Bury Me - Tara Sivec Page 0,13
to convince herself that everything is fine. That I’m fine and I’m normal, and I’m the same girl she’s raised and loved. I feel like I’ve been craving these words from her forever and that I would do anything to hear them, but it doesn’t make sense. She’s my mother, and she loves me. Hearing her tell me this shouldn’t come as a surprise, and I shouldn’t feel like I don’t deserve her love or her kindness.
My mother runs one gloved hand down over the top of my head and gives me a sad smile before moving around me and leaving the room. As I listen to her heels click against the hardwood floor as she walks through the living room and down the stairs, I close my eyes and let my head thump back against the frame of the door.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old, I live in a prison, and my parents are lying to me.”
Chapter 5
My body glides easily through the water, my legs kicking harder to push me closer to the wall. Tilting my head to the side on the surface, I take one last huge breath before diving under, flipping over and pushing off the cement side with my feet to send me soaring in the opposite direction.
My muscles ache with each lap I swim, but it’s a pain I welcome. It reminds me I’m alive, I’m still fighting, and I’m getting stronger, as opposed to the agony I’m forced to endure on a regular basis.
This is my treat for being good. This is my reward for doing as I’m asked and never questioning the things that are done to me. My lungs are on fire as I push and pull my arms through the cold water, but I don’t care. This is the only place I feel in control of my life. I’m so tired of the tests that I’m never going to pass and the pain inflicted on me in the hopes that it will change everything about me. I’m never going to change. I’m never going to be a different person. I was born this way, I will stay this way, and I will make them pay for what they’ve done to me.
Stepping down off of the sprawling front porch that wraps around the entire front section of the east wing of the prison, I take a minute to stare up at the front of the huge stone structure. Made out of its original brick and mortar, it’s quite obvious that Gallow’s Hill is a very old building constructed a very long time ago, with its Victorian Gothic style and pointed turrets on top of each guard tower. The building has remained in surprisingly good condition on the outside, needing only a few repairs here and there to fix a leak in the roof or wayward crumbling bricks. Since the prison relies on grants from the state in order to make any type of repairs, only the most detrimental ones are fixed immediately, the ones that would prevent us from conducting tours. As long as the peeling paint, crumbling stones inside the cell blocks, and loose floorboards throughout the prison add to the creepy factor of the tours and don’t pose a threat to any visitors, they are pushed aside for more effective ways to spend the small amount of money the state gives us to run the facility.
Aside from the retelling of true events that have happened here and the invention of completely outrageous myths that people buy into, the building itself is one of the main draws for tourists. It’s huge and ominous, even in daytime. Pulling up the long, winding driveway and getting a first glimpse of it through the trees makes visitors feel like they’re starring in their very own horror movie. At least that’s what all of the tourists say. To me, this place is just home. It’s where I was born, where I grew up, and where I celebrated birthdays and holidays. We had family picnics on the lawn during summer days and caught lightning bugs in mason jars when the sun went down. It all sounds so perfect and idyllic as I stand here thinking about it, but something tugs at the back of my mind making me question the things I know. How can we be such a perfect, normal family after the way my father spoke to my mother yesterday? How can I have all these wonderful, happy thoughts in