• Chapter 1- Oakwood

    Freedom.

    One step across the threshold caused cold air to n** at my face, chapping my pale lips. I welcomed it. Its bitter chill provoked shivers, but the fresh air was a rare privilege not given much in the care center. I took a couple steps forward, closing my eyes and listening to the whispers of the tree leaves rustling in the frosty wind. I had my bag in one hand and it weighed me down slightly. Switching it to the other hand, I glanced back at Oakwood Care Center, my former shelter for the past 18 months. And for the last month, I counted every day until they let me out, every hour. Wake up, shower, breakfast, group talk, lunch, free time, see the psychologist, dinner, lights out by 10:00. Every day, no deviation.

    “Jenny? Ready to go, hun?” I turned back around, snapping out of my reverie. My mother’s warm chocolate eyes surveyed me, but with a slight caution, as if she knew I’d gone through enough scrutiny during my stay, both inside and out. They tried probing my mind, searching for its dark corners and doubts. But, in truth, the only thing that really helped bring light into my mind again was free time and the moments left before bedtime. I could sit. And think. Think about him and why he did that. About the signs I missed and how I could recognize them next time. Of course, there wouldn’t be a next time in the near future, maybe not in my remaining lifetime, because I wouldn’t put myself through that again. It wasn’t worth it. One boy was not worth that. I thought I loved him, but I realized it hadn’t been love. Not true love. Forced love. Love forced upon me. By him. He forced my feelings of puppy dog love to become fake love, through his fabricated words and acts. It had been a show to him. A Broadway production, all for his benefit and none of mine. He pushed love on me, just like he pushed me. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me." I’d been told it as a kid, but it never rung true in life. Why did they tell me that if it’s not true? When chosen carefully, words could cut deeper than knives.

    “Yeah, mom, let’s go. Let’s go home.”

    Sean. Sean Brown. That small, powerful name. It was average, a name that never received a double-take or a mispronunciation; nothing that caused anyone to look too close. Nothing that alerted to anyone what he really was, what the name stood for. What kind of person it represented. Everyone just glanced at it, then looked away.

    “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” And by any other name, Sean Brown would still be the same thing and I would call him by it. Abuser.

    I saw him at the mall. A carefree day with my friends, and we were going to shop for dresses to wear to prom. He was in the store, working behind the low counter of Deb's while we flipped through the silver racks of shiny and velvety dresses, both ruffled with skirts and embellished with sparkly baubles on belts. Little did I know the catalyst of my greatest debacle in life rung up my dress, gave me the receipt and smiled, telling me to have a nice day. If I had only noticed, the way that smile he gave me wasn’t flirty like I thought but wolfish, a predator luring in its prey. If only I had pulled back when he smoothly turned my hand palm up after taking the money out of it and wrote his number into my skin with a wink. A pen with a sharp bite, and the numbers never quite went away until after it was too late to get away from him. I should have known.

    But I didn’t. It didn’t start out bad. At first, he acted so nicely, a flawless gentlemen. He took me out to eat, pulled out the chair for me, melted away any of my worries with that seemingly sugar-sweet smile. Only now do I realize how overly-sweet it was, heavy and nauseating like cake frosting; pretty to look at but something you couldn’t handle too much of. And he always wanted to go out somewhere, to spend time with me. It barely left any time for schoolwork, and my grades dropped. That’s the first time my parents said anything. But they believed my excuses instantly instead of taking time to investigate further. They were smart people, my mom was a math teacher. She knew new boyfriend plus dropping grades equaled something wrong with the relationship. Regardless, both of them would take any reason to think differently for as long as possible, clinging to the saying, “Ignorance is bliss.” I didn’t mind at the time of their neglect, drugged by the relationship and thinking I could fix everything later.

    Maybe my parents weren’t the only ones following that saying.

    * * *
    My home felt foreign to me. And it shouldn’t have, but my room had a strange feel, as if it didn’t quite belong to me. It belonged to that carefree girl who always had a smile for everyone, and who disappeared during the last 6 months of the relationship involving Sean and me. I felt it needed to change to adapt to the alteration that had taken place in me. The colors looked too bold, the walls a bright blue and the trim a frothy, but still ostentatious, purple. The posters of Green Day and Red made me think that I needed a new taste in music as well. The bands I used to like made music that was too loud, I decided. I was cautious now, and I knew how to read between lines and see the opinions and intentions people hid. Smiles and honey-sweet words didn’t fool me.

    The living room had shadows. I could tell no one had been in there since my admittance into Oakwood. This was for one simple reason: It had been my place to hang out. I would lie on the couch and read or just take a nap. I spent time in there more often than my own room. Whenever anyone wanted to talk to me, they found me in there.

    The carpet was a calming beige, a color that often recurred in Oakwood. The walls were papered in a subtle, simple design of small dots that sometimes resembled shapes if a person looked close enough, like clouds in the sky. There was a stereo in the corner, a cherry wood exclamation point, drawing attention to itself. I used to be like that stereo, attracting attention to myself, wearing outrageous clothing, laughing entirely too loud, and eventually I attracted the wrong attention. I looked away from the stereo and up at the ceiling. It was painted off-white and had a single light fixture. A quiet, lackluster, simple light fixture, silently observing from its post. Composed of only a light bulb and a cover, a frosted shield to protect it from breaking.

    Gazing upon the only familiar room in the house, I could almost see the indent in the couch’s green upholstery where my doppelganger of the past once sat, turning pages of a paperback romance, wishing and imagining the words on the pages would describe her future. They almost did, but then fate decided it would take a turn for the worst. And because of that, a different person walked the rooms of my house, one less gullible and naive.

    I steered clear of the kitchen. My mom was always in there, baking or cooking, creating something out of nothing. I remember helping her all the time as a kid. She would put on music, usually Jewel, and turn on all the spotlights so the wood floor shined. I helped her make all sorts of baked goods and always from scratch. The smell of homemade cookies baking in the oven became a comfort to me as I sat there at our island in the high kitchen chair and watched them bake. Cakes were my favorite to watch. The dim oven light showed a flat, dense cake batter suddenly become light and rise up, morphing into something beautiful. After we decorated it, I was always proud of myself. I made beauty. It brought a smile to my face. I thought it was great I created something worth admiring.

    But as I walked by the kitchen now, the bravado of the lights and the feel of cookie dough in my hands had faded to me now. That’s one of things I’m still upset with Sean over, now that the shock had subsided, I realized he took away my joy in little things. That snow flake that happened to fall on my tongue didn’t infuse me with happiness anymore, that cloudless, warm summer night didn’t make me want to go outside in my pajamas and lie on the grass, watching the expansive field of stars above me. That Jewel song drifting into my room from the CD player downstairs didn’t draw me to the kitchen anymore. Instead, it made me close my door. And I hated myself for it. But Sean still had a hold on me, and all I could do was wait until he let me go.

    There was one last thing I saw before disappearing into my room, and it made me more upset than everything else. My mother was baking in the kitchen and there wasn’t a paper next to her with her own handwriting and measurements achieved through countless experiments, but a box. A red, cold, stiff cardboard box with a mix made by a factory- estranged to me, just like everything else in the house

    Chapter 2- Stranger Girl

    I didn’t want to go back to school. I’d been educated in the care center so I didn’t have to repeat, but I knew it would still be different. Maybe not the expectations, as they even given homework. I worked on it during free time, on days I couldn’t bear listening to my own thoughts, and opted for listening to the thoughts conjured up by the word problem or formula in front of me. I didn’t mind as much as some of the other patients. They refused to do homework and just continue going to classes as if nothing traumatic had happened to them. They thought they weren’t being taken seriously. At first, I ignored the work as well, caught up in my own shock and tears when I woke up with nightmares, resulting in sleepless nights. But then, after a month or two, I started to have a need to be connected to the world out there somehow because I felt like the daily routine was starting to drive me crazy, slowly but surely. My roommate, Chrissy, was admitted for OCD and the symmetry of the routine and the room that gave me a headache after awhile, like when I read the same sentence over and over in a book, was just what she needed. It made her happy. Sometimes, when I didn’t want to think about what happened with Sean, I would think about Chrissy. I worried for her. I would be able to leave Oakwood eventually, when I was ready. But Chrissy might have to stay in the center much longer, maybe her whole life, and never know what she was missing out there, never have a real life. It didn’t seem to bother her, but it made me sad for her. Though, the day I left, I thought I saw sad wistfulness in her brown eyes as she waved to me through a window, her bracelet moving from side to side on her wrist. I wondered how long she would wear that pale pink piece of paper, how long it would trap her wrist.

    I opened my closet and saw that most of my clothes simply wouldn’t do. They were too provocative and bold. Didn’t I have skirts that weren’t almost all the way up my thigh? Did I own one long sleeved shirt? I’d have to go shopping later today. I rummaged through my drawers and hangers and finally found a plain pair of jeans, a purple t shirt and a hoodie. I unearthed a pair of Keds, buried under clothes I’d discarded, and slipped them on. I went downstairs where my mother stood in the kitchen, making oatmeal.

    “Good morning, Jenny,” she put on a smile and adopted a cheery tone, “What are you doing up this early, hun?”

    I just looked at her. Was she not expecting me to go to school? For a minute I thought about going back upstairs and climbing into bed again. School and my friends hadn't seen me for a year and a half, what was one more day? But no, I realized, I had to go. I could be a big girl, I could face my peers knowing they’d heard what happened. Thankfully, Sean goes to a different school, I thought. I hoped never to see him again.

    “School,” I answered my mother, curtailing further conversation by busying myself with making a bowl of cereal. I didn’t have time to wait for oatmeal. The bus was going to arrive soon. I finished the cereal and grabbed my bag, going out the door. As I was about to close it, locking it in place with the frame, I heard my mom say,

    “I hope you do okay, hun. You don’t have to go today, you know.”

    I didn’t respond. What else would I do instead of school? Sit in the house and go deaf from the heavy silence? My mom wouldn't know how to converse with me, who barely ever smiled anymore. Plus, my dad worked weekdays, so he didn't get home until seven.

    I'd spent enough time listening to silence. I appreciated her concern and attempt at motherly warmth, but truthfully, it was a little late for that. That little girl she used to have was gone. Sean was still holding her captive, and my mom never tried to find her before.

    I stood alone at the bus stop, listening to the birds chirp happily in the trees. Birds found beauty in everything, up high in their nests. But they weren’t aware of the shadows, the ugly in life. Things that made you want to cover your ears, close your eyes, and pretend it wasn’t happening. That it never happened. That sooner or later, you would wake up in your bed and mom and dad would be there, ready to comfort you and protect you from your own memories. They would give hugs, not a therapy session with a counselor who neither knew you nor truly cared about what was wrong, only wanting to poke around inside your head and add to the knowledge they had stored in their paper pad.

    The bus rounded the corner, wheezing to a stop. The brakes squeaked and the door creaked as it opened. I got on and sat in the first empty seat I saw. Looking out the window, a cacophony of thoughts ran through my head. I wondered if I would remember how my friends were used to me talking and behaving. Whether I would understand anything being taught in class, if I would have someone to sit with at lunch, and, my worst fear, whether or not my friends would even still be my friends. Or had they found another person to replace me in our group? Would they accept this new person, misery-worn and turned inside out by psychologists, or would they condemn me to the world of the friendless, and never speak to me again?

    We pulled up in front of the school. The brakes squealed again as we stopped beside the curb. People rushed by outside my window, sure of themselves and where they were going, moving fast in a blur. I took those two steep steps off the bus and looked around, trying to get my bearings. The crowd jostled me a bit, annoyed that I simply stood there when everyone else was moving. I pulled out my schedule:

    1. Gym/Lab
    2. Algebra 2/Trig Rm 126
    3. U.S. History Rm 225
    4. Physics Rm 157
    5. Child Develop. Rm 237
    6. Lunch
    7. English 11 Rm 172
    8. Spanish Rm 233
    9. Chorus Rm 181

    Thankfully I’d done well enough during my education in Oakwood that I could move on with my class as if I wasn’t ever gone.

    Unfortunately, that happened to be the only thing that continued without any problem.