Some more info about this story. It will contain content about different religions and mental illness. It will be short, eleven chapters long. I will be keeping this story up also and you can come back and read it whenever you please. I will post about every four-six days, more if I get a decent amount of reviews. That's about all I can think of for now. Thanks to lulu and Mrs. A. Northman for reviewing! I wasn't expecting any on my first chapter. :)
I have a secret.
Not on purpose really, but everyone I told it to looked at me like I was crazy. They said I had Post-traumatic Stress Disorder from watching my mom die and that's why I saw what I did. They do agree that it was an animal, but don't believe me when I described what I saw.
Everything happened so fast. One moment I was walking with my mom back to camp from the dig site and the next a gurgled scream was coming out of her. The gurgling was from blood, she was choking on it. The animal had mauled her throat. I can't really tell you what I felt when I saw that.
Horror? Incomprehension? Shock? Fear?
I don't know. But I do know what I saw, and what I saw was a huge wolf-like creature dragging my mother away. Its mouth had clamped down on her shoulder, her body lifeless.
I didn't do anything to stop it.
I regret that so much. I couldn't understand what I was seeing. I thought my imagination had gone wild, or maybe I was in a dream. I wish I had done something.
But I did nothing.
I don't tell anyone that story anymore. I tell them what my dad and therapist tell me. That an animal killed my mother. It's simpler that way. I don't even tell them I was there, because that leads to questions and more sympathetic looks.
I hate sympathy.
Everyone tries to comfort you, and say you're strong and you'll get through this. But they're not me, and they're definitely not the one's waking up with night terrors every other night and OCD so bad that it's taking over their life. They will never understand what it's like to see what I saw, and feel what I feel.
"Ara, are you listening?" My therapists low, calming voice rocks me from my thoughts and I glare. He's always trying to brain wash me one way or another. But I know what I saw, and I'm not crazy. He can't tell me otherwise, no matter how many times he repeats that it's my brain's way of coping.
One heck of a way to cope.
I shrug, staring down at my right shoe. There's a dark smudge on the tip. It makes me want to wipe it off.
"Your shoe is distracting you?"
I scowl, tearing my eyes away from my shoe in annoyance and staring at the walls. I hate that he's so observant.
"Can you tell me again how you feel about your mother?"
I answer, because I figure that wouldn't hurt. "I love her."
"Can you… expand on that?" He twirls his pencil against the clip board, his shiny leather shoes moving to some repetitive, unknown beat.
I blink. "Well, she was the most important person in my life." As much as it throws my dad under the bus to say that. "We could talk about anything. She always helped me when I needed it without even having to ask me. She just always knew. I don't know how. Even when I tried to hide things she always figured it out."
"What kind of things did you try to hide?"
My lip twitches at the question as I debate whether or not to answer. "Just kid stuff," I hedge. "Like if I broke something I wasn't supposed to touch." He doesn't need to know anything else. I wish my dad didn't make me do this. He does know he's basically paying someone to listen to my problems, right? I could tell my dad my problems if they were really bothering me that much.
Dr. Rolph, my therapist, responds neutrally. "Hmm." Everything is neutral with him. He smiles neutrally, no more or less than what is expected of him. He frowns neutrally, the creases so light that at first I thought it was a look of stress. He ask questions in a neutral ton of voice, monotonous and calm in nature. I hate neutral.
"You say you loved your mother?" What kind of dumb question is that?
"Of course."
"What about your father? How do you feel about him?"
"I love him too." I don't know what's with these questions. It's not like I'm some abused kid starved for affection. My mom died, and I saw. That doesn't make it so my parents don't love me. Apparently the annoyance is on my face, because he switches to a different subject.
"How is school?"
"Great." Like I would tell him how much I hate it.
"Can you elaborate on what is 'great' about it?"
I sigh loudly, staring up at the ceiling. "The food is good." That's a lie.
I don't bother to see his expression after I say it. It's always neutral after all.
"Anything else?"
"The people are nice too." More like all of them are jerks.
He evens the papers out in his hand using the desk, nodding as if I said something important that needed a response. "How are your night terrors?"
I flinch. "Who told you that?" Blame is in my voice, because the only people that knew I had night terrors are my dad and grandma.
"It doesn't matter Amara. I-"
"Don't call me that!" I take a shaky breath in, getting up and leaving the office without another word. How dare he call me that? I told him our first session never to call me that again. That name is Mom's. She's the only one that ever called me by my full name.
"Mom," I whine, lengthening the 'O' in the middle. "Why won't you call me Ara? I want a nickname like everyone else. Daddy does." I tug at the French braid my mother did this morning, the loose hairs flying everywhere.
She folds the clothes calmly. "Because I named you Amara, and that is what you shall be." I drag my feet towards her, plopping onto the ground next to her and sighing dramatically. She rolls her eyes at me, her lips tipping in an amused smile. "You are Amara, not Ara. I heard the name in Greece on our honeymoon," she says, referring to her and dad. "We went to a play there, and the name Amara was in it. I thought it was lovely. It means unfading flower and you, my sweetheart, will never fade."
Dad is waiting in the lobby, staring down into a Men's Health magazine. He doesn't seem to be really reading it per say, more like he's analyzing it as if it's some kind of unbreakable code. He stands up when he sees me, the magazine forgotten.
"You're done already?"
"Yes." My answer is tight lipped, my arms tightly held against my chest. It's silent on the drive back. At least before I break it.
"Dad. Did you tell him about my nightmares?"
His upper lip tightens before nodding. "I thought he could help you with them."
"Don't tell him anything!" He startles at my loud voice. We don't yell a lot in my family. I repeat myself, this time much more calm and level headed.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because it's not his business," I answer stubbornly. He laughs a bit, shaking his head.
"I pay him to make it his business."
"And don't you know how ridiculous that is? Dad, you could use your money so much better than that."
"What's better than getting my daughter better?"
"I'm not sick," I say in a wooden voice.
"No," he says softly. "But there is something wrong. I'm trying to help you. It's my job as a father to make sure you're okay, and right now I'm failing." He rubs at his face tiredly. "This was so much easier when your mother was here. She always knew what to do."
Isn't that the truth.
"Well mom's gone. She's not coming back. We have to do it ourselves now." Both me and my father are very pragmatic, and sometimes come across as unfeeling. But we like to think we don't beat around the bush and we say whatever needs to be said despite the fact it might hurt some feelings.
"You're right Ara. What do you want me to do? Tell me what you need me to do to make you better." There's a desperate edge to his voice, a begging quality that is usually only invoked when he needs his sponsors to pitch in more money for a dig.
"Nothing. I'm not sick dad. I don't know how many times I've said that."
"Then what do you call it? Well? That you're well?"
"No," I say reluctantly. "I just say I'm me."
"Ara, this is not you. Not at all." He swallows deeply, his eyes focused on the road.
"This is me now," I respond firmly.
"This is who you want to be?"
The question leaves me feeling empty. No, I don't want to be this way. But I can't help it. This is me now, and the sooner we accept this the faster we can move on.
But I don't want to accept it.
I want to change, I really do. I just can't. It's too hard. It would probably take years if it was possible. It's funny how in one month I can go from a completely functioning individual to a walking disaster. Sometimes I don't know how my dad puts up with me.
"Dad, I love you."
His brows raise in surprise and he glances over to me swiftly before turning back to the road. Taking one hand off the wheel he reaches for mine and squeezes. "I love you too Ara."
It will have to be enough. This will have to be enough. At least for now.
