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Down into my brain. Then you say my name
And I'm drawn to black again.
Remember why you're here. To finally get rid of this burden. To be free of Averys' secrets once and for all. To make her pay for what she did.
I'm here, in this place that reminds me of that first interrogation room, for many reasons. That police station is miles away-years from this life-and they're still asking what happened.
Do they want me to repeat myself? Because, I won't. What they are going to get from me is the unblemished truth. I will tell them everything exactly the way I remember it.
I won't chicken out this time. I won't surrender through silence, leaving Avery to spin her lies like she has for the last six years. I won't let my mind float away when it gets tough. I'll stick with the cold facts until the bitter end. I've practiced this time. I've had six years to cement every detail in my head. I won't forget the details.
The devil really is in the details, isn't he?
Maybe, if I tell them all of it, if I make them understand what I knew and when . . . maybe they'll leave me be, let me die in peace, and finally make my way to Jake. I wonder briefly where that expression comes from: die in peace. How was death ever associated with peace? The death I have seen . . . the time it's taken to get from there to here . . . I have yet to find a morsel of peace in it. Maybe the peace comes after. I hope so.
"Remember, be as precise as possible." Mister Brandon leans in and I notice he's wearing his usual overcoat: crisp and white, reminding me of that Colonial guy from that chicken joint. He wears it all the time. Who the hell wears a white suit coat?
I'm trying to avoid hearing his voice. Every time he speaks, it's like a grating in my inner ear. He's turned his head in my direction, speaking across our shoulders, ignoring the microphone head. His breath reeks of coffee and milk. ". . . Do not hold back anything as it pertains to your state of mind and how it affected the events as they occurred to ensure you're properly placed in custody proportionate to your needs. The reclassification we talked about . . ."
What we talked about? He's talked about a million different things. Say this. Don't say that. Speak. Tell the truth. Omit new information. I want to scream at him for the double-talk.
". . . Discuss your current classification and additional considerations with regards to-" Good God, the man can't stop talking! "-the state of Arizona requires you be placed-"
"Stop." I shake my head, wishing for just enough freedom to reach up and plug my ears against the infection of his voice.
He shrugs, "So long as you're aware-"
"Yes. 'For my case.'" I repeat as familiar anger heats me-the rage that rises up whenever I think about what happened-and helps to anchor me, giving me a place to stand in the sinking sand that is my life.
"Tell us what happened, Miss Patel. As far back as you can recall, if not from the beginning." The woman across from me instructs. She, too, is wearing an overcoat, only hers is gray.
I look to my lawyer and he nods, granting permission for me to speak freely. Almost.
My tongue glides over parched lips. Now that they're waiting I find myself nervous again. "My mouth is really dry."
A long hand belonging to the fourth person at the table-a seemingly gentle, yet unremarkable looking man-sets an opened can of Diet Coke in front me. It's not one of those little half-sized cans we usually only get on special occasions, it's a full twelve ounces; a bribe complete with bendy straw. My hands stay on the linty arms of the woolen chair as I lean forward taking the stick into my mouth. The fizzy goodness oozing up the straw beckons me back to better days-when ignorance really was bliss and not just a cheesy metaphor. The cool drink swirls over my tongue, washing away the stickiness of my teeth, dissolving the constant lump in my throat.
And for some stupid reason, I feel better.
Drawing a steadier breath, I reign in my scattered thoughts, determining to try once more to give my laborious confession. Thinking over my instructions, the thought strikes me. "Where does something like that begin? I know where it all ended. But a beginning?"
My gaze moves from my hand to lock eyes with the tight-haired woman. Still nothing; no sign of emotion. I wish the print on the badge hanging around her neck was a little larger. Then I could read her name. Maybe address her on a personal level: try to tell her how what really happened depends on how you look at it, because the same things can look different to different people. That the real truth about what happened lies in my perception.
I have to shake my head, remind myself that another desperate plea won't matter. What happened-happened. Whoever this stranger is doesn't matter. Knowing her name or saying it out loud is not going to change anything. Because I am the one who is not a person. Not anymore. And that's just the way it is.
Drawing another long drink of soda, I imagine my brain as a box, sitting alone in a cobwebbed room. There is nothing in this room, save a small light, a rocking chair, and my box. I take my seat beside the box and loosen the tightly folded edges of the memories I've stored there. Bringing out those treasures I've kept hidden.
And the ability is still there. I can feel the ache and hope, dulled by meds and buried under nausea for sure, but I can still see it and put myself inside. And I know . . . it's going to hurt to go back to that place. But it's the least I can do. For him. But I would be lying if I said I was doing this just for him. Being back there with Jake was the only place in the world where I felt right. Like I fit, on the inside.
My minds' eye draws out the memories in random pictures, like overfilled photo albums with no sense of order. It's moments as portraits stuffed into each page and I can look at the images and remember the time and place just as easily as if it were scrawled in scorching detail across the backs and borders of every single frame.
The room around me seems to shift and my body becomes lighter as I am lifted from this place. The photographs grow larger while the room around me gives way. Time folds in on itself as I slide inside the memories. I will watch the people and places, hear the voices and take in the shimmying smells they hold.
The table before me in this little room becomes a shiny, linoleum counter-top. The chair I'm in peels away, morphing into a spinning barstool. My hands are no longer bound, but free, twirling my long brown hair. The walls crack and break apart, floating up into a swirl that crashes back down, rearranged.
I am back where it all began. I'm fifteen, again. In another town. Another life. Back in Carlisle.
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