Bury Me - Tara Sivec Page 0,18

to pay attention, to see what’s right in front of me. My bedroom door suddenly flies open, and I quickly toss the journal under my bed and out of sight as my father races over to me, squatting down so we’re at eye-level.

“Ravenna? Is everything okay?”

I focus on the concern in his voice and the worry in his eyes, instead of the words I must have written as a warning to myself before the accident. Why did I write those words repeatedly? What kinds of secrets are hidden in my home?

I look at my father in his perfectly pressed navy blue suit and his slicked-back hair and I wonder what could possibly be so horrible about the truth that someone would want to do me harm to prevent it from coming out.

“Who am I, Daddy?” I whisper brokenly, letting my head thump back against the wall.

I don’t know why I’m even asking this when I know he won’t be honest with me. I’ve been avoiding him ever since I heard him fighting with my mother, afraid of the man who would speak so angrily to his wife and then smack her across the face when she tried to argue with him. Have I ever heard my parents fight before? I wrack my brain trying to dredge up memories from my childhood, but all I can see are those stupid family photos that adorn our living room. I can’t access even one solid memory of the three of us together, behaving like a normal, happy family should. All I can think of is the way my parents have acted ever since I woke up, the way they avoid each other at all costs, and the way they stare at everything in the room but each other when we have dinner together. The only memory that screams in my mind so clearly is the one I recaptured when I saw the photo on our mantel. Why did that photo in particular fill me with such hatred and rage toward my parents?

I watch as my father’s shoulders tense, and I try not to flinch when he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my eyes that must have come loose during my momentary outburst earlier. Tucking the strand behind my ear, he cups my cheek in his palm.

“You’re Ravenna, my beautiful, wonderful daughter,” he tells me softly. “The same person you’ve always been.”

“Just keep reminding her who she is and everything will be fine.”

The words my father spoke to my mother play on a loop in my mind, and I can feel my temper begin to flare. My hands clench into fists in my lap and I feel my fingernails digging roughly into my palms.

“I know it’s frustrating, but the doctor said it would take time,” he reminds me with a placating smile. “Just stop trying to force things, or you’ll make it worse.”

I’ve heard these same words so many times in the last few days that I want to smack his hand away and scream in his face. I want to grab the lapels of his suit jacket and shake him until he stops feeding me the same bullshit and is honest with me. How could things possibly get any worse? Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid a new memory will pop up, leaving me scared and even more confused, and now I have a journal that I don’t even remember owning, let alone writing in, missing all of its pages except for the one with a scary, cryptic message in it. Is there really something worse than this reality?

“Do I know how to swim?”

He looks startled by my question but hides his surprise with a chuckle, dropping his hands from the side of my face.

“Goodness, no! We could barely get you to take a bath when you were little.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, and his face looks peaceful as he most likely reminisces about my childhood.

“Why was I so afraid of the water?” I ask softly.

He opens his eyes and sighs, waving his hand in the air as if he’s brushing off the question.

“Just a little accident that happened when you were little. It really wasn’t that big of a deal,” he answers, giving me a tight smile as he rests his arms on his knees. “These silly questions aren’t going to help. All you need to do is get back to your normal schedule, spend your days just like you always did, and things