes searching the contents.
I sigh. “How about we order a pizza?” I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket. I pull up the number for Pizza Hut, not waiting for his answer, and dial.
After we have a few slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza—Zephyr devouring half the pizza while I poke at one slice for forty-five minutes—we take a seat on the couch, snuggling beneath a blanket as we watch a movie. Well, he watches the movie, I think about the bin of envelopes, wondering what other crazy things are hidden within those gray plastic walls.
As my mind wanders through all the words, watching them swirl within my mind, sleep pulls me under.
I’m standing in the center of a field filled with colorful flowers. They’re so pretty, I can’t help but reaching out and trying to snag one, but the stem just glides through my hand as if I’m not real.
Not this again.
I’m back.
“It’s pretty, huh?”
I turn, not knowing what to expect. I spot a familiar face.
Ivy.
“Sorry, you can’t really take one.” She reaches out, floating her hand through the flowers by the hem of her sundress—a pale pink one this time. “I can’t even touch them.”
I shake my head. “This isn’t real,” I tell her. It’s not real. I knew this the last time despite how much I wished the opposite. As much as I’d love to talk to my sister, I know this is only a dream.
“It’s not,” she tells me. “Not really. It’s real to you.” She takes a step forward, gliding through the flowers, her dark skin pokes from the hem of her dress as she moves. She was always darker than me. Noah, too. I remember that now. In this world, memories come back to me, fueling the fire in my head. “It’s just… think of it as an easier way for you to process.”
My eyebrows rise. “Process what?” I ask, folding my arms protectively across my chest.
“What you read earlier.” Her dark eyes lift up, startling me with their clarity. There’s a way she said that, as if she always knew what I’d read. But that means that I always knew. That’s a bigger mind trick than anything else I’m seeing. “You should have guessed, Joey. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
I startle, stumbling back. It shocks me, her replying to my thoughts.
“I’m in your head, you know?” She shrugs a bare shoulder.
“So I should just voice what I’m thinking?” I ask, sarcastically.
“I think you get that from me.” Ivy walks around me, eyeing me suspiciously. “Well, what little you know about me.” I follow her, spinning slowly as she walks around me in a wide circle. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” she asks quietly, following with a sigh.
I quirk a brow. “What?” I ask, confused.
Ivy sighs loudly. “Would this be easier if I looked different?” I stare at her, wondering what the hell she’s asking. “Maybe if I look a bit like this?” She stops, her eyes closing. Her head tips back. Ivy slowly starts to shrink, her hair pulls into her head, it seems, becoming shorter and slightly lighter. There’s more curl and frizz in her hair as it starts to fan around her head. Her skin lightens; her face changes, the features becoming smaller and kinder, innocent even.
And I’m staring at myself.
I’m staring at myself?
Okay, now this is a mindfuck.
“Hi.”
I remember that voice. I remember the tiny, squeaky voice I had, and I remember it so clearly, it’s terrifying. She steps closer to me, nothing but innocence in her pale, hazel eyes.
When did I lose that?
“H-h-hi,” I stutter. I can’t believe I’m speaking to her—to me—I can’t believe I’m speaking to myself. In real life, this is a ticket straight to the loony bin. “You’re…?”
“I’m JoJo.”
She seems so happy. It brings tears to my eyes how happy and cheerful she looks—how happy and cheerful I looked back then, how happy and cheerful I look. I’m not sure the tense for this so the phrasing is going to be awkward, oy, I can tell.
I kneel down, my knees feeling nothing, touching nothing, as I watch them glide and sink into the flowers. “I’m Joey,” I tell her when I’m eye level.
“Hi,” she says again. She cocks her head to the side, narrowing her eyes before she says, “You look really familiar.”
Like I haven’t heard that before.
I giggle, tucking my hair behind my ears. �
��You do, too.” I force a smile. “I guess I have some questions for you.”
“What do you want to know?” JoJo plops down, nearly disappearing into the flowers. She reaches out, snatching one, and starts to pluck off the petals, throwing them on the skirt of her dress.
“About you.” My voice catches, cracking, and I try to keep myself from crying. “About your family.”
Her eyes brighten, glee filling her face.
What happened to this little girl?
“I love my family!” she says, bouncing where she sits. “My sister is awesome. She plays with me a lot. And my brother lets me play with his toys. My mom teaches me how to play the piano and I get to watch her dance.”
I smile tenderly, wishing I could see these memories, feel them with her, feel the joy of what she says, but I only feel empty. A deep pit falls within me, hollowing me out and making me jealous of my past-self.
But I can’t be jealous of her—of me.
“What about your father?” I ask, practically probing her, prying her for information.
Her smile drops as she lowers her gaze, staring at the skeletal remains of the flower in her hand. “What about him?” she asks so quietly, I’m not even sure if I heard it or imagined it.
I inch closer. “How does he treat you, JoJo?”
She leans back, looking up to me. I’m waiting for something—I’m not sure what, but my heart stops beating, freezing me in place until she says something… anything.
“I never want him to,” she whispers. The flower is gone from her hand. It wilted and disappeared, as if controlled by her emotions. “But he doesn’t listen to me.” A tear escapes, rolling down her plump cheek. It breaks my heart hearing this. “I just want him to leave me alone, but it means he’ll go to Ivy and she doesn’t want to play, either.”
Play?
“Oh, JoJo.” I want to reach for her, grab her hand and rub her arm, but she’s now a shell—an empty little girl, nothing but a vacant void sitting before me. Every bit of innocence has left her eyes, all the happiness has washed away from her face. She is now me. She is the girl I see in the mirror every morning. The ghost of a girl.
My mouth drops open, ready to say something, but no words can help her. She’s already ruined.
“Mommy believed me,” JoJo whispers. “She made him leave and I could finally sleep. I could sleep in my bed again.” Her red-rimmed eyes look up to me. She’s aged in the two minutes since she sat down. In that stare, everything came back in a rush, crashing into me and throwing me into the mind of the girl in front of me.
I see it all.
The fighting the night I told my mom the heart wrenching truth. The screaming, the yelling, the cursing, the threats. It’s one angry blur. One aggressive, loud, angry blur that rips through me until I’m a hole.
I close my eyes, seeing everything.
“I remember,” I whisper. “I remember it all.” I pitch forward, covering my ears with my hands as the sounds pour through me, pounding into my bones.
“Then you remember The Night?” she asks, her voice growing deeper with every syllable. I open my eyes, staring into the face of someone so familiar, I swear I’m looking in a mirror. “Tell me you don’t remember?” I stare at myself, at the me I see every morning in the mirror. The hair, the dress, it’s all the same. “You’d like to not remember, right? It doesn’t work that way.”
“I know,” I say.
It’s never worked that way.
I can’t forget.
It was only hidden within me, dormant until now—until something in me believed I was ready to know the truth.
I wake up in Zephyr’s arms. He’s holding me tightly but I squirm, wiggling to free myself from his grip. Zephyr releases an annoyed groan as his arms enclose on an empty space before he rolls to the side, letting me free—he doesn’t wake. I just sit next to him, grasping his warm hand and rubbing his palm with the pad of my thumb.
I’m just sitting, thinking, staring at the boy I love—breathing.
Inhale.
I don’t care about the time but I know it’s well into the early morning of tomorrow. A new day filled with those possibilities we always hear about.
Exhale.
I should be asleep. I should be snuggled warmly into my boyfriend’s arms, I should be pleasantly dreaming about Zephyr while infomercials play endlessly on the television we left on. But I’m not.
Inhale.
I’m scared.
Exhale.
Completely terrified.
I drop his hand lightly onto the space of couch between us and pad up the stairs to my room. I still have a good chunk of reading to do. And as much as I’d love to forget about it, as much as I’d love to throw each and every letter into the fireplace and light them ablaze, I can’t do that. As loud as my brain and conscience scream just burn them, Joey, I know I can’t do it.
And I want to drop a lit match right here right now.
Crouching down, dropping until my legs cross on the floor, I reach, grabbing the next letter, and rip it open.
My beautiful baby girl, you’re fourteen today it starts, and I’m lost in the lies from my father.
I fold the last letter, the last slip of paper before the one destroyed, and shove it back into the envelope, when Zephyr walks through the door, strolling into my room with sleep-filled eyes and messy hair. He’s dragging his hand through his crazy locks, his jeans riding low on his narrow hips. He’s shirtless but I don’t take the time to ogle. I’m tired. I just want to crawl into bed and find the sleep I know I’ll be missing in nights to come.
“I thought you were done for the night?” Zephyr asks.
I grunt, forcing the sound.
“Did you stay up and read every letter?” He asks, still standing in front of me. I can’t raise my eyes to meet his so I stare at his sock-covered feet. Typical white socks that bunch around his ankles. “Are you okay?” he asks with embellished concern.
Not knowing what to do, how to process anything I just read, I shrug. My eyes are sore, my glasses long forgotten somewhere on the desk behind me—I read better without them—but the surrounding world is blurry.
Zephyr sits next to me and motions to grab me, to pull me class and tuck me into his arms. As much as I want that I can’t have it right now.
“Don’t touch me,” I blurt. The words stop him, mid-reach. “I just can’t have you touching me right now.” His arms still outstretched, he looks to me, fear covering his face—his beautiful features twisted worriedly. “I just can’t be touched by you. Not right now. Okay?” With every word, I’m pleading—begging for him to understand.
He drops his arms audibly. With certainty, he replies, “Okay.” Zephyr doesn’t understand. How can he? But he accepts it, he listens to me, and I appreciate him for that. I love him more for that.
Now, new memories surge through my mind, waving and weaving new webs to entangle me, snap me in their traps, and tuck me under the dark mass that consumes me. I can see it all—every horrifying thing… and I force it from my mind in a blink, pretending to be fine. Perfectly fine. I shove the memory in a box and place it in the back of a closet, the things they teach you in school psychology.
Zephyr’s lucky to have the life he has, to have the memories he has. No one’s betrayed him, no one’s ruined his trust or completely shattered it. I’m not lucky like him.
But you’re still lucky, Joey, that little voice in the back of my mind tells me. I shake it away.
I crawl to my bed and pull back the blankets, crawling beneath them and covering myself. I just want to be alone. I just want to think and breathe and be alone to understand everything swelling in my mind.
The air around me moves and I know Zephyr’s closer. Weight presses against the mattress and I know he’s there, he wants to touch me, caress me, support me, he wants to be with me when he knows I need him the most.
“You should head home, Zephyr,” I tell him, feeling the tears beginni
ng to well behind my closed lids, fighting for freedom. “I’m not much in the mood for company at the moment.”
The weight shifts closer. I can only imagine him edging closer, wishing to touch me, even for a moment, wishing to comfort me, but knowing he can’t.
“I’m not going anywhere, Joey.” He sounds so strong and firm, he sounds brave and willing to fight my demons. If only it was that easy. “I’m not letting you shut me out. Not again.” His words force the tears from my eyes. They roll and pool on the soft fabric of my pillow. “I can feel it when you’re going deeper within that pit, Joey. You might not think I know you but I do. I’ve been around for everything. I’m not going anywhere ever again.” The weight shifts again, this time lifting. “I promise not to touch you, but I’m staying.”
Silence fills the room.
“Okay,” I say, fighting the sobs. I hope he can’t hear me crying—but I know he can.
The springs in my recliner squeak as he sits down, probably with a blanket from my closet. Soon, everything is quiet and I’m letting sleep pull me under, welcoming the eerie warmth it possesses.
It’s a dreamless sleep, surprisingly. Maybe I have nothing left to discover. The last thing I need is to see my father trying to kill me. I lived it once, I remember now—thanks to last night.
Shaking on my shoulder wakes me. I roll to face a pair of green eyes.
“Morning,” Hilary says as she presses the back of her hand on my forehead. “Are you sick?”
I shake my head in reply.
“Have you moved at all?” she doesn’t mention the pile of letters scattered around my floor. It’s for the best she doesn’t—I don’t want to talk about them anyway. I’ll have to tell her I remember, I’ll have to tell her I see everything so much clearer now, despite how much I wish I didn’t.
But I don’t.
I just let her tuck the blankets further around me, tucking them beneath my arms, and ask about Zephyr.
“His parents know he’s sleeping in your chair, right?” she points toward the snoring mass leaning back in the recliner.
I shrug through the blankets.
Hilary giggles. Looking to him. She takes the comforter from the top of my closet; the thick one I rarely use—covered with pink and yellow flowers—and tucks it around him, covering the thin blanket he grabbed. He doesn’t stir. I smile as she leaves my room, staring at my boyfriend as he snoozes less than five feet away from me. He stayed for me. Because I needed him and didn’t know it, he stayed.