Strapped (31 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As I lay submerged, the only sound in the bathroom is the rhythmic drip of water from the faucet into the tub. A bottle of white wine sits within arms reach. Now three-quarters empty, it was unopened when I pulled it from the cooler. Droplets of red fall into the water and swirl into pretty pink clouds. I have a compulsion too...one that I thought was locked away forever in the recesses of my past. I should have known it was always lurking, always waiting to be lifted to the surface. Not since high school has the urge been so strong. Each cut serves a purpose: the pain allows me to feel again. When it’s all too much, it centers me, focuses me. It is a pain I deserve. My foolishness, my recklessness, my lust, my infatuation has led me to this. My moral compass has been recalibrated so many times since I met Taylor and each time I find a new justification. The problem is I am addicted to him, his beautiful body, his face, his spirit, our bond, and I can’t help but feel that he is genuinely good.

No human, no substance, can make me feel the otherworldly level of euphoria I feel when we are together. We don’t even have to say a word, just the slightest look and we’ll laugh and laugh knowing what the other is thinking. Even when things are bad, when he breaks my heart, I feel. I feel a depth of feeling that nothing or no one else can incite in me. My pain with Taylor is in some ways better than the happy moments I had with Rick.

I have a mask just like the one that Taylor wears. It allows you to walk the earth pretending you are like all the others. I had worn it for so long and so well, I had almost forgotten. When we bumped into each other that first day, he recognized it. He could see right through the flimsy veneer. And so, we measured each other, tried to see if the other recognized our darkness. Bit by bit, we chipped away at each other’s facade. Then this dance, this masquerade, culminated today. When someone has the whole picture of who you are, it is a powerful weapon that can be used against you. You spend your life guarding the darkness until someone comes along who makes it no longer possible. The exposure is maddeningly terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

The tears flow with the blood, and the catharsis is complete. Anyone who doesn’t know my secret might see my forearms and think this is a suicide attempt, but it only resembles such an act in appearance: The stinging reminds me that I am alive. I submerge my arms in the water to rinse off the diluted blood stains and carefully pull myself out of the tub; I have just enough alcohol in me to affect my balance. I wrap a large towel around my body and walk into the bedroom. My phone on the dresser has several missed calls, some from Taylor and one from the P.I., Mr. MacAllister but I am in no condition to speak to anyone right now.

I made an appointment to go to the doctor later in the afternoon, but I don’t want to report anything to the police. I have gone over in my head many times how I could explain this all to them. There is no way I can get past the embarrassment or the shame. The potential for this to be plastered all over the news due to the incident’s association with H.I. is too great. I am not willing to put myself, my family, or Taylor through any of that.

Then there is a text from Taylor:

I meant what I said to you in the darkroom.

Taylor said it.
He said he loved me. He said it despite himself; I could see the devastation in his eyes.

Mr. MacAllister left a voicemail, and I recall that he has been trying to reach me, even relaying a message through Kristin. I play it on speaker as I go through my post-bathing routine.

“Shyla, this is Todd MacAllister. I have been trying to reach you for a couple of days now. I have some important developments. First, whoever has been leaving you messages has been going through great lengths to cover their identity by purchasing pre-paid phones and disposing of them almost immediately after sending a message. This is not some teenage prank. I suggest you file a police report so something is on file.”

“Second, I began to look into C.O.S. survivors as you requested. I have been in touch with a survivor network, but it is hard to gain their trust as many have changed their identities to distance themselves from the cult and its stigma. The boy you mentioned, his identity is sealed as he was a minor. Here’s what’s interesting, it looks like he was taken in by his bio dad, but his mother, she was never found. Her body was not discovered on the property and investigators were never able to track her down. I need to know how far you want me to dig into both cases, so please call back as soon as you can.”

I stand frozen as I stare at my phone. Could Taylor’s mother be alive? Was she murdered and her body hidden? My mind is spinning with this new discovery. At first, my instinct is to call Taylor, but I stop, realizing that this news is so incredibly delicate and I am not sure how he will react. Taylor has made it a point to mention he tried his best to avoid thinking about or researching C.O.S. I would also have to admit that I hired a P.I. behind his back and that I held the information about the threatening texts from him. This is something I will have to confess in person. I sit on the edge of my bed, strategizing ways to deal with all the various clusterfucks that are developing around us.

The bedroom closet door is halfway open and my eyes immediately converge on the gift bag that holds the jewelry Taylor gave me in St. Petersburg. I smile and tear up, remembering that night and the unrelieved tension of our feelings. Those things always seem so innocent in your memories. I pull the bag out from the closet floor and pull out the box, admiring the sparkling earrings that I haven’t worn since the gala. I miss him already. How was I so clueless about his feelings for me that night? The memory of seeing him with Tatyana provides a jolt of sweet pain. Then, something catches my eye peering out from the baby blue and white tissue paper in the bag: a small note card in an envelope. I didn’t notice it when I originally opened the gift. I anxiously yank it out and recognize Taylor’s handwriting:

“Why is it,” he said, one time, at the subway entrance, “I feel I’ve known you so many years?”

“Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you.”

-R. Bradbury

There is no salutation or valediction.

I clutch the card close to my heart. The small note helps me realize that because we recognize the darkness, we also see the blinding light in one another in a way no one else can. I grab my phone to call Taylor; there has got to be a way we can fix all this. It doesn’t matter what the world might think, or who I thought I was before I met him. There is no one but us now. I won’t let the ghost of his mother, that cult, or his brother ruin us.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

I jump at the sound of the familiar voice and my phone slips out of my hand, onto the bed and lands on the floor out of reach.

Eric’s tall figure, his face severely bruised and swollen, leans against the threshold of my bedroo
m
door.

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