Bury Me - Tara Sivec Page 0,14

my head, but at the same time see a photo in our living room that makes me want to scream that everything I know is a lie?

After an hour of staring out my bedroom window and not seeing any sign of people working around the grounds today, I quickly dressed and hoped my instincts were right and that Nolan isn’t here today. I’m tired of the cloying, musty scent of the prison walls. I’m tired of the dreary darkness of being stuck inside, and I’m tired of being afraid to go anywhere just because of one guy. This is my home and I’m not going to allow him to make me feel fearful anymore.

Turning away from the building, I make my way down the sidewalk and around the side of the building, headed toward the lake located about an acre away.

With my face turned up toward the sun, I let it warm me as I make my way down to the lake. I let the chirping of birds and the soft breeze that rustles the leaves in the trees take my mind off of my troubles. Regardless of the fact that the 150 acres of land surrounding the prison used to be a place for inmates to farm and be forced to work relentlessly under the boiling sun all day long in penance for their sins, it’s still a beautiful area. Filled with rolling hills and lush green grass as far as the eye can see, it now resembles acres and acres of a park-like setting, instead of a prison farm. Gone are the fields of soybeans and corn the inmates were tasked with cultivating day in and day out. When the prison was shut down, my father let everything grow over, no longer having the benefit of a few hundred workers to keep things going. I like it much better like this, where I can roam the grounds alone without having an escort because when the prison was open, there were shackled inmates everywhere who could pose a threat at any moment, not that I could remember such a time.

Walking down to the lake means I have to pass the small cemetery on the property, an area that I’ve always avoided for as long as I can remember. Even as I quicken my pace when I walk by the half-acre area surrounded by a low stone wall, I feel drawn to it in a strange way. Part of me knows that I’ve never set foot inside those stone walls. The idea of having people buried on this land, knowing they died inside the prison and had no family who cared about them enough to take them elsewhere to spend eternity has always given me the chills. Another part of me, the part that doesn’t believe half of the memories I have and questions everything I remember, can see myself clearly wandering through the old and broken headstones, memorizing all of the information and running my hands over the cold cement markers. I can feel the grass beneath my back as I rest on top of a grave with my hands beneath my head and my legs crossed at the ankles.

Soon, there will be a few more graves added to this spot. They will rot and decay and writhe in agony when they show up at the gates of hell, just like they deserve.

My feet stutter to a stop right at the entrance to the cemetery when I’m hit with that thought, so vicious and unsettling that I have to press my hand over my mouth to keep the contents of my lunch in my stomach. My eyes dart back and forth over the tops of the stone crosses and other markers I can see through the opening into the cemetery. I don’t like this place. I don’t like being reminded that people died in the place that I call home, even if it happened long before I was born. My mind is just playing tricks on me—it has to be. I’m not a mean person and I would never wish harm on someone else. I’m a good girl, a good daughter, and I’ve never done anything bad.

“I’m doing this for your own good. You’re bad, bad, bad.”

I immediately take off running, away from the cemetery and away from the words that echo in my head. I make it to the water’s edge in record time and stop next to an outcropping of weeds and pussy willows, calming my racing