We Told Six Lies(19)

“What happened, Cobain?” you whispered. You put your hand on my knee. Laid your head on my shoulder. Said, “Tell me.”

I laid my head on yours and closed my eyes. “When I was nine, my parents said I got messed up in my head,” I told you. “I just remember having panic attacks and night terrors.” My jaw clenched. My breath caught in my throat. “They said I was ‘confused’ and needed to take a break from everything, so they pulled me out of school and sent me to a psychiatrist for a while. Less than a year.”

“Must have been hard when you went back,” you said softly.

I shrugged. “The other kids didn’t know what happened, but they had fun making up stories. Shitheads.”

I felt my eyes burn, but goddamn it, I would not cry over that shit. That was a long time ago. Over eight years now. I wouldn’t think about how, back then, my parents never asked me about my therapy sessions. How they never asked me how I was feeling at all.

How they only smiled.

Smiled and pretended everything was fine.

I won’t think about how when Dad dropped me off at school and I asked him, “Will my friends know what happened?” he only hugged me and said he was so proud of me. So, so proud.

I won’t think about how my mom—who, before, always had time to read me a stack of library books, or sit beside me and play Super Mario, or take me to the pool at the apartment complex at the end of our block—suddenly felt a calling to help people less fortunate.

All I would think about was that I moved past that episode. I was better now.

I was.

“I think you need me,” you said quietly.

I didn’t speak. I’m not sure I could have.

“But you know what? I think I need you more.” You threw one leg over mine and wrapped your arms around my middle. “Now, there’s a surprise.”





MOLLY


Her head swam with thorns and roses.

She could feel the flowers inside her, taking root within her stomach, stretching up her throat, pushing against the backs of her eyes. She could smell them, too.

Wait. She could smell them.

Molly opened her eyes.

She didn’t dare move, only stared at the cement ceiling, allowing her mind to catch up. Where was she? What happened?

Her head throbbed.

She went to lift a hand to her forehead but stopped midway.

Her wrist was encircled by a zip tie, which was attached to a rope.

No.

She bolted upright and found both her hands bound, the ropes extending to hooks in the ceiling. Below her was a metal floor drain, above her were a hundred hooks driven deep into a concrete slab like tiny glittering insects.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she grew dizzy.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Her throat burned, her words struggling to find their way out.

She tried to push herself up, but her knees gave out, and her palms hit the concrete floor. Her hands stilled when she realized what she was touching.

Stains.

Red stains.

She jerked her hands away and shoved them between her knees. Rocked back and forth and searched the room in a panic. She saw a twin bed with a white sheet, white pillow, and patchwork quilt. There were two doors. She rushed toward the first one, grabbed the handle, and twisted.

Locked.

She ran to the other.

This one opened easily, and Molly’s heart leaped with hope. Inside the small room was a toilet and sink. And a window.

A window!

She threw herself toward it but was jerked backward by the ropes that held her.

She threw herself forward again. Stretched against the ropes. Bit down against a scream she wouldn’t release. Whoever took her could be nearby. And if she started screaming, if she let herself succumb to the fear that itched to explode inside her, she’d never stop.

After scrambling to the center of the room, her eyes flicked back to the window. No bars. There were no bars, only blue, blue sky and red, red trees and impossible amounts of freedom she’d always taken for granted.

She inspected her wrists. Tugged on the zip ties. Tugged on the ropes attached to them. They were circled, over and over again, by some sort of wire. She pulled at the material until it cut into her flesh. Until she spilled blood onto the floor, those forgotten stains revived, the drain stretching its tongue toward the salty red droplets for a taste.

“Oww,” she moaned.

She sounded like a child.

She felt like a child.

Molly wanted her mom. Her mom couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t breathe without her. She pressed her lips to Molly’s and sucked the air straight from her lungs. Right now, if Molly could just be with her, she’d give her anything she wanted. Sleep in her bed. Stay by her side. Do anything, anything.

She wanted her daddy, too.

No.

She wouldn’t think of him.

She couldn’t.

So she tugged on the ropes one last time and then collapsed to the floor.

“Think,” she said to herself. “Think first.”

Those were her father’s words. She shouldn’t use them. But desperate times called for monstrous resurrections.

She put her head between her knees and thought.

What did she remember?

A man. No, a boy. Somewhere in between?

A van.