Take Me With You (9 page)

Now though, after admitting that it happens at all, the line between dreaming and reality is blurred. I’m living my nightmare and there’s no escape. No matter how much I admit, who I tell, it’s there waiting for me. Haunting me, reminding me of exactly who and what I am.

I’m a monster. One even worse than the person that created me.

That day in the bathroom, after waiting way too long for time to pass, becoming even more twisted with each passing second, I’d had a small ray of hope. The test showed negative. It gave me a moment of relief but couldn’t erase everything entirely. I got lucky, that’s all.

Being so twisted up by all of this, it’s not because I know what he’s doing is wrong. It was at first, but the more that it happened, the more I started reacting to it. I came to expect it so when he would creep into my room, I’d be waiting for him. In a sick way, I started enjoying it.

The older I got, getting me off became his mission. In the beginning he just took what he wanted and left the same way he came, but hearing from my mom that I had finally become a woman, something shifted inside his sick mind. The wheels turned in a different way. He actively sought out my arousal and after about a year of just going through the motions, I gave it to him and it’s only gotten worse since.

I don’t want to enjoy it. I don’t want him to do the things he does, feel my reaction and be turned on by it, but I’m powerless to stop it. He owns me, possesses me and no amount of denial on my part will change it.

I’ve gone from a victim to a willing participant and there’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.

Eric needs to realize this. He thinks being there for me, being my lifeline is the right thing, but he doesn’t know the truth. If he did, he wouldn’t want to get within a foot of me. I need to go there on Friday and act the way I always have. Push him away, because if he gets any closer he’s only going to get hurt.

I’m going to hurt him and for the first time since I
walked into Wexfield High four years ago, I don’t want to hurt anyone.

Chapter Nine

Eric

A few months ago, after Homecoming and before Cadence ended up at Wexfield, we were all sitting out under the tree and I was listening to Kayden and Belle talk. For whatever reason they were talking about everything that happened that brought them together. Not the bad stuff, but the things that changed everything between them.

Kayden mentioned reading a letter that Belle wrote. I remember the assignment, but I never knew what happened to the things we wrote. Ms. Taylor never mentioned it after we completed it and it wasn’t something she graded. Hearing that whatever Belle wrote had changed everything for Kayden, it was huge.

It’s remembering that and the way my best friend lit up hearing it that makes me attempt to do the same thing now.

There’s something going on with me and Amy. I don’t know what to call it, but for whatever reason, I’ve been put in her path and her in mine and because of that, I want to do something more than what I tried to do two nights ago on the phone. I want to tell her about me. She might not understand it, but maybe if she hears that she’s not the only one going through something, it will help her somehow.

That’s what I’m telling myself so that I’ll see it through and write the damn thing anyway.

Staring at the lined paper in front me, completely blank, just waiting for me to pour my heart out on the page, I hesitate. What if doing this doesn’t have the result I want and instead she takes it, comes back to school whenever they let her back in and uses it against me the way she did with Belle?

Do I really want to risk being exposed that way? It’s not exactly like I’m under the radar or anything, but so far, no one knows much about me. They just call me names and use the random things they have noticed to try and break me down. It works too, especially with what Tim said to me the other day, but doing this, it would be so much worse.

Ignoring the voice in my head, the one that tells me not to put myself out there this way, I put the pen to paper and start writing. If she’s willing to risk telling me what happened to her, she deserves the same from me.

You already know I’m not like you. For whatever reason, you find that funny or you used to before we saw each other in Thompson’s office. I think the reason you find it funny is because no one’s ever explained it to you before.

I want to do that for you. I want you to understand me and maybe even others like me. Maybe if you know the way things really are, you’ll see we’re really not so different at all. We’re actually a lot more alike than I thought.

When I was ten, my mom took me to the doctor because the way I was, things weren’t adding up to her and she wanted to know why. It turns out that I’m living with something called Asperger’s Syndrome. It’s sort of like what Belle has, but with a few really big differences.

I can’t look anyone in the eye for more than two seconds. It physically hurts me to do it. The longer they attempt to hold my gaze, the more tied up inside I get and it doesn’t take long after that for me to completely meltdown. So, if I ever look at you, but then look away really quickly, that’s why. It’s not you. It’s me.

I pretty much suck at anything remotely social. I don’t know how to interact with people the way you and everyone else seem to. What you find easy, sitting and talking with your friends every day, it’s hard for me. I struggle even with Belle and Kayden, sometimes even having to force myself to be a part of the group. In comparison to me, Belle seems normal. That’s how bad it is.

Another thing about me is I don’t process things the same way you do. I don’t really like being touched, unless it’s my mom because she’s learned how since we found out what my issues are. Some things that are completely normal for you, like a face cloth, water, even food textures are too much for me and when that happens, I shut down. I hit myself, scratch and pick until I make myself bleed and genuinely feel sick to my stomach.

It also makes my head clogged, like fuzzy and I can’t focus.

Water is the worst for me. When its running over my skin the way it does when you’re in the shower, it feels like a million bugs have been released all over me and right on first contact, I start to crack, break down, completely unable to handle it. The stuff I mentioned above, I do all of it and it takes hours a
fterward to be okay again. Even. Steady.

I used to be a lot worse, but I found different things that help focus me or ways around things so that I don’t get so overloaded anymore. My mom’s been real great with that. I’m not sure why I told you that, but whatever. I play video games to unwind even though sometimes they cause me to lose control even worse than anything else. I read too, but mostly I draw.

Sketching is the right word. Because I learn better visually, I can recall everything in perfect detail and then put it on paper. When it doesn’t work, it’s not perfect, that’s another trigger for me. It needs to be perfect and I can’t walk away until it’s all done. If I do, then what I mentioned before happens and it’s almost impossible to break me out of it.

I’ve been seeing Thompson for five years.  I stupidly told someone that I wanted to die and they told my Mom. It freaked her out so bad that she booked me an appointment right away. She drove from Toronto three times a week before we moved here just so I could see him. Part of me thinks that she wants him to fix me, make me like new again, but that won’t happen. The outlet is nice, but I hate going there and I think I always will. He can’t fix me anymore than anyone else can. I’m going to be this way for the rest of my life. It got worse after the thing with the pills last fall though. Now she’s more freaked than ever and I guess that’s my fault.

I’ve been trying to be better, but most of the time it’s just me going through the motions so that she doesn’t have to worry about me. I paste a smile on my face, do things with her every once in a while so that I don’t have to see the pain and worry in her eyes every time she looks at me.

You’re not the only one with secrets, Amy. I have them too, some of them I told you about in text. No one knows about any of that but you. I know you might end up using it against me, but I don’t care. I need to take the risk.

You wanna know why?

Because I’m tired of being the defective waste of space.

Sometimes I wear the same clothes, don’t bathe every single day and it doesn’t even bother me. I don’t notice it. I’m grossing out everyone around me, but it doesn’t even register until someone calls attention to it. Tim did that the other day and I almost lost it in a hallway full of people. It’s my biggest fear, that happening. If it wasn’t for Belle, it would have.

Retard, waste of space, defective, moron, and idiot, dirty, stinky and stupid…all of those names aren’t right. I’m none of them, but it doesn’t seem to matter because you all see my stutter or the way I react sometimes and that’s all I am. It’s not possible for me to be more than that.

I want to be more than that. I want you to see the real me. I hope that what I’ve written to you helps you see that. I also hope it makes sense.

Your secrets are safe with me Amy; even if you don’t believe it. You should also know that it’s not just your secrets that are safe with me. You are too.

Lifeline activated.

I’m not much of a writer, so by the time I’m done, my hand is killing me and with the nervousness I had writing it at all, I’m a sweaty mess. Folding it up, not wanting to read it over in case I find fault and end up throwing it away, I slide it into my backpack, more than a little anxious to give it to her the next time I see her.

The way I looked at Amy before, it was no better than the way her and her friends have always looked at me. Despite wanting to be better than them, I’ve judged her just as much as she has me and it’s time I stop doing that. It’s time that I show her and everyone else that we’re the same underneath, even if we have differences.

What happened to Amy, it changed her and I don’t believe that just because of what she’s told me. It’s crystal clear when you look at the way she is. Choosing to go by Amy instead of Amelia is the biggest thing.

She’s attempting to be someone else with the name change, but the more time that passes, the more I realize that I don’t want to know Amy. I already know
her, a lot more than I want to admit.

I want to know Amelia and with this letter, the way we’ve been with each other lately, I hope I get the chance. For the first time since reaching out to Cadence, I want to be social with someone and it’s the last person in the world anyone would ever expect.

The things I said at the end of the letter, they’re true. Her secrets are as safe with me as she is.  What her father did to her, what he still continues to do, I want to do whatever I can to protect her from and it’s because of one simple thing.

I like her.

Amelia

Something’s happening to me.

After staring at the clock for two hours, watching the minutes pass by so slowly I never thought they’d pass at all, I got up and made my way to the bus. The one that would take me to Thompson’s office.

The one that would take me to him.

It got even more bizarre after that because I walked into the coffee shop down the street after checking to make sure Eric wasn’t already there, and I ordered Ice Cappuccinos for the both of us, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I’m a normal girl and I’m waiting for a guy to get here so we can share coffee, conversation and whatever else comes up while we wait for our appointments. The reality is though, I’m not normal, but after ordering the drinks and making my way back to the front of the office, sitting down where Eric did two days ago, I feel like every other person on the planet for the first time in forever.

My idea, the one I planned out the night before, I’ve gotta do it when he shows up because it’s the right thing to do, but with the way I’m anticipating him showing up and the two of us hanging out, I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to go through with it.

Being around Eric, him being different, knowing that he’s got things wrong with him, issues or whatever, it’s different than it is when I’m hanging out with Tim and the girls. They’ve got issues too, I mean we all do, but with them it’s not the same.  What I hide from everyone else, Eric has seen and he still wants to be around me.

I’ve made his life a living hell and enjoyed it and yet when I needed someone, there he was, talking me through things, pushing the darkness away even though I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve it.

I don’t think I can give that up. I like it too much.

Turning on him would be so easy. Acting like a complete bitch is second nature to me. It’s not a switch I need to turn on and off, it’s just always there. Calling him out on his differences, picking on him for the way he dresses, smells, looks, it’s as easy as breathing to me and it’s what I need to do when he gets off the bus. I need to make him hate me because I’m not sure how I feel about him liking me.

The person he’s been spending time with, the one that he was texting and even ended up calling, that’s not me. It’s not Amy. As much as I hate admitting it, he’s been the only person since my dad to know Amelia. The person I was before everything turned to shit.

Amelia is dead. She’s been dead since the first night my dad walked into my room and she has to stay that way, no matter how nice he is or how much I enjoy my time with him.

Okay. Yeah. I need to do this. I need to completely break him down so that he gets the message and leaves me the fuck alone. He’ll hate me and we’ll go back to the way things have always been and the world can be right again.

He’ll be safe.

“Someone’s got a serious problem.”

Looking up, I see him standing about three feet back from me, a grin on his face as he looks at the drinks in my hand.  Going completely against my plan, I smile back at him before holding one of the plastic cups out.

“You should totally drink this one then. I wouldn’t wanna end up in coffee addicts anonymous.”

Wow. Lame joke much?

What I thought was pretty lame and would earn me an eye roll or worse actually makes him laugh before he takes the drink and sits down beside me.

I’m not sure he realizes it, but with as close as he is to me right now, I can smell him and where I expect it to be the way it is at school, it’s not. He smells like peanut butter. It’s silly because it’s not a scent I’ve ever smelled from someone before, but on him, it’s kind of neat. It’s just another way he’s different.

“Can I ask you something?” As I turn to face him, he nods and I work up the nerve to get the question out. “Did you have peanut butter for lunch?”

“No.” he laughs, again the same boisterous sound from Wednesday, natural, genuine and just the way I like it. “Why would you ask me that?”

My cheeks, they’re hot again which means I’m pretty sure they’re also pink and he can see it, which just makes me even more nervous.  “You smell like peanut butter.”

“Really?” he asks before lifting his shirt up and sniffing it. “Crap, I think Summer got some of her sandwich on me. Sorry about that.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because it’s probably gross?”