Content Warning: Please be advised the following story contains themes and a scene of sexual assault.

Everyone has a secret. Some are just better at hiding theirs than others. I wander through the maze of fragrant bodies—many spritzed with cologne—trying to make my way out of the hall. It is happy hour, the first time since COVID we are able to bring said hour back to the event’s itinerary. It’s too loud, bits of conversation float on the air. My nerves are on edge, and it isn’t the first, second, or third time I’ve wished in the last five minutes I hadn’t stopped drinking nine years before. Or that I recently admitted to my boss that I had a problem with the special liquids.

A louder than life laugh splits the air.

Speak of the devil…

I glance over to see my supervisor Charity laugh at something a donor is saying. I try my best not to roll my eyes. She always puts on the most annoying show. In reality she wouldn’t know a joke if it hit her between the eyes then asked for directions. I had to rent a car for this event. The event is in Seattle, and I live two hours away. My car decided to cause trouble and make funny noises. It’s currently in the shop. There’s another one hundred dollars I don’t have on a rental for this event plus whatever the garage is going to charge me. I clench my purse and keep moving. My shoes are new. A whopping one hundred dollar drop on sale at Nordstrom’s that I couldn’t afford. They’re pinching my feet. Oh and my outfit. I’m wearing a suit with a silk blouse. New. Cost me three hundred dollars. Fancy. Fancier than our deputy director Debbie who threw on a sundress from her closet and just happened to look presentable.

I hate beautiful people.

A security guard walks past me. His radio squawks to life. The sound is full of static, and most would not be able to make it out. But not me. I hear perfectly what is said. I’m transported to another time, several years back, a seething hot desert landscape. Heat waves in the distance       marring the horizon. Air so hot you don’t want to breathe. Shouts over the radio: “Where the fuck is air support? We need air support now!” I come back to the present. The other person on the radio is asking how things are looking. The security guard retrieves his radio from its holster at his hip and says, “All clear,” and that is that. I shake my head, ridding it of the long-ago memory, and keep walking.

I manage to find my way to the restroom. By some miracle it’s empty. I take my purse and fling it on the vanity. The event space with its marble countertops and floors accommodates the city’s most wealthy. Everything is so posh. I feel out of place. I open my purse and look around, ensuring I am truly alone before taking out the prescription bottle. I take out one of the small pills and place it on my tongue, quickly swallowing it with my saliva before dropping the bottle back into the bottom of my purse.

There. In twenty minutes or so my nervous system will become less frayed, less wired. It will calm the hell down. Small victories. Thank you, lorazepam.

I take a deep breath and peer at my reflection in the mirror. I look older than my thirty-nine years.      That doesn’t surprise me. It’s all aged me. For the past decade or so I’ve stopped living but the events from my past have caught up with me, tugging on my youth and causing my face to have deeper circles under my eyes that no makeup conceals. Laugh lines I can’t get rid of. And heavy wrinkles on my forehead.

I’m falling apart.

I remember being twenty-three. It was so long ago in years but in my head, it feels more recent. Although the memories are somewhat murky, an aftereffect of everything that transpired, I remember being thin, fresh-faced, energetic, listening to Jimmy Eat World on repeat and having my whole life ahead of me.

And I remember it being yanked away.

*

He leans in close, towering over me, and I can smell all that Crown Royal on his breath. I am lying on my back in his hallway, where he pushed me to the ground. It is dark. I can only see the flash of white in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmurs before he pulls me towards him. I don’t push away even though I want to. I am too weak. He must have put something in my drink.

I black out.

*

Good girl. Those two words make me shudder. They make me think of Him. I can’t even say them to my dogs. I instead replace the girl with “dog” or “puppy.” But I never say those two words together. It automatically takes me back to that night.

I’d rather be with my dogs right now. I miss them. They help ground me. Help make it less visceral. I like to pet their furry heads and talk to them as if they are people. They know my secrets. My family doesn’t. My family doesn’t know anything about that night.

I remember when I finally came forward. I assumed I’d be vindicated. I assumed that after thirteen years of lying to myself that what happened to me never happened, that instead I’d gotten drunk and cheated on my boyfriend, that me coming forward and saying that taboo word to the authorities would set in motion justice so swift and right I would be set free.

I was wrong.

I cried to the detective I spoke to that night in the fall of 2020. It was a man. They couldn’t even get me a female detective to speak with. It was over the phone as their jurisdiction, where it took place, was three hours from me and in the midst of COVID, I wasn’t about to go in person. Besides, I didn’t think I could come clean in person. I had called 911 and told them I needed to report it. The operator who took down my information said she’d have a detective contact me. I was surprised with how quickly he called me back. It took about twenty minutes. I thought for sure that meant they were taking me seriously. But maybe it was just a slow night. In Washington state, there is no expiration date for reporting this type of crime. I was lucky I suppose in that aspect. For thirteen years I kept my silence. For thirteen years I lied to everyone and myself.

But there was a moment in those thirteen years when I tried that word out on my tongue. When I tried to assemble the words to make someone understand what had actually happened. It all backfired.

 *

We’re in our bedroom. I just told Nathan about what happened. His jaw is clenched as hard as his fists.

I’m crying. “I’m sorry,” I sob, because for some reason I think I have something to apologize for. “I didn’t want it, Nathan. I didn’t want him. I don’t even like him!”

Nathan just keeps shaking his head as if with the movement, my words will lodge in his brain and then make sense.

I continue, “I thought he was my friend. I didn’t expect him to do something like this.”

“You cheated on me.” Nathan’s voice is low and cold.

I shake my head, crying harder. “No,” I sob. “No, Nathan! I didn’t want it! He rap—”

“Then why did you go out with him!” he roars, cutting me off from saying the awful word that could change so many things but, in the end, would’ve probably changed nothing.

*

I’m back at the mirror. Someone has entered the bathroom, shoving me out of my horrid reverie.

I glance up and into a pair of soft brown eyes. She’s slightly older, with blonde hair in a loose updo, dangly gold earrings, red lipstick that matches her silk blouse, a charcoal gray dress suit, and high heels that make her tower over me. She’s older, maybe in her upper forties, with blonde hair styled in a loose updo and dangly gold earrings. Her red lipstick matches her silk blouse, and her dress suit is a charcoal gray. She’s wearing serious high heels and towers over me. Many “tall” people consider me short at five foot seven, but this woman is probably five nine without these heels and in them she is easily over six feet.

She smiles as she comes up to the vanity. “Hello,” she says in a friendly voice.

“Hi,” I manage. I’m still on edge. My heart won’t slow, and my palms sweat. I wonder when the lorazepam will kick in. I need to not feel anything for a while. She pulls out her lipstick. I begin to zip up my purse to leave when she says something that makes me pause.

“You’re our Voice of God, aren’t you?”

Great, I think. This stranger knows who I am. That means I have to keep it together longer. She could be a donor.

I nod and force a brighter smile. “Yes, that’s me. Stacy Kincaid. I’m the program manager for the children’s organization, BECOME, that’s put this all on.” I wave my hand around the bathroom, as if to signify that the marble and gold fixtures were my doing.

She nods as well. “Yes, of course. I know Charity well. My name is Shawna Rosley.” We’re in a bathroom so she doesn’t hold out her hand. My heart starts hammering and I pause. I know exactly who she is. Because I know who her husband is.

Aiden Rosley was the prior prosecutor for the county where the crime occurred. He was also the prosecutor who, in the spring of 2021, after me waiting impatiently for months, decided in an abrupt letter mailed to me that he would not be pursuing charges against Him. He also happens to be our guest speaker as he is an alum of the national youth organization I work for. Which is why I want to drink a swimming pool of vodka     . He doesn’t know me from Eve, I’m just another name to him, another forgotten casefile. But I didn’t forget him or what he did. Yes, it’s been two years since that awful letter, but you can’t always put behind you something that tears you into pieces and forces you to try and put those pieces back together with several of them missing or in the wrong place.

I still blame him for not having my day in court. For not having closure only justice can provide. I realize I’m staring and quickly force another smile. It feels fake even to me. I don’t dare glance in the mirror.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shawna,” I manage. “We’re honored your husband was willing and able to speak tonight.” The lie rolls off my tongue like smooth scotch and part of me is startled to find out I’m a good liar. When did that start?

But I don’t need to worry; in the next instant her phone chimes. She digs it out of her purse. “Oh!” she says. “It’s my husband wondering where I am. I better hurry.” I nod absently as she quickly touches up her bottom lip then waltzes out of the bathroom, her heels a steady staccato that mocks my rapidly beating heart.

Calm the fuck down Stacy! I scold myself. You still have an event to do!

I wonder if she knows what her husband is capable of. What he has done in the past under his label of “prosecutor.” Under the label of justice.

I take in another deep breath when my own phone buzzes. I dig it out. It’s Charity.

Where are you?

I groan. Charity is like my parole officer. She helicopters me but doesn’t offer any words of advice or encouragement. It’s just constant derision.

When I take too long to answer she texts:

I need you here asap. We’re about to start.

I look at the time. Shit! How did I waste fifteen minutes in the bathroom? I zip my purse and tug it over a shoulder then bolt for the door. The crowd is gone.  They must’ve made an announcement I didn’t hear. Everyone is taking their seats or standing by their tables as I navigate the crowd trying not to look as frantic as I feel. I realize I never texted Charity back. I dig my phone out of my purse without looking but before I can send off a text, I see her at the back of the room, at the a/v table talking up the a/v staffer Josh. Josh is a timid early twenty-something year old who barely said two words to me. Yet she has him laughing. I sigh.

I rush up to her. “Sorry, I was in the rest—”

“Now, Stacy,” she turns to me with a fake smile. I’ve had about enough plastic smiles for the night. “You know how I feel about apologizing. Just do your job, okay?”

I nod and take my seat. Charity doesn’t believe in saying you’re sorry. She believes in not making the mistake in the first place. But if you happen to, you don’t apologize. You fix it. It’s worked wonders for her. I’ve seen her use it and then backpedal, blaming things on me. Watch your back with that one.

I use the mic Josh has readied for me and make an announcement: “Hello everyone. Please take your seats. We’re about to begin.”

After a few minutes Charity walks on stage and to the podium. She begins her spiel; thanking everyone for coming and how much our organization has worked hard blah blah blah. I just want to run from the room. Maybe grab one of those bottles of vodka on my way out. Or rum, basically anything that would make me forget this night.

Then Charity is announcing Aiden. He waltzes up on the stage.  He is tall, nearly fifty, with short dark brown hair and pale skin. I’ve never heard him speak and I realize I wasn’t prepared to. I really don’t want to know what his voice sounds like. He begins to talk.

It’s deep and rich and pleasant and I hate him more.

“…The pleasure is mine, Charity. It was a little over thirty years ago I was a teen and part of BECOME’s mission. I competed in this same competition.” He eyes the small group of teens off stage that have come from all over the state to compete and show off their hard work in academics, community service, and just being a great member of society. “Just like you all. I remember what it felt like. The anticipation. The nerves. The excitement! I remember when I won but I remember most of all the friends I made that week with my fellow teens. It’s a great program and I’m honored to be back here tonight and share in it with you.” He drones on a little more than begins walking off stage. I realize people are clapping. Maybe it’s automatic. Maybe it’s because I’m on autopilot. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be caught. Maybe I’d rather not have Josh ask me if I’m okay, or anyone else for that matter. I clap too.

As soon as the Voice of God’s duties are over, which takes over an hour, I quickly exit out the back doors. I leave the changing of the slide show up to Josh. He has a copy of the script. I’m done. The lorazepam isn’t helping. Or, it’s helped as much as it’s going to. I shoot a text off to Charity apologizing and telling her I’m feeling sick and can’t stay to clean up. She doesn’t respond, probably because she’s speaking currently, announcing the winners.

There’s an unmanned cart right outside the doors to the ballroom with empty trays and used napkins and glasses and…a half-filled bottle of vodka on it. I stare up at the ceiling. It’s like it’s a sign from God telling me to drink the rest of it.

I look up and down the hall. No one is around. Will it fit in my purse? You bet your ass it will. I have a purse the size of a small suitcase. I quickly shove it inside before I can change my mind. I begin walking out of the conference center. It’s on one of the piers and the skyline is brilliant and bright. The wind whips my loose hair about my face. I stand there for a moment, just taking it in. I’m alone, so alone, there isn’t anyone out here and part of me realizes how unsafe that is—to be alone in downtown Seattle late at night—to be a woman alone. Because I know what can happen when you’re a woman alone.

I dig in my purse for my keys. My hand keeps banging against the bottle of booze and it kickstarts my sad heart. Yes, I have a purpose. Yes, I will get through this.

I find my keys and use the skybridge to make it to the parking garage. I realize as I’m entering it that I didn’t snatch up one of the parking tickets that will validate my parking. Oh well. I’ll just have Charity reimburse me. It’ll only be twenty bucks or so. It’ll be the only thing I’ll be reimbursed for. Not the car or the shoes or the suit. Or the emotional damage. Definitely not that. I find the rental and quickly rush inside, slamming the door and all the Seattle noises out. I sit in silence for a moment. Take a deep breath. Then I pull the bottle out and take a swig. It burns. It burns a trail down my esophagus and into my gut then spreads out into my limbs and head, calming me like those pills didn’t.

I start the car. “Jimmy Eat World,” I tell Siri. Instantly, “23” begins playing from their Futures album from 2004. I want to cry. It’s probably the worst and most perfect song that could be playing at the moment. I cap the bottle and hide it in my purse, just in case. Then I back out and exit the garage, enter the glittering streets of downtown Seattle, feeling raw. Like someone has used a spoon to scoop out my insides then replaced me, shoved me, and told me to act like a normal human without all those necessary innards.

I drive, stopping at every light because it turns red.

“23” ends and “Coffee and Cigarettes” starts to play. “YES!” I scream. “I love this song!” I sing the lyrics. I haven’t heard it in over a decade, but it doesn’t matter. I still know them by heart.

The song ends as I pull into the hotel garage. I am feeling a strange mixture of energized and on edge. My blood is pulsing and everything seems to have too much of a glow to it. I quickly enter the elevator and hit the button for the fourth floor, my floor.

When I enter my room, I pause. I can either stay here another night and leave in the morning as planned, like Charity and Debbie are doing, or I can quickly pack and leave, beating them before they arrive back from the conference center.

It doesn’t take much to make up my mind. I bustle about, packing haphazardly into my oversized suitcase. At my age, everything is oversized. My suitcase, my purse, my hair. Me. I toss my clothes in after changing into sweats and a hoodie. Comfort comes first. Then I toss my suit in, not bothering to hang it up in its garment bag. I toss my makeup and toiletries in next then zip it up, searching each room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. All that’s left is my laptop. I place it in my purse next to the vodka along with its cord. Then I roll the items out of the room, not giving it another glance, and into the elevator. I hit the button for the lobby.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m back on the streets of downtown. “The World You Love” by Jimmy Eat World begins to play. I listen for my favorite line, the one about being as happy as others think you are. It’s perfect. Because I am miserable, and I hope everyone knows it. I turn it up and enter the freeway, the speakers blaring, the bass booming. I begin to cry.

It’s after midnight and so, so dark without a moon or stars, the sky overcast when I pull into my driveway in the rural area I live in. It’s dead quiet and I love it, not missing all the sounds of Seattle. This silence is why I moved out here. The chaos in my head is so, so very loud that silence is a necessity, a number one priority.

My dogs are all at the boarding facility, so the house will be silent too. I enter with my suitcase and purse and turn off the beeping alarm system, then immediately lock the door behind me and reset the alarm. One can only be so careful.

I don’t bother unpacking. I only take out my contacts, put in eye drops in my dry, tired eyes, then put on my glasses and return to the kitchen where my purse has been placed on the peninsula. I dig into it. The bottle is there. I don’t bother with a glass. Glasses are for the pretentious. And I am anything but.

I take a swig. It burns. Then another swig. And another. The burning subsides a little and I begin to feel a slight numbness. I smile. A thought occurs to me. I return to my purse and pull out the smaller bottle. There’s a warning on the side not to mix with alcohol. I scoff. I take one. What harm can one do?

*

I come to. I’m lying on his bed. Worse, he’s inside me. Pounding into me. He’s not looking at me but looking down. At where we’re joined. I feel sick. I want to pull away, but my limbs are so heavy. I think I make a sound because he looks up.

“Hey,” he says, as if I just waltzed in on him reading a book or watching a football game or something that isn’t sickening.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. My mouth won’t form words. I don’t know if it’s fear or disbelief but I am speechless.

He quickens his pace. It hurts. I moan from the pain. He only goes faster. I want to cry. I’m not sure why I don’t. Maybe because I can’t. Just like I can’t speak. He’s stolen my words and my tears. He’s stealing so much from me in this moment. I will never be the same. I try to think of other things, waiting for it to be over. But nothing comes to mind except my dumb actions. Agreeing to meet up with him. Alone. Agreeing to drink with him. Alone. I only had one drink. Did I leave it? There was a waitress. She brought me the drink. When could he have put something in it?

It is clear to me now he did put something in my drink. I don’t pass out from just one drink. I can have several drinks and not black out. In fact, I’ve never blacked out up to this point. I’m not sure what’s happening to me.

He makes a grunt, pulls out of me then flops on the bed beside me. I am both relieved he’s out of me and scared. I roll on my stomach, away from him. I realize I am completely naked. How did that happen? I know I didn’t do that. I feel exposed. Completely bared. I am completely bared. He has taken a part of me he was never supposed to experience let alone have. I want to rage. But I can only focus on my breathing so I don’t become sick. In and out. In and out. Slowly.

I can’t take it. “Can I have some water?” I ask him. “I feel sick.”

He gets up without a word and returns with a mug of water, setting it on the nightstand beside my head. It’s too dark to see the color of the mug or if there is anything on it. I don’t thank him. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything from me.

I take a small sip. The water is lukewarm. I set it back down then lay my dizzy head on his bed. I want to leave. Now. But I’m in no state to drive. I know that. He knows that. He did this to me.

So I lay there. He tries to talk to me but oddly, doesn’t try to touch me again. He tries to joke, to be cute. My words are slurred, and I respond with “yes” and “no.” My words are back and I’m angry they failed me when he was inside me and I couldn’t say “GET OFF.”

Finally he falls asleep. I lay there, on my stomach. I’m not sure if I sleep. I just know time passes. The windows become lighter in the predawn hours. My head isn’t as dizzy anymore but is replaced by a pounding. My body feels like it’s been hit by a truck. Heavy and sore. I get up slowly. The dizziness hits me, and I almost fall. Okay, so it didn’t resolve itself. I can move though. I walk as quietly as I can out of his room. I find my clothes lying strung out on the floor of the hallway. I pull them on as I walk—my panties and bra. My jeans and shirt. I know my jacket is in his living room on his futon with the quilt he told me his mother made him.

As I’m putting on my tan suede coat, he’s suddenly behind me.

“Where are you going?”

I jump.

He doesn’t sound upset. Just confused. Confused? I’m the one confused. What the fuck did he do?

“I’m leaving,” I tell him without looking at him.

“Hey, wait,” he says as I find my shoes and slip them on. “Are you mad at me or something?”

I whirl on him. My brain won’t exactly work right. It’s muddled. I can’t clear it of the mud and grime and his actions. “You knew I had a boyfriend!” I snap. I’m not sure what I mean by it. Maybe I’m mad he chose me. He doesn’t say anything to this. Instead he walks to the door. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says instead.

I don’t want him anywhere near me, but I realize I’m afraid of him. He’s not a very big man; we’re about the same height and he is not broad shouldered but rather thin. Still, I discovered how strong he was last night. He was able to move me to his bed from the floor in the hallway. While I was passed out. I fear what he will do if I don’t oblige in this moment. So I nod.

He opens the door for me. I grab my small purse and walk out. My car is clear across the parking lot. He doesn’t try to touch me or converse. I am grateful for that. But when we reach my car, he stops me with his words.

“Can I have a hug?”

It is the most outlandish thing I’ve heard him say since I met up with him the night before. And I’m not sure what compels me—perhaps fear or the need to survive and run?—but I willingly walk into his outstretched arms.

He draws me into his chest. He smells of stale alcohol and sleep and man. I want to vomit. I swallow hard and pull away. He lets me.

I quickly climb into my car and gun the engine. I pull out of the parking spot, careful not to hit his stupid ass even though he hasn’t moved and is just staring at me. I am sweating in the cold dawn hours of that Saturday in November 2007.

I drive in a blur to my friends’ apartment the next town over. I was supposed to meet them the night before—after meeting up with him. But I texted Vicky I was staying at his place. Because I couldn’t drive. She asked to come get me.

No, I replied. I’m not sure why I did. I think I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her seeing me like that. I don’t want her seeing me like this. I’ve always been the one in control. But I’ve been slowly unraveling since and I don’t know what I’m doing. I ache for some normalcy. So I drive.

When I reach their apartment, Ari lets me in. She can tell something is wrong. Vicky sidles up to her.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just hungover.” Then, because I don’t know what to say, I say, “I cheated on Nathan.”

They’re both stunned.

That’s how my lie began.

*

I flop on my sofa with the bottle of vodka. “Alexa!” I call. “Play Jimmy Eat World!” She begins to play Jimmy like I demanded, their song Kill blasting through the speakers.”

I take a swig. I wish, not for the first time, that the bottle had been full. It’s about half as full as it was when I stole it.

*

“We need to do something about your anger,” Charles tells me. I’ve been seeing him for over a decade at this point and he knows me better than my own family.

I sigh. “It is what it is, Charles,” I say because I don’t believe anything can be done about my anger issues.

“Stacy,” he says. “You’ve been avoiding people. You live alone in a remote area and you don’t socialize. You don’t go out hardly ever, except for groceries. And even then, you do grocery pickup. Even now we’re having this conversation via telehealth.”

“I didn’t create COVID, Charles. Germs are scary.”

“You need to make more of an effort, Stacy.”

“Why?” I shoot back because I never really made it out of my early twenties. “Because it’s been years? I should be over it all?”

“That’s not what I said. But we need to make progress. And I feel like we’re just beating around the bush here.”

“Maybe for you. But these sessions really do a number on me.”

“Explain,” he motions with his hand.

I shake my head. “I’d rather not.” I feel drained. As if talking about my feelings has left me without any feelings but a heaviness that pushes me down, down, down, so far down that I don’t know how I’m going to get back up.

We end the session early. It ends up being the last session I have with Charles. The detective I ended up speaking to asked me if I ever told anyone what had happened. I told him I tried to tell Charles years ago but halfway through, I froze and couldn’t continue. So I didn’t. Charles said the man who did it took advantage of me. And that was that. A couple weeks after I spoke with the detective, Charles called to tell me he was leaving his private practice for a state gig. I didn’t believe him. I know the detective got to him. Spooked him or something. Because Charles is very much still in practice. I’m just not allowed to see him.

Instead I see Peter who believes breathing techniques can heal all wounds.

Fuck that.

*

The room is spinning. My head feels like it’s floating. My body is weightless.

I feel alive. I bring the bottle to my lips. They’re numb but I try out the bottle top anyway. It’s awkward to put your mouth around a bottle when you can’t feel your lips. My teeth clang against the glass. I tip the bottle back, back, back as far as it will go. Nothing comes out. The bottle is empty.

Oh well.

*

The sun wakes me. It’s so bright, like a thousand flashlights shining in my eyes. I’m lying face down on the floor of my living room rug, puddle of drool around my mouth. My head pounds and I feel sick. Everything is too bright and too alive. I want killer dark and dead quiet.

It’s been years since I’ve had a hangover. I slowly stand and look for my phone. My vision swims for a second before clearing. I find my phone on the sofa cushion. No calls. No texts. I’m not surprised. But I am surprised at the time. It’s ten-thirty in the morning. I’m due to return the car at noon and that’s an hour away in Olympia. And I still need to pick up the dogs.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I reek of booze and bad decisions. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sofa. My hair looks like it has stories to tell. I can’t really remember the night before, but my mind is full of memories of Him as well as Nathan. Two men I haven’t seen in over fifteen years yet still haunt me. Guess I took a walk down memory lane—tripped down it.

I quickly take a shower and down two ibuprofens after forcing a yogurt into my mouth. I want to puke but I’ve always had a strong stomach. I grab my coat and purse and the keys to the rental. The drive to Olympia is a quiet, painful one. The medicine takes my pounding head to a pronounced ache. I think about taking a lorazepam but when I fish in my purse for the bottle, I don’t find it. I remember taking it out the night before. Must’ve never returned it.

I sigh. This trip is going to be harder than I imagined. Just as I’m finishing having the thought, I round a corner. I am unprepared for the large male elk standing in the road, the rest of the herd off to the side of it. They see—or maybe finally hear? —me coming and begin to run, congregating several feet into a meadow. But not the one on the road. It’s like we’re having a staring contest. I notice all this in the amount of time it takes my heart to elicit two quick beats. I realize I’m going to hit the elk.

I swerve but I’m not fast enough. The front passenger side of the car smashes into the hulking creature. There is an awful squelching-groan, and someone is screaming. It’s me. I’m screaming. The airbag engages and shoves me back into my seat just as I finally manage to get the car under control and stop.

I sit there for several moments, dazed.

“FUCK!”

Okay, so it’s not anything elegant or life-affirming. But it does snap me into action.

I open my door and slowly climb out, the engine is hissing, smoke billowing from it. I check myself for injuries. Only the ache in my head is present, pulsing now in a rhythmic beat. Nothing is broken. I feel too awake and jittery. I know it’s adrenaline so I’m not sure if I’m sore anywhere but so far, I don’t feel anything. I take that to be a good thing.

Then I see it. Or better yet, hear it. It’s a keening, whining sound. I look across the road. The elk is lying on the ground, trying to climb to its feet and failing. The herd has gone. Probably spooked from all the noise. I’m not sure what compels me, perhaps it’s the sounds of intense agony coming from the creature, but I walk towards it. For a moment, it ignores my presence. Then it lets out another wail. I get closer and see the damage the small SUV has caused.

There are two large gashes in its side and chest, and they are bleeding profusely. Blood drenches the male’s coat and the earth surrounding it. So much—like the memories that I still succumb to. I see flashes—sitting at a desk, sweaty from being outside when frantic shouts come over the radio demanding help (“…requesting air support! We’re being hit! Where the fuck is air support?! We need help now!”)

The buck’s legs are twitching, digging trenches in the blood and dirt, trying to right itself. Its wails, a plea. I want to make it stop. I need to make it stop. I am having trouble seeing because I am crying. Hot tears pour down my face, in time to the blood pouring out of this magnificent and dying creature. It feels like minutes but must only be several long seconds before the elk’s struggling ceases and its black eyes stare sightlessly up at the overcast sky. I feel as if someone has found my cracked heart and completely removed it from my chest.

Memories flood my mind like water overflowing a drain.

Iraq, 2004. Glimpses of those that were alive that are now dead. Their faces flood my mind, embedding into my brain and searing my soul. I remember what it was like to be there. And I remember what it was like to come home and have that place and those faces haunt me.

Home, 2007. Me sobbing no, no, no. Over and over again. Then blacking out. Him, touching me. Me, pleading with Nathan later. It wasn’t my fault! Him shutting me down. Shutting me down like I’d shut myself down for thirteen years.

Suddenly, I feel very, very tired. Exhaustion pulls me down and I slump to the wet earth beside the dead elk. I did this. I killed this once pristine animal because of my selfish actions. Because, after sixteen years, I could not let the past sleep. I could not move on. I do not know how to.

*

It takes an hour for the tow truck to arrive. The Deputy Sheriff is surprisingly a little faster. He finds me on the side of the road, next to the dead elk, red-faced and tear stained and asks again if I need medical attention. The 911 operator already asked, and I told her no. I tell him the same. I am a strange mixture of relieved and despondent. I get to live because I killed a living creature. It took that much for me to begin to see things clearly.

Everything dies in the end, I know. And I realize, almost as an afterthought, that I do not want to waste any more of my time on this earth due to the actions of others that hurt me so deeply in my past. I am a victim, sure. But I also survived. And I need to do one better. I now need to live.

The deputy finishes his report as the rental car is being loaded onto the bed of the tow truck. He gives me a copy of the report and thankfully no ticket even though I am certain I was speeding. I think he sees something in my eyes he recognizes. I climb into the cab of the tow truck and Tony—the driver—starts the engine. He doesn’t talk much on the drive to the rental agency and I’m glad for that.

My head is spinning, and I feel a numbness that seems to permeate my soul. Something big has happened. I know I am not the same, yet I don’t know what all about me has changed and that is a scary feeling. It feels like I am an alien in my own mind and body. I feel disconnected with myself yet so in tune with my surroundings. It is a strange juxtaposition, and I am fearful to discover what it means.

I want my dogs. I need them. I need to pat their heads, scratch their ears, and stroke their backs, taking care to feel the softness of each individual strand of fur between my fingers. I need them to lick my hands and whine, letting them know they sense and understand what is going on inside me. The chaotic storm of past and present merging.

I’m going to keep trying, I decide. I’m going to keep trying because everyone has a secret. Some are better at hiding theirs than others. And some keep theirs within themselves, buried like a seed. They water it with their self-doubt and fear. Nurture it with the lies they tell themselves and others, growing it like a tree until it takes up roots, grows a trunk, branches, leaves and flowers. Until it becomes them.

Until they become their secret.

I will no longer be my secret. I want this tree felled.

About the Author:

Sarah R. Durhamwrites speculative YA novels, dabbling in short stories of various genres. After her brief stint in the military, Sarah worked several eclectic jobs and uses those experiences as inspiration behind her words. She lives with her dogs in Washington State but dreams of beautiful New Mexico. She is a 2023 graduate of The Writer’s Studio (TWS) and is currently attending the TWS Graduate Workshop out of Simon Fraser University (Vancouver, B.C.). Her short story, “Buried Identity,” appeared in the 2023 TWS anthology, emerge. Sarah is an unapologetic romance reader and audiobook listener. Find her on Insta @writerlysarah & at bookishsarah.com

*Feature image by Cherry Laithang on Unsplash