Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Not to mention, the boogeymen were already living with me.
My heart was in my throat as I drove over the town limits. I could feel the stitches in those old wounds unraveling and what would spill out was anybody’s guess.
I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. I’m a thriver not a survivor. The mantra played on a loop.
In the past, it had helped me climb out of a panic attack whenever I was alone in a dark room and it was a little depressing to see it resurfacing now, after all the years of therapy I’d been through. Then again, I hadn’t had to face my demons until now.
Seventeen years ago, I drove out of here and never came back. The day I graduated high school I packed up the used Jetta I’d bought with the money I’d made working summer jobs and headed to Connecticut. It felt like my story was coming full circle. High time to cut the last cord binding me to this place––long past time for closure. My only regret was that Josh wouldn’t be a part of it.
With each red brick row house I drove past, an avalanche of memories came tumbling back. Most of them snapshots. Most of them unpleasant with the exception of the ones that included the boy I once loved. The library where I worked the summer before my senior year looked smaller than I remembered, weathered by years of neglect. The hardware store where Josh worked was long gone, replaced by a Subway.
I’d gotten so good at compartmentalizing my life it was almost as if I’d been a third-party observer instead of a participant. Everyone has their own method of coping. Some people turn to drugs and alcohol. My crutch was to go emotionally offline and bury myself under my work––as my therapist has repeatedly pointed out. And it had worked. Maybe a little too well.
I didn’t call or text Scott to tell him that I needed to leave. He’d find out soon enough from Jan when he returned from Houston. I knew I should’ve called. This thing we’d been building slowly, block by block––call it trust or whatever, maybe more––was still fragile, and I didn’t want to bring it all down. But something stopped me. I couldn’t get my fingers to work, to push the send button.
It just felt too personal. Maybe I was afraid to be let down. That this would be where he drew the line and deemed me more trouble than I was worth. I’d told myself a lot of crap like that over the years. It was easier to be alone. Nobody to keep score. Nobody to answer to. At least it had been before I married Scott.
As much as I’d already shared with him, I hadn’t gone into detail. Nor would I. He didn’t know the depth of it, and I was still too guarded to let anyone see the shame attached. That’s the thing seldom talked about––the shame most victims of violence and abuse suffer. It’s tattooed into your psyche. It might fade over time, but the damage is done. That thin voice whispering that maybe, just maybe, you deserved it, that you invited it, that it’s your fault, long after the scars heal…it stays.
Motel girl’s big brown eyes widened when I handed over my Platinum Amex. In turn, the girl handed me an actual key with a big green plastic fob attached. My eyes widened.
I mean…an actual key? I was pretty sure I’d never seen one. Not even in Europe. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was. I needed to get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible.
The first of Scott’s texts came in a little after four the next morning and kept coming, and coming, and coming every half hour until I replied. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t slept a wink all night anyway. The bed lumpy, the smell of mold, the sheets scratchy. Too many ghosts hanging around.
* * *
Scott: Where are you?
Scott: You left without a word. I’m getting worried.
Scott: Sydney. Call me now.
Scott: Can you please call me? This isn’t like you.
Me: I’m in Philly. Taking care of some family business.
I typed…I’m fine. And erased it.
Typed…I’m sorry. And erased it.
I meant the second not the first.
I took a shower with nonexistent water pressure, got dressed, and drove over to the farmhouse with bile churning in my gut. My head scrambling for a foothold on composure. My heart searching for bravery. I found neither.
My grandparent’s house was exactly as I remembered it. Standing on the curb, looking up at it, my heart thumped double time, my palms sweat even though there was a chill in the air. It was a little more weathered––the white clapboard siding in need of a fresh coat of paint, the black shutters missing a few slats, some cobblestones of the circular driveway missing––but essentially the same. An idyllic farmhouse by all outward appearances. House of horrors if you knew what had happened on the inside.