Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  “Close your eyes,” he whispers. I shake my head. “It’ll help.” He closes his eye again.

  I inhale deeply and release. What’s the worst that will happen if I close my eyes? Another memory surfaces? I have the power to stop it. I close my eyes and focus on what the guide is saying. I visualize every color and hear every sound. When he describes the moss on the trees, I feel it. I stay focused on what he is saying, imagining the beauty he is creating. Surely a world unknown to Earth.

  “At the end of the path you’ll see a creek. Kneel and look at your reflection.” My eyes snap open quickly and my breathing quickens, my hands flat on the cool floor in contrast to my clammy palms. I wipe under my eyes and stare straight ahead. I pull away when I feel something rub against the side of my hand. I look down and then at Tyler. I shake my head silently.

  The fear is crippling. Knowing that I physically escaped does nothing when I am mentally attached. I didn’t see my face in the reflection of the water, but my deceased mother’s.

  As soon as we can, I stand and rush out of the room and straight outdoors. I gasp fresh air. Everything up until the creek was good, pleasant even. I focused on that and nothing more, kind of like in yoga. But then reality seeped in.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I turn to look at Tyler. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No worries.”

  “Where’s Sam?” I look up at the clouds.

  “She’s off.”

  “Ugh!”

  “I’m pretty sure that if the meditation makes you react, it’s working.”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat.

  “Okay.” He shrugs and walks away.

  “You were awake,” I call after him.

  “Um, yeah . . . I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “No, you were aware of what was going on.”

  “Kinda. I felt you jolt. You were safe, though. I wanted you to know that.” He walks away. I don’t know what Tyler thinks I’ve lived, but it’s clear he has an idea. He’s right though; I am safe. It was all in my mind, but my reality is now different.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Calm down, Tyler. There’s no need to get agitated.”

  “I’m not agitated!”

  “Tyler,” the therapist says firmly. “I’m not saying there is something wrong with you, but you must admit there is something that continues to bring you back in here.”

  “You wanna psychoanalyze me, doc? Go ahead. I’ll sit here and look pretty.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I want to help you. You’re a young man with a bright future ahead of you. If you continue down this path, you’ll become one of country music’s jokes. Each time you’re sent back in here is lost time that you could be working on your music. Each time you get sent in here is one less strand of patience the label will have.”

  “I’ll stop driving under the influence.”

  “It’s not only that. Your outrages are increasing. You’re more violent.”

  “I’m not.” I slam my hand on the table dividing us, and she gives me a pointed stare. I breathe deeply and sit back on the couch. “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Your upbringing.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to talk about it eventually if you’re going to take this seriously. Better get it over with than have it lingering.”

  “No.” I stare at her deliberately.

  She finally exhales and says, “Fine, have it your way.” She gears the conversation to a safer topic, but I know at some point we’ll have to talk about my family. I still don’t know why I told Mikayla about my father, it slipped. She looked so fragile while she attempted to stay strong.

  Joe said the label was getting tired of my shit, so they were demanding I do a full session at the center. I know the therapist is right about me getting my act together before they drop me. I can’t lose my music. And each time I land here is another challenge to get my reputation back to what it used to be.

  A useless hour later, I’m sure the therapist is as frustrated as I am when I walk out of her office. I round the corner and see Mikayla sitting on a chair. She’s looking down at her hands, unmoving. I stop for a second and watch her.

  What’s Red’s story? I have an inkling, but not sure I’m totally right. I hope that it isn’t one of the sicker theories I’ve come up with. Fucker. I think about my dad, glad he’s far-gone from this world, but knowing his effects have left a lasting impression on my mother. The woman is strong; however, I know she lives with that weight on her shoulders. I probably added to it with my own behavior. I should visit her when I get out of here. It’s been a while.

  I love my mom, I do, but life gets busy. Even more so when you’re one of the biggest country stars in the world and work around the clock. Besides, she’s pleaded for me to watch my drinking, and when the closest person to you brings up the one denial you have, you avoid them. I may have hated my father, but we may be more alike than I care to admit. Is alcoholism genetic? I don’t know, but that isn’t my problem. My problem is anger.

  I continue watching Mikayla. She looks as if she’s concentrating on something, but there’s nothing for her to concentrate on. She’s simply staring off.

  “She’s different, huh?” I don’t look to my side but nod. “She’ll break through.”

  “She’s not a project, Sam,” I reply crossing my arms.

  “I know that.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Ah, the wise Tyler appears. It’s not time yet, for the patient to become the therapist.”

  “Always so vague.”

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that.” Sam’s eyes turn cold, and she looks back at Mikayla. I look between the two. Sam is hell bent on getting to Mikayla. I wonder if she knows her story. I’ve seen how Sam has interacted with her differently than anyone else, besides me.

  I hear Mikayla ask Sam where she had been before I walk away from them. A distant, “A friend was visiting,” sounds before I get to my room and grab my guitar.

  I open to the lyrics I was working on the other night and begin to strum the chords to match the words, keeping the singing in my head. I don’t quite get why I write softer songs each time I’m here. The inspiration hits and I take it. I’m a writer after all. I’d be a fake if I didn’t. I assume that being here does affect me in some way, if my music is a telltale. Once I leave, the notebook stays hidden and my alter ego reappears—Tyler Hunt, biggest badass and don’t-give-a-fuck singer. I’m rough, edgy, and careless. It’s who I am.

  The soft music playing contradicts my most recent thoughts. Words about redemption and forgiveness echo from the walls in my room as I close my eyes and let the music take me.

  I walk towards the dining room for dinner and hear yelling. What the actual fuck? At the entrance of the room I see a crowd of people, but the voice is unmistakable. Mikayla has gone bat-shit crazy.

  “Mikayla, take a deep breath.” I hear some intern say.

  “No! I don’t need to breathe. Breathing got me in here in the first place.”

  “You need to relax.”

  “No shit.” My lips twitch slightly at her attitude. Girl is insane. “How can I fucking relax in this place when all you do is bring up the bad?”

  “Healing is a process.”

  “Oh, did you get that out of the flyer used to sell this place? Cliché.”

  “Enough!” Mikayla and the intern both look at Sam.

  Who knows what started this.

  “Don’t.” Mikayla holds her hands up to warn Sam to stay back. That’s when I realize she’s holding a pair of scissors. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Fuck. Her arms have faint pink lines.

  “Red,” I say without thinking. Her eyes snap up to look at me. “What’s going on?” Although my inner-self is warring with how to approach her, my outer-self is reflecting nonchalance.

  “Tyler . . .” she warns and Sam signals for me to stay back. To hell w
ith that. I walk closer to her.

  “What’s going on?” I repeat.

  “Nothing.” Her voice is harsh.

  “Something’s up for you to be holding the scissors and raising hell in this place like it’s your job. I like to raise havoc, but we need to be smart about it.” I inch closer. “Now, what’s going on?” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t lying when I said you were safe here.” I pause, staring straight into her eyes. “But you can’t be safe from yourself, if you don’t allow others to help you. The memories . . . they’re just that. I got you, if you need me.”

  Something weird happens when you stare into someone’s eyes for so long. They almost blur and all you see, or feel, are the emotions causing pain within them. She closes her eyes, breaking the bond, and breathes deeply. Her shoulders slump, and she looks back at me.

  “I’m ready to talk.” Those four words knock her back, and I’m there to hold her. People begin to move away and into the dining room until only the intern, Sam, a therapist, Mikayla and I are left.

  “You can come to my office and talk now.”

  Mikayla looks at the therapist and shakes her head. “I talk to her.” She points at Sam.

  “She’s not a therapist.”

  “Technically, she is. She’s finished her internship. A final test won’t convince me she’s any more suited to help me. I talk to her, or I talk to no one.”

  “Actually, I received my license.”

  “What?” Mar, the therapist asks.

  “Yeah,” Sam shrugs.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I received it while I was out these past few days, and I haven’t had a chance to tell anyone today.”

  “So there you go. I talk to her.” Mikayla interrupts them.

  “I think you should do this now.” I hint at the possibility of her changing her mind.

  “Okay,” Mar says. “But anything that is expressed that puts you in danger, she has to tell us.” Mikayla nods, knowing fully how the process goes. After all, she’s been going in to see a therapist while she’s here almost every day. I step back, letting her pass, but watch her eyes soften as she looks at me. An unspoken message that I can’t fully grasp.

  Sam leads her to an unused room, and I relax. That could have gone so wrong. I close my eyes a second, not even sure where I got the inspiration to talk to her from. Then Mikayla turns back to me, and I see the war inside her. I nod and smile encouragingly.

  “Sam,” she calls out.

  “Yeah?”

  “I want Tyler there, too.”

  “What?” we both say in unison.

  “I want Tyler there. If you want to.” She turns to me.

  “That’s unconventional and not recommended,” Sam explains.

  “As if I care about convention. Trust me, it was never something taught to me.”

  They both look at me, Mikayla almost pleading with her eyes, Sam warning me off. Fuck it. I follow them, unsure I want to hear what Mikayla has to say.

  Sam sits on a chair and points for us to sit on the other two. Unlike the therapists who work here, Sam doesn’t have an office, so the art room will have to do. I sit heavily and stare at a wall. Instead of following in suit, Mikayla remains standing and gives us her back, her arms crossed.

  When she turns, she asks Sam, “What was it you told me the other day? Some pono word?”

  “Ho’oponopono.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. It’s a Hawaiian healing method.” I try not to chuckle when Mikayla rolls her eyes.

  “Who am I supposed to say that to?”

  “The people who have hurt you.” Mikayla scoffs. “I know. I felt the same way when it was taught to me, but give it a try.”

  “Whatever.” She turns around again, shifting from side to side. A defense mechanism, I’m sure. “I was abused,” she blurts out and pauses.

  “Okay . . .” Sam says slowly when she doesn’t speak again.

  “Sexually.” My jaw twitches as I bite down hard. “I’m not sure when it started, but I remember as far back as a young teen. I didn’t know what to do.”

  I’m about to jump out and say something when Sam signals me to remain calm. She’s probably right, but I can’t listen to this and not react.

  “What do you remember?” Sam asks. Mikayla turns around, tears in her eyes.

  “Everything.” She won’t look at me.

  It takes everything in me to sit still as she tells her story. A story that sickens me. She explains in detail how her stepfather raped her over and over again. Because there’s no other word than rape to describe what that bastard did. And he’s still out there. If I could kill him, I would. Her voice is pained as she confesses to Sam. I can’t move, but it feels wrong being here. Why did she want me here? I’m going to be sick when she says what happened after her mother was killed.

  “He needs to be punished,” I call out, surprising both of them.

  “Tyler . . .” Sam looks at me with warning.

  “No, he’s right but there’s no proof. I ran away when I could. I think I heard him at the diner I was working at one night, and that’s what led me here. If it was him, he’d find me. I rather die than let that bastard touch me again.”

  “Mikayla, you’re safe now,” Sam speaks softly.

  “But when I leave?” The question lingers between the three of us.

  “You’ll be safe.” They both look at me when I speak again. “It’s a crime. What he did is a crime.” I’m going crazy.

  “He’s a drunk.” Mikayla looks at me, her lips pressed tightly together. Message received. But I would never harm a woman, no matter how much alcohol I’ve had.

  “Maybe he’ll kill himself in a car accident like my father did.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” But I know she heard me.

  “Mikayla,” Sam draws the attention back to her. “I know it’s difficult to talk about it and relive the experience, but working through it is the only way you’ll truly release it. Continuing to hide it in your subconscious won’t do any good.”

  “I wish I could hide it. It’s ever-present.” Sam nods.

  “I can go now, if you want to continue with the session.”

  “Thank you, Tyler.” Sam smiles up at me.

  “You’re strong, Red.”

  I change and go to the gym. The punching bag is beckoning me, and it’s been a few days since I’ve hit the shit out of it. What used to be my father’s face has morphed into a faceless fucker as I beat and beat the leather.

  I can’t stand hearing stories of women being mistreated. It’s my own experience that creates that reaction, but to abuse a child? That takes a special kind of fucker.

  I punch harder, swaying when the bag comes back my way and hitting it again. My knuckles are raw and the stinging of each hit vibrates through my entire arms. I stop when I see Sam watching me from the entrance of the gym. She gives me a knowing smile and disappears. She’s always been odd.

  I finish my workout and take a shower. I want to wash this day away. I wonder how Mikayla is doing. She clearly finished with Sam. Must’ve gone to bed.

  I must have lost my damn mind today. What the hell caused me to break out the way I did with an audience? And grabbing scissors as my weapon. I look down at the faint scars. I’m tired. I’m emotionally exhausted, and, I have to admit to myself, that it felt better to talk to Sam. It was easier to tell them both at the same time, not have to repeat myself. Tyler told me about his parents. I guess that gave me a green light to include him in this. Or maybe it was because he was the only one that saw through me while I was threatening the entire place. He talked me down as if he understood. Of course, he doesn’t. He has no idea, but I wanted him there. He broke through. How? No fucking idea.

  Talking to Sam helped, and we went over the basics—this wasn’t my fault, I was a victim, forgiveness is key. We didn’t even make a dent in all I need to cover
before I leave this all behind, but it’s no longer my dirty little secret.

  I lay down, ready to sleep off this day.

  I rush to meditation, running late since I overslept. I sit by the entrance to cause as little attention to me as possible. The guide begins and I’m grateful almost everyone already has their eyes closed. People who were lost when they first arrived here are looking different. They have color and the gray that surrounded them has transformed. I sit and breathe deeply, following the instructions.

  Afraid of closing my eyes, I stare at the guide. Even he has his eyes closed.

  I’m safe. I’m safe.

  I close my eyes slowly, listening to the music and his words, following the path he leads. The colors swirl behind my eyes, and I focus on only that. I re-open my eyes when the guide tells us to, and I relax. I catch Tyler looking at me, but ignore it and leave to eat breakfast. He now knows what I’ve been through.

  “Mind if I join?” I shake my head without looking up at him.

  We eat in silence. I fumble with my glass of juice for the second time in the matter of twenty minutes and finally look up and sigh. Tyler looks at me with compassion.

  “Sorry about yesterday,” I blab. “I don’t know why I told you all of that.”

  “Red, it’s okay. It makes sense, but you should get help. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “What about you?” I respond in defense.

  “Yeah, me too.” He nods, surprising me.

  Laughter bubbles within me, breaking the silence at the table. I try to hold it down, but I can’t. Before I know it, Tyler is staring at me with his head tilted, and I’m laughing uncontrollably. I try to apologize, but I hiccup, causing me to cackle even louder.

  I wipe the corners of my eyes, almost unable to keep my eyes open enough to see Tyler’s amused face. God, I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I take a deep breath to try to calm down. I giggle again as I try to compose myself, finally quieting down.

  I don’t remember the last time I laughed. Maybe when I was ten? The feel of your cheeks hurting, your stomach contracting, and tears falling down your eyes, and all of this because of something good.