Page 57 of Pretty Nightmare

There were two big things keeping Nathan and I apart in that time. My jobs—because I was working a lot in those years—and his school. Because of course, he had to go into town and be this other boy nearly every day.

So he had his secret life and I had mine.

That’s what changed us.

A wise person once told me that you had better be very sure you want the truth before you ask for it.

Is this a Dear Diary moment?

Isn’t that how girls start their journals in the movies? Do they really do that in real life? Dear Diary. Who is Diary? Why not address your pathetic inner ramblings to the actual person you are rambling them to? Which is yourself.

Dear Stupid Indie who lived in the past, I have advice I think you should consider.

Period. New line.

You have been fucked over by ruthless men since you were born.

Period. New line.

Well, that’s a lie. You don’t really know that for sure. Because you can’t remember anything before you came here with McKay and Donovan a few months ago. But you’re good at deducing. Critical thinking, contrary to what the people closest to you might think, is actually a skill you possess. You should take that skill out every once in a while and dust it off. Put it to some practical use.

Period. New line.

But you wanna hear the really fucked-up part, Indie? Do you? Are you ready for it? Because it’s super fucked up!

You have a record of what happened to you before that day you came home a few months ago. And… and… it’s in your own fucking handwriting!

Is that convenient or what?

I mean, you lose your memory and then poof. This journal shows up out of nowhere—in the hands of McKay, no less—proclaiming to hold all your dearest secrets and fondest memories.

That journal. Right over there. You wrote it all down. How much you loved this place. How much you loved Nathan.

Who? Oh, yeah. That kid who lived next door and made firefly jars for you. It lit up this super-romantic fort in the woods, which he created with his bare hands—like he was McKay fuckin’ Junior or something—so he could give you your first kiss.

Yeah, that journal. That bullshit, lying piece-of-such-and-such journal that, when contrasted to the tapes—oh, yeah. There are recordings, Indie! In your own voice, no less! Telling Donovan all about the most fucked-up moment in your life!

Anyway. My point was, when you contrast the journal to the tapes there is a very clear discordance. I’m talking major, San Andreas faultline cracks in this fucking story, OK?

One piece of crucial evidence detailing your forgotten past is convenient. I can maybe buy the journal in my own handwriting.

Twice, though? And on tape, no less? Um, I was gonna say that’s a really big coincidence, but nah. I’m gonna have to go with suspicious for the second one.

I’m just waiting for the video to show up. Where’s that hiding, I wonder? Who’s gonna come home with that? Which of these men are gonna point to it and say, “See, Indie. You’re fucking crazy. This here movie of your life proves it?”

And it’s gonna be in like 4K Ultra or something. I’m talking details like you’re living it in real life.

And it’s gonna come from Adam. It’s got to be Adam. He’s the only one left who didn’t come home with evidence.

Oh! That’s not even true!

He came home with my daughter!

My. Fucking. Daughter!

I throw the journal across my new living room. It sails right over the second couch and falls with a thunk onto the slate floor.

My heart is racing. The adrenaline coursing through my body feels good the way a drug does. It’s a friend to me. It keeps me on my toes. Keeps my eyes peeled and my hearing sharp.