What She Didn't Say

The next day my brother left to go back to college without saying much to me. He had told me he would call me once he got back, but that was the most he had said to me before he left. It was definitely clear that he was upset with me. He wanted to know what was hurting me. He wanted to know why I was hurting others and myself. He didn’t understand and it, but I wish he did. I wish he could read my mind, because there was no way I would ever be able to build up enough courage to spill the beans. “I was raped,” I wanted to bad to say, but I never did. He left disappointed. It was spread wide and clearly across his face.

After he left, I threw on some baggy clothes so I was prepared to go out in public. I placed the notebook Michael had given me into my backpack along with a pencil and started my walk to the library. I was going to write some of this down onto paper. My thoughts would more than likely be scattered, out of order, and all over the place, but what did I care? I needed to get some of this out. As long as I understood, that’s all that mattered.

I went to my usual spot in the corner chair next to all the teen novels and pulled out the notebook. I stared into the blankness of the page for five minutes straight, it must have been. Finally, I forced myself to stop trying to organize my thoughts at all in my head and began to write whatever came to my head. Even if it had nothing to do with that night at that party, I still wrote it down. I think at one point I even wrote about the left over lasagna we ate for lunch. I poured my soul out through my pen and onto the white lined paper. My chicken scratch revealed every secret I had been dying to get out and in the open for months. I felt relieved. I didn’t know how long this feeling would last, but it was good enough to make me feel good for that time being.

I had spent almost two hours in that library writing and scribbling down every word that crossed my mind, but it only felt like I had been in there for a mere ten minutes. When I left the library, I felt like a new person again. I felt better. I decided needed to do something new. I needed something different going on in my life after sitting at home boring myself to death for the past four months. I took a left instead of a right and started walking down the sidewalk. I walked for ten minutes until I reached the town’s abandoned playground. Caroline and I used to always go there when she’d spend the night at my house. We’d swing each other and take pictures on the monkey bars. We acted as children when we had nothing else better to do. We had the greatest of times together at that playground.

I slung my backpack over my shoulders to keep it secure and from falling off anywhere. I didn’t want to risk anyone getting into my new journal. I walked over to the swings and sat on the one that had always been mine when Caroline and I would play here. I pumped my legs to make myself swing higher. The wind blew threw my hair as I flew higher and higher. The breeze sent chills down my spine in the summer air.
I sighed at how peaceful this whole setting was. The grass was greener than ever after last weeks storm. The park was quiet without anyone there. Occasionally, I would hear the sound of birds chirping away in the distance. My thoughts remained still. They weren’t rummaging through every sensitive file in my brain as they had been for the past few weeks. They were now off duty, it appeared. It was only me, myself, and I sitting on the swing. There weren’t any rude interruptions of voices or thoughts pounding against my skull. I smiled at how free I felt. I could definitely get used to this feeling.

* * *

“Where have you been?” my mom asked me as I walked through the front door. She was cleaning the living room when I came inside.

“I went to the playground,” I informed her.

“Oh, yeah?” she said. I nodded. She smiled at me and kissed me cheek. “That’s a good place to be, sweetie,” she told me. And I knew she wasn’t talking about the playground. She was talking about my new emotional state. She liked seeing me happy and peaceful even if it was only for a few moments that I felt this way. I could tell how much she liked it just by watching the way she did certain things.

She started humming a tune that sounded really familiar. I listened closely, trying to figure out what it was. It had a slow tempo and it sounded like a lullaby. It was beautiful and soothing. I finally recognized it as one of the songs she used to sing to me when I was child. She’d always come to tuck me in, and while she would tuck me in, she’d sing this lullaby. It always helped me fall asleep faster and it made me feel safe. It was always my favorite song.

I smiled to myself at how happy this setting was and I wished with all my might that it would stay this way. I put a lot of effort into staying this happy because it not only made me feel better, but it also made my parents feel a lot better as well. For the few days that I remained happy and content with myself, my parents always came home whistling and chatting. They always had toothy smiles plastered across their faces. Our family was almost like those perfect families you see on television that have minor issues that go on, but it doesn’t stop them in their tracks.

Those few days were so promising that I actually thought I was over being raped. I thought that since I patched things up with myself and my family that my heart and my emotion self was completely healed. Boy, was I wrong. It was only a matter of time that something would destroy our happiness.

I was walking towards the library later that week to write in my journal again. I had made it a daily thing to do my entry and then hang out with myself and God on playground as I would swing. As I was walking to library, I glanced across the street as I was taking in the gorgeous summer weather around me. I took a double take at a group of boys that were skateboarding and hanging out, waiting for the bus. One of the members of the group of boys just so happened to be Harley. My stomach did flip flops as I picked up my pace and moved my feet as fast as my tiny legs would allow me. I tried to reach the corner as fast as I could because I did not want him to see me. I’m still not completely sure whether or not he saw even the bottom of my shoes, but either way he didn’t talk to me.

When I rounded the corner, I placed my back up against the brick building and caught my breath. I was huffing and puffing mostly out of nervousness. That was the most awkward situation of my life. After I regained the ability to actually think again, I started walking, this time slowly. The library was only another block away, so I took my time because it was only one in the afternoon.

Once I finally reached the building, I wasted no time outside admiring the weather as I usually had done. Instead, I went straight through the door and into my little corner with the comfy, leather chair. I settled into my special territory and pulled out my notebook and my pen. I sat there with the pen in my right hand, staring at the paper. I wasn’t thinking about what I was going to write about that day because I had finally gotten to the point where I didn’t care how unorganized my thoughts were. I continued to stare, the only thought running through my mind a visual image of Harley. His hair was different. It was shorter with his bangs spiked up in the front. He looked more muscular and scary. I shuddered as I saw his face cloud my mind. It was so real.

I didn’t understand how he could hang around his friends and be himself without feeling guilty or wrong. It didn’t seem fair at all to me because I’ve lost so many friends. I’ve lost contact with them since April because I haven’t felt the need to be around anybody. It seems like I just need to be by myself in order to figure things out. The help of others might sound like a good thing, but in my mind it seems completely irrelevant for whatever reason.

I began to wonder what I would have done if he had seen me across the street as I passed him. Would he have remembered me? Would he remember what he had done to me that night months ago? I wondered even more if he still thinks about it. If it tears him up inside knowing he emotionally scarred an innocent teenager. What would I have even said to him had he tried to get my attention if he saw me? I wonder if I would have even had the courage to stare him in the eyes and tell him what he had done. Would it be appropriate to tell him the reason I look so huge right now was because I was carrying his child? If he would even care, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what type of person he was, although I imagined he wasn’t the nicest or the most caring. The only thing I really know about him is that he has exceptional test scores and he was just so popular in high school, but I learned that from Jody.

After thinking too much of Harley, I eventually gave up on writing in my journal and left the library. Instead of heading towards the playground, I decided to skip it and go straight home. This time on my way home, though, I took the back way to be especially sure that I wouldn’t bump into Harley. All the stress I went through in the library, as little as it was, was enough to make me want to pull my hair out.

I arrived home way too early for my mother’s liking. I guessed she knew something had happened that I wasn’t happy about because she tried the best she could to get me to go back to the playground. She knows how much that playground means to me. She told me to write some more in my journal. The urgent ness in her eyes were so apparent, that it made my stomach pull together in knots. I hated seeing how much I truly hurt my mother. Of course, she knew I didn’t do it intentionally, but I knew that she was still kind of angry about how much she hurt because of me. She didn’t hate me nor did she find my emotional issues meaningless. She just hated seeing me hurt and being hurt herself.

I tried to make it up to my mother by putting on an extremely happy façade. I brought out some brownies from the pantry that had been sitting in there for weeks. I used to always love to bake. I usually made all of the deserts for our holiday meals. I always brought most of the food for the school back sales and everything. Although my mom knew how much I enjoyed baking, I don’t think she bought my act. I’m pretty sure she saw that I was faking. I don’t know if she saw it in my eyes or if it was just that sixth motherly sense she has, but she sure knew my act was artificial.

“Aren’t you in the mood for some brownies?” I had asked her while I was stirring up the mix. The reason I asked her this question was because her face was pulled down into a frown. She was pouting quite obviously. It was childish, yes, but she was just trying to reach out to me. I wanted to take a hold of her hand, but I was afraid. I don’t know what exactly I was afraid of, though. After all, she is my mother.

“Not right now,” she said, answering my question. I frowned. My mom always loved sharing the brownie mix that remained in the bowl with me. We had done that together since I was a kid. It wasn’t necessarily a tradition considering we made brownies way to often, but it was something we just found enjoyable. I put the bowl in the sink without eating the extra mix, not feeling in the mood to eat it anymore.

“Mom, we have to work this out,” I told her after I finished putting the brownies in the oven. She only nodded as she stared thoughtfully into space.

Finally she said, “I know, darling. We’ll figure something out.”

“Promise?”

“I promise," she whispered.