aside one of the empty bottles of whiskey that still litter the floor outside my father’s office, I walk into the spare bedroom, stopping at the edge of the bed. Lying in the middle, folded in half is a single piece of paper I don’t remember being there earlier.
Snatching up he paper, I flop down on the bed and unfold it above me, resting my head on a pillow. The handwriting is immediately recognizable, and I realize it’s one of the ripped-out pages from my journal.
I rush to read the words, once again feeling like I’m seeing them for the first time, having no memory of thinking them or writing them down.
It’s been two weeks of this nonsense, and I’ve had enough. Not only was my life flipped upside down when finding out my parents had lied to me all these years, now I have to face the product of their dishonesty everywhere I turn. I don’t understand the constant questions about my daily life, my family, and the prison. So many questions that I feel as if I’m going insane, reliving everything from the last eighteen years.
Why is all of this information so important? Is it jealousy because I had a normal, happy childhood? I want to feel sympathy that I obviously had such a better life, but it’s so hard to do this. It’s not my fault I had it better. It’s not my fault this house is filled with photos of happy times and happy memories. My parents won’t stop hovering, and it’s driving me insane. I know they feel bad for lying, but I can’t forgive them. I’m so angry that everything in those happy photos and wonderful memories has been tainted by a secret they kept hidden.
They want me to be polite and accommodating, just as they raised me to be. Show that I’m the bigger person and make the best of this situation. It’s the only reason I’ve agreed to go exploring in the basement when my parents leave for dinner. I hate going down there, but I’ll do it if it finally stops all the questions. I’ll go down into the basement and fight through my fears. I refuse to be called a chicken or accused of being afraid to take chances. Just because I wear nice dresses, keep my hair perfectly neat, and behave like a proper young lady should, doesn’t mean I’m scared to be adventurous. I will go down into the basement, not because I was teased into it, but because I’m tired of always being labeled as the good girl. I’m going to prove I can be bad too.
Crumbling the journal page in my fist, I toss it across the room in frustration. Why was I so cryptic when I wrote in that stupid journal? I mention how my life suddenly changed and lies my parents told, but I never say what the lies were. Did I find out about Tobias before I lost my memory? Is that why I ran out into the woods and someone tried to hurt me? Has my mother been the guilty party this entire time? She admitted to pushing me into the lake and apologized for her sins and weaknesses. When I found out about Tobias, I assumed all of that talk was about her affair with him all those years ago and never telling me he could be my real father. Maybe her sins went beyond that. Maybe I found out about Tobias before that night, and she was afraid I’d tell my father. It would explain how differently I started acting a few weeks before. It would explain my sudden interest in Nolan, the change in clothes and hairstyle, and the fighting with Trudy.
Maybe my mind started fracturing before I even ran into the woods that night. According to the journal page I just read, my life had been turned upside down by something. If I was still a normal, good girl when I found out the man who raised me for eighteen years wasn’t really my father, I’m guessing that would have changed everything for me. Especially if I knew about Tobias’s past and the type of person he was.
“Are you okay, Ravenna? I can’t even remember the last time you were in one of the cell blocks.”
My father’s voice suddenly fills my head, and I think back to those first few days after the accident and the day I went to see him in the cell block while he