Stay with me

And the way he made love to me.

The way he made me feel alive.

The way he made me feel—period.

A low whimper vibrated within me, and I pulled my knees closer to my chest. Nothing would make the pain subside. A slowly rising panic dominated, and my whimpers turned into screams.

I screamed until my voice broke and there was no air left in my lungs. Turning to the fucking mattress, I beat the bed before turning against myself, pulling at my hair and clawing at my arms. A mania took over as I beat my cast against the cement wall until it cracked open. I ripped it off and threw it across the room. Hysteria. All I wanted was out of this room. All I wanted was to fucking remember. Why couldn’t I remember? Why was I doing this to myself?

The door swung open, and I launched at whoever was in my path, but I wasn’t prepared to be out cold before I managed to lay a hand on them.

My conscious woke before anything else. I reached for my dry throat, but I was unable to move my hands. When I opened my eyes, Dr. Conway stood over me, reading from a paper in her hand. A blanket of relief washed over me at the sight of her.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she said with a grin. “I was worried they gave you too much.”

“How long?” I asked. My throat felt like it had been sliced open with a knife.

Dr. Conway sat beside me, and I sca

“You were in psych ward for six days,” she said, and I closed my eyes at the time that had passed—six days without Ollie. “Your system is ru

The hospital? “I-I can’t go back there,” I said, shaking my head. “Please, I’ll be good, just bring me back to the main campus. I’ll behave,” I begged.

“I’m sorry, Mia. It doesn’t work like that.” She patted my leg. “But, I am curious … your writing assignment, it was brought to me along with your books and paperwork. Have you read it?”

My writing assignment? She was bringing up my writing assignment now? As much as I wanted to go off on her, I shook my head. She’s on my side, I had to remind myself.

“You remember everything, Mia, or at least your subconscious does. Whatever the trigger has been for you, I need you to latch on to it. Hold on to that feeling and dive as deep as you can go. Once discharged, I’ll meet with you back at the psych ward to see how you’re doing.”

“You’re leaving?” I asked desperately. My cuffs clashed against the railing as I tried to reach out to her. “Please, you can’t go …” She was my comfort when Ollie couldn’t be. My throat burned, my head felt heavy, and all I wanted was for her to stay.

But she stood and ran her palm up my forehead and through my hair before turning to leave. The way she laid her warm hand over my forehead brought flashes of Ollie forward, and how I used to find comfort in that single touch, but it now only haunted me.

My mother used to do that, too, but it was before …

Before.

I grasped on to that single word as the door to my hospital room creaked open and Dr. Conway exited.

That sound.

No …

I shook my head rapidly, attempting to push it back down.

But I had been depleted of all strength. Memories of my past cascaded as a dam finally busted open. The pressure of the water was too much for my barriers to handle, and they collapsed around me.

I remembered everything. Every sickening thing. The beeping on the monitor beside me rang in my ears. My eyes darted around as I searched for air. Nothing could escape my mouth as I tried calling out for Dr. Conway. She continued to walk down the hall behind the glass dividing us. I pulled the cuffs against the hospital bed, fighting against the memories.

“Stay with me, Mia,” Ollie’s words rang over and over in my head. And suddenly, everything went calm. My lungs found air again, my heart rate went back to a steady rhythm, but I remembered everything.

I remembered the way my door had creaked open when he’d come into my room at night, allowing a sliver of light through the darkness. It had been the fear of the sound keeping me up as I’d prayed to God that once, just once, the sound wouldn’t come. But every night it had still came. I’d thought maybe if I pretended I was asleep the creak wouldn’t happen, but it always did—for an entire year, and God had never saved me.

I remembered his hot breath on the side of my face as he’d lean over to see if my eyes were open. My body would tense as I’d stay as still as possible, afraid to move a single muscle. The smell of beer and an ashtray would hit me like a drunken tornado. I’d shut my eyes tight as I prayed for my mother to wake. Maybe, I’d thought, she would sense something was wrong with her daughter, and feel the need to come to check on me—a mother’s sixth sense. But my mother had never saved me.

I remembered the sound of his belt coming off before he’d climb in next to me. The mattress would slump to one side, and I’d clutch my blanket to avoid rolling closer to him. His callused and overworked hands would violate me in ways I couldn’t understand at eight years old. I’d pray my father would show up with his pistol, but my father had never saved me.

Every night like clockwork, but I’d still prayed.

And even as he’d raped me, I’d prayed it would somehow kill me.

But not even death had saved me.

I’d spent three hundred and ninety-four days crying myself to sleep, knowing no one would come and save me from my uncle’s abuse and torment. It had been me. I’d had to save myself. And on the three hundred and ninety-fifth day, when the door had creaked open, and I’d tensed under the hot breath against my cheek, and his fingers had slipped under my nightgown, I’d reached under my pillow to grab my father’s pistol I’d stolen earlier in the afternoon, and shot him in the head.

I remembered how much effort had gone into pulling the trigger, but I’d used everything I had—all my pent-up anger and shame. I remembered the way my uncle’s surprised dark eyes had grown wide seconds before, and I remembered the calmness thereafter.

He can never touch me again.

July 27th, 1999 was the day I killed him, and the day I stopped crying. A mental switch flipped the second I pulled the trigger, and my brain went on autopilot, protecting me from the trauma. My childhood, my i

I couldn’t even shed a tear when my mother took her own life. She surrendered to the guilt for not protecting me from her brother, and I was already numb to it all.

I remembered when my father had found me staring at her corpse in the bedroom after he’d returned home from a business trip. He’d cried over her dead body. The blood was already dry. I remembered the way he’d looked at me as if I’d shot her myself—like I was a monster. “What have you done?” he had asked me. “What’s wrong with you?” But I’d stood stiff, watching and waiting to see if her eyes would open—waiting to hear her voice again. Understanding death, I’d known none of it would come. But I’d still waited and watched, and I hadn’t known why.

They’d found the letter she wrote on the nightstand next to her glass of pink wine, and even though it was another piece of evidence proving I hadn’t pulled the trigger myself, I may as well have. My father never looked at me the same way, though it couldn’t hurt me.