Roar (23 page)

I turn my lamp on and squint against its dull glow before reaching into my bedside drawer. The familiar hard cover under my fingers is soothing. My penmanship within the bindings are a tale of how much I miss him. I stopped writing Nate letters, coming to terms with the fact he no longer wanted the damaged girl who ruined his life. Me and my letters remind him of why he’s locked away, so I began to write to him here, where he would never have to be reminded again. It’s a diary of letters; a diary of my fears, dreams and all the thoughts I keep bottled from my life as Charlotte, because only Nate would ever understand or accept me as Charlie. Only these pages would be able to hold my secrets without being ruined by the disgust which I face every time I close my eyes.

My pen scrawls across the lined paper like they are old friends. The letters taking a life of their own to melt into words which pour out my soul, always starting with the words, “Dear Nate” and ends in, “Forever, Charlie.” Before I know it, I’ve filled two pages with messy scrawl of blue biro that he will never see, and I don’t mind that at all. He is better off without me and will be out next year. He needs to move on without reminders of me, while I try to appease everyone else.

Life is supposed to be about making the most out of every day, but mine is about finding the smoothest path. So when Paul asked me out for a date this weekend, I said yes.

Paul is everything thing Nate isn’t, and that’s okay. He doesn’t take risks, and he takes Charlotte at face value without many questions. He’s too busy studying to be a doctor, which is even better, because it’s less time he has to study me and see the shadows that lurk behind my lies.

In my letter, I tell Nate about Paul and ask him to forgive me. Paul is my Band-Aid, and even though that sounds selfish, I don’t care. Nate is selfish, Paul is selfish, my roommate is selfish… I can be selfish too; it’s the only way I can function anymore. I don’t want to invest myself in another; I have no room and no desire for it. They can have Charlotte; she’s a shell with fractures―no substance, no past. Charlie is full, and she must stay deeply buried.

Today, after two pages of writing, I realize I need to tell him the truth, to let it out even though I know it will do me no good. It’s the first morning in a long time I dreamed of something other than Daddy, and it’s because of Nate. Any happiness I have ever had is accounted to Nate. My hand begins my story from the beginning, long after I met Nate at six years old.

Dear Nate,

It was before the sun come up when I felt my mattress move. I thought it was you…

HIS WARMTH IS A
comfort, and I claw at it. I woke earlier, after the same dream I am forced to relive almost every day, and although he was beside me, I couldn’t stay there. I can’t sleep in Daddy’s room, I can’t sleep in my own room, and all that’s left in that small house is the living area, but I can’t be sleeping there for the rest of my life. So where did I go? To the safety of Nate’s bed and his room that smells of him and his protection. I didn’t want to wake him and have to explain, because explaining meant telling him my secret. If I don’t tell him… I’m left hurting him with a lie. Both, I couldn’t face at four a.m.

Now, I know he’s awake and holding me tight, as though he’s afraid he’s going to lose me. I did that and I hate it. He kisses my head and I feel like he might have been doing that all morning, maybe almost all my life.

“I gotta go to work, babe. I wish I didn’t, but I do.” His whisper breath is warm against my ear.

I grip his shirt not mouthing the words I want to.
Don’t go. Stay
. Instead, I say, “I know.”

“We need to talk about this, about a lot of things.” He sounds like he’s in pain and I can’t stand it. I tilt my head back and kiss his scratchy chin.

“I know. Walk me back first.”

He nods, rises from his small bed, and holds his hand out for me. I take it firmly as he leads me from his room, down the stairs, through the silent house and out the front door.

I see my home across the lawn and all the dread fills me again in an instant. It’s almost overwhelming, until I quickly shove it back down into the dark, where I keep all my fears. Daddy isn’t there; he isn’t anywhere. It’s all over, and I need to come to terms with that and make my home safe to me again. Paint can only do so much; I have to do the rest.

I guess, though, with my diary hanging over our heads like a guillotine ready to swoop by the hands of Paul, I can’t. Why hasn’t he blackmailed me yet? Why haven’t I heard from him? He wants something; he always does. He waited until yesterday to make his first move, and today, I am going to make mine; I’m going to end that part of my life forever to make room for my new one.

Nate walks me back to my bed; he sighs heavily and kisses my cheek. I smile and try to make him feel better, that he has to work, and I have to begin to get my life straightened. Paul is still playing his game with me, blocking my accounts. Holding my past over me is, more than likely, just the beginning of how diabolical he plans to get. He’s likely expecting me today, and I will go prepared to play hard.

Nate has given up everything to protect me, and now it’s my turn. If my diary makes it out, it could ruin every good thing he has done with his life ever since. He is a good man, made a better life for himself and others… me, I did what I always do, bury myself and all my sins.

Well, not today. I watch as Nate dresses in his paint-stiffened clothes, drives his truck out of the drive and down the road, when I head back into the house and go straight to Daddy’s room. This time my hand doesn’t falter at the knob; this time I drive myself forward, for I have no other choice.

Again, there are dust sheets covering everything, but I don’t doubt under them all his belongings are still there, as are the items of my mother’s he wanted to keep; which was mostly everything. I don’t remove them; I won’t look for them. I have one purpose for being in here; I head to his secret place, under the rocking chair, in the corner. That, too, was my mother’s. She never used it in this house. She held me in that chair every night before bed, reading and singing to me. It was a bit of a cruel reminder, I suppose, but he brought it with him anyway. It’s kind of ironic that he kept it as a token of her love for me, when underneath, lay
his
perverse love for me… the other item I needed.

I drag her chair across the carpet and shake off the dull memory of her as it rocked on its own. I dig my nails into the corner of the skirting, grabbing the lip of the carpet and pull it back. A single drill hole is in one of the boards, just as I remembered.

When I was twelve, I followed the noise of the drill and peeked in here, too intrigued for my own good. I knew the shrill sound of the metal drilling timber drowned out my snooping, but it was a risk that battered at my little heart; nonetheless, I wasn’t allowed in his room. He was up to something; that much was clear. So, the next time I was alone in the house, I came to inspect. Once I found the contents of his secret, I vowed never to snoop again.

Today is the first time I have ever come back in his room. The stale air and my nerves make my stomach turn, but I pull at the hole in the timber and hold my breath as it lifts. Within the dark space under the floorboards are his dirty magazines, covered in years of dust. I pull them out and lay them aside, searching for what I hope still lay under them. Wrapped in a pillowcase, like kittens ready to drown, are the tapes of Nate and I. The analogy fits, for the contents will drown us if they fall into the wrong hands. I have never watched them, but I know. I have seen him load the old things into his camera, always wondering what he had done with them. I’m thankful we didn’t live in the age where the internet was a household staple. No, my past sins were recorded on VHS.

I take the makeshift sack and hold back the gagging; the only thing that stops me from throwing up is the sight of the other item I came for.

The cold metal under my skin feels hard. Wrapping my fingers around the steel, I bring it into the light and into my lap. It’s not loaded; there is no magazine in it, which still lay in the darkness waiting for me, testing me. I know what I have to do, and I know the consequences. I reach for that magazine, take the gun and my pillowcase of sins, and run from his room to the kitchen.

I dump it all on the table and try to still my shaking body as I assess what I must do with the contents. None of them will be easy, and yet I can’t wait for it all to be over.

I shove everything in the pantry and head for a shower. The first place I need to go; I need not to look like a madwoman or they won’t take me seriously. I need to be calm, and I need to do this right.

I NEVER HAD A
night like that in my entire life, where alcohol, faces, and music blurred the past where it should be.

Paul couldn’t attend, I wish he could have. It was my twenty-first birthday, which is huge, right? My fellow nurses came, some of the doctors and college friends. We all celebrated like we were frat kids back in school. Where the night should have ended after dinner, we went onto the local club. No one could believe I had never been to a club before, so it was a unanimous decision to make sure I would never forget. I will never.

Laughing, I stumble from my cab with Trent, Dolly, and Lucy, who are cracking up from within. It’s a bit of a disgrace, and yet I don’t give a shit. I want to do it all over again tomorrow night, and the night after that.

On very unsteady legs I wave them off, blowing them kisses back as I stagger my way up our stairs to Paul and my brownstone apartment. I hear the cab pull away with masses of cackles drifting in the air, I don’t know if their laughing is because it’s taking me forever to get my key in the door or what, but I start to laugh to myself, until my laughter is the only sound in the still night.

Who knows how long it would have taken me to open the door had it not swung open. At first, I vaguely think I’m going to fall into Paul’s arms, but he steps out of the way leaving me to mercilessly fall to the floor. Alcohol very much impedes on your reactions, for I don’t even get my hands out to brace me from crashing to the tiles. My face meets the chill of the hard surface, but the chill isn’t there for long before the burning of pain fires through my jaw, cheek, and eye.

“Get up,” he says, calmly.

What? I don’t understand what’s happening. Is he mad?

“I said, get up!”

Then something happens that changes everything in our relationship. Paul has always been a jealous man, always been a bit stiff, always in control, but
never
violent. Tonight, he changed that with his first act of hatred for me with a swift kick to the side of my stomach. I could feel the penetration of violence right through my internal organs and knew, even in my alcohol haze, it was bad.

I scream and curl. Why do victims curl? It only gives their attacker another target, which he meets with a vengeance. Not only do I feel his feet, I then feel his open hand on my head. It probably only went on for ten seconds, but it was enough to scare and hurt so bad I threw up and passed out.

I wake up later; he is gone, but I am still there, lying in my own puke. I try to sit up, see my hair in strings, drenched in used alcohol and stomach contents. The world spins crazily, causing me to puke again.

I don’t know if this is all from alcohol or concussion; probably both. I’m scared, and I don’t think I can open one of my eyes. I don’t think I can really move to clean myself and this mess up. I shouldn’t even care about any of that when I’ve just beaten by my boyfriend. I should be running, I should have stood up for myself—I should leave. Yet, deep down, in the pit of everything important to me, I know I deserve this.

Daddy abused me and now he is dead. The love of my life is in jail because it was the only way to free me. I was thrust into homes, which all but the last, had betrayed what little trust in the world I had left. Instead of doing the right thing and reporting them, I slinked away at night, and in turn, allowed them to submit their sins on other foster kids.