JED243 (Short Story – Fiction)

Pelting the thin glass, the rain causes me to look up every few seconds. I sink into the corner of my thirty-year-old, worn-out, red tattered couch and pull the shoebox closer to me. Old photographs crinkle under my touch as I flip through the contents, and folded articles threaten to rip with each brush of my fingertip.

The box was filled years ago and buried deep within my closet. My husband, Charlie, knew I dwelled on the memories inside whenever I opened it, so putting it away seemed to be the only logical solution. I only came across it when little Gracie decided it would be fun to pull out all of mommy’s clothes, try them on, and leave them in a big heap in the middle of the hallway for Ralphie to turn into his own personal slobber-cave. The box was mixed in at the bottom amongst various other shoeboxes, but got turned upside down when Gracie found no heels inside to clonk around in.

Half of the contents of the box were stuck together from various residues and inks of the photographs over the years. Tucked away at the bottom of the box was a piece of yellowing paper folded three-fold and then folded in half again.

Dear brother,

It’s been four years. Four years since you left me, and mom, and dad. Four years since I saw you smile with your crooked teeth that I constantly made fun of and teased you about. Four years since I yelled at you and told you that you were the worst brother a girl could have and that I wanted you out of my life forever. Four years since I sat in that hospital crying in the corner by the vending machine so that no nurses could take pity on me, put their hand on my shoulder, and say “there there, it’s going to be okay.” Because it wasn’t. It isn’t. You’re gone. You left me. You haven’t come back and I don’t know what to do anymore. You would have been 19 today, Jordan. You would have been 19. Why couldn’t you have just worn your seatbelt?

I miss you, Jordan. I’m sorry about what I said that day. I’m sorry I told you to get out of my life and to never talk to me again. I’m sorry I secretly wished you were gone and wouldn’t come back. I’m sorry I ever said it to your face. I wish you were still here, Jordan. I wish you were here to argue with and fight with and tell me how wrong I was. I wish you were here. I miss you.

And I know I never told you this… but I love you.

Cara ♡

I let out a deep breath. I hadn’t realized I had been holding it since I had read “seatbelt.” I forgot I saved this letter. I forgot it was in this box. All of my memories. Everything that had happened. Everything I had repressed for so many years was suddenly flooding into my mind at once.

~*~

A delicate voice crackled through the intercom once again, urging certain doctors to go this way or that, to do this procedure or that, or simply to tell them their wife was on line three. Blues, yellows, reds, and greens lined the floor beneath her feet, leading the way for each stranger to find their hurt or dead loved ones as they tripped and staggered around. Cara’s feet dangled a good inch above the ground as she sat all the way back in her waiting room chair.

Her eyes watered and her nose tingled as smoke drifted past her. The pleading from nurses echoed through Cara’s ears as they begged her mom to step outside if she was going to smoke. Her mom walked away and found another wall to lean against until a different nurse was forced to approach her. Cara had grown used to it over the years, but whatever was inside that rolled paper that day made her eyes sting with desperation for clean air. It was clear that the nurses didn’t have the heart to call security on her mother. They knew her mother would put up a fight if someone came to take her away. Cara just kept imagining what would happen when their boss showed up to find someone smoking in the waiting room. Other families had already cleared out. Nurses had shown them the way to other waiting rooms where there probably weren’t stubborn, inconsiderate people smoking in their presence. Making a scrunched-up face, Cara tried to get her mom to stop. She thought maybe her mother would stop smoking if it was bothering her own daughter. She was wrong. What did her opinion matter anyway? As Cara’s brother always liked to point out, she was only eleven.

Her fingers wrapped around the two dollars that were crumpled and scrunched deep within the tiny pockets of her jean shorts. Her dad had given the bills to her before he drove off earlier that morning. He didn’t like hospitals; his own brother had died in one. Cara couldn’t really blame him, but she was pretty sure the fact that he left was part of the reason her mom couldn’t stop smoking. The bills had dried out since he gave them to her that morning; they had rested in his clammy palms the entire drive over and were fairly damp then. Unfolding them with a nice crinkling sound, she jumped down off of the seat. Her mom was too busy pulling a new cigarette out of her pack to notice her leave, so Cara didn’t bother to tell her. As her feet shuffled across the length of the floor, she saw the nurse who had just begun her shift. She glanced up with a sour face thanks to the stenchy cloud Cara’s mom was creating. Cara slid her beat-up sneakers across the multi-colored floor until she reached the vending machine.

She pressed B-112 on the machine and watched a bag of Cheetos fall to the bottom, most likely breaking a few of the crunchy morsels in the process. The scent of stale cheese-puffs filled her nose, mixing with the smell of smoke that lingered in her nostrils. Sticking her hand in the bag, she strode back to her seat filled with a calming sensation. Her mouth watered, anticipating the cheesiness that usually grabbed the attention of all of her tastebuds just from the scent.

The Cheetos would help her forget.

Forget the fight with Jordan that morning and forget the spanking from their dad that of course ensued afterwards. But she couldn’t forget the crash that happened that day as they began their summer vacation.

*

“Let go of me,” she said in her extended eleven-year-old squeal as she tried to shake off her brother. He was trying to keep her from running away from him. The moment that he gave up on an argument was the same moment Cara would decide to go tell whichever parent was sitting inside that he had started it. He didn’t want that. He was tired of being spanked by their dad. Fifteen is too old to be spanked and it was getting embarrassing for both of them.

“We should go inside and help mom with dinner,” he said, attempting to distract her. Cara paused for a moment to consider this. She questioned what was for dinner, since that usually played a role in whether or not she wanted to help out. Jordan told her that he wasn’t sure but that it was probably along the lines of some kind of stew since he had seen their mother unloading the groceries earlier that morning; he was still trying to prevent her from running into the house with the wrong intentions of getting them in trouble.

“No. Let go of me. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Cara managed to wiggle her way out of Jordan’s loose grasp and took a few steps back. They were face to face, but Jordan was clearly the taller one, with a good foot or more on her four-foot-five-inch stature. She tried to look intimidating, but she knew it wouldn’t work – not since his growth spurt. “You’re the worst. I wish you weren’t my brother! I wish you weren’t in my life at all. I hate you!” Cara’s voice bubbled out of her mouth as fast as it could. She didn’t like yelling at people and doing so always brought tears to her eyes, but she couldn’t let her brother see she was crying. He always made fun of her when she cried. She ran past him, brushing against the soft, red t-shirt that hung low on his arm since the width of his shoulders was nowhere near that of their dad’s. He had grown out of a lot of his clothes lately and had taken to wearing some of their dad’s old shirts. She nearly tripped up the marble steps to the front door, but kept rushing forward until she heard the screen door swing and click shut behind her.

*

Stuffed into the left side of the backseat, Cara was surrounded by bags of various colors and fabrics – everyone’s luggage packed tightly between her and Jordan. It was her turn to pick the music, so she started pressing buttons on her mom’s iPod Touch, which her mother got as a gift from her sister a year ago, but still didn’t know how to use properly. Music flooded into the car through the speakers. It wasn’t anything Cara recognized, but she enjoyed being in control of the music – it meant for once, Jordan wasn’t.

She glanced up to watch as her family pulled out of the driveway and then went back to pressing buttons.

“--MY GOD!!” Cara opened her eyes in the midst of her mother’s screaming and readjusted her neck, gripping it suddenly as a sharp pain spread beneath her skin. All she could see was a blur of vibrant reds and oranges in front of them as the smell of smoke wafted under her nose long enough to make her cough. Her eyes adjusted. People nearby were tapping on windows, trying to mouth to us that we needed to get out of the car. Cara looked over at her mom who was staring at her husband who was staring into the backseat, unable to take his eyes off of Jordan’s seat.

Applying pressure to her neck, Cara glanced next to her, where Jordan was no longer sitting comfortably beside her. Crushed from the accident, Jordan’s door was pushed inward, taking up half of his seat, the window was smashed, and he was only partly inside the car at this point. Her mother couldn’t move but mumbled to Cara not to look at him. “Look away, honey. Look away.”

Sirens blared as they rushed through the streets. Blues and reds spun somewhere nearby, blinding her for a few moments. Constant blinking cleared her vision as she glanced back toward Jordan. Everything was silent. Her mom’s voice couldn’t break through it and neither could the shouts from the people outside of the car that were trying to get them out. Something shiny glinted in the reflection of her tearing eyes. It was Jordan’s keychain: “243JED” engraved in titanium. It must have fallen out of his pocket at some point during the crash. If only he had been wearing his seatbelt.

Their mom and dad had spent a lot of time designing that keychain. They wanted something sentimental and meaningful for his birthday, but couldn’t afford anything overly extravagant. “243” was the number of letters in each word of “We Love You,” and “JED” were his initials: Jordan Eric Donovan. He had thought it was cheesy when they first gave it to him, and while he would have never admitted it, he loved that keychain. Cara wrapped her fingers around it and never let go.

~*~

Smoke fills my nose again as if I am back at that scene with voices once again surrounding me, making it impossible to stop the tears from running down my cheeks. It had been years since I had thought about the events of that day. Jordan’s face flashes into my mind every day, but I’ve always tried to block out the car accident. My mind had blocked out Jordan’s voice – until now, anyway. Now it was as if he was standing right in front of me, pleading me not to get us in trouble yet again.

I lean forward to pull a tissue out of the box on the coffee table and dab at the tears that are trickling down my face. I hear a yelp, readjust the frames on my face, and glance up to see Gracie dragging Ralphie through the living room like he was her own personal toy.

“Gracie, honey. You have to be careful with Ralphie. Hold him like you hold your baby dolls.” I am surprised by the composure and strength that resonates in my voice. Gracie readjusts her hold on the new puppy and turns around to face me with a big grin on her face. The smile quickly fades as she saw the box that was on the table in front of me.

She takes a step backwards with Ralphie still clutched tightly against her chest, his paws hanging limp and loose in the air. “Uh oh,” she says.

I look down at the box to match her gaze. “No, honey, it’s okay. Come here for a second. Why don’t you let Ralphie go?”

Gracie nearly lies down on the floor in order to place him gently on the carpeting – something we had been working on all week with her. Then, shuffling her feet over to the couch she sits down next to me. I pick up the box and put it on the couch between us. She looks up at me and then slides her eyes down to the dusty box. Realizing she was too afraid to look through it, I stick my hand in and pull out a drawing of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, handing it to her. She clutches it in both of her hands, as though it was the most important thing she has ever held.

“Jordan drew that for me when I was a little older than you. I was probably about six at the time,” I say, clearing my throat. I put my hand on my daughter’s back and rub it gently.

“Uncle Jordy?”

“Yes, Uncle Jordy.”

“Why this, though, mommy?” Gracie looked up at me.

“Well, because Tigger was mommy’s favorite when she was your age.” I gave her a weak smile. “Your grandma and grandpa helped him with it. It was my birthday present that year.”

“Oh.” Gracie went back to staring at Tigger. “Can I keep it?”

My voice catches. It has been over ten years since I have seen this drawing, but at the same time, Gracie knew very little about her uncle and was probably curious. Charlie had always thought Jordan was a sore subject to bring up, so he made sure Gracie never mentioned him around me. He had good intentions, but it hurt just as much anyway. There was only so much Charlie knew about the situation. We had met nearly twenty years after the accident and by then, I had locked most of it deep inside me – far away from casual conversation.

“Sure, honey. But let’s put it up on your wall so it doesn’t get hurt, okay?”

“Okay.” Gracie smiled and jumped off of the couch, racing into the kitchen to show her dad the new picture she had acquired. I picked the box up and placed it back on my lap, flipping through it as delicately as possible. I could hear Charlie in the kitchen telling Gracie how cool the drawing was and to go in her room to decide which wall to hang it on. She probably told him what I said about keeping it safe.

Something was hidden in the corner of the box. Picking it up, I run my fingers over the engraving just as I had all those years before and wrap my fingers around it, gripping it tightly.

“You okay?” Charlie sits next to me now, placing his hand on my arm sympathetically, like those nurses tried to do all those years ago, but this time she welcomes it.

“Yeah,” I say, as Ralphie yelps and leaps into my lap, knocking the box out of my hands. Charlie catches it before it topples to the floor. “Thank you,” I say, burying my hands deep into Ralphie’s soft coat. “I just miss him.” Charlie squeezes my arm, kisses my cheek, and gets up. Picking up the letter, he goes to return the box to the closet. I curl back onto the couch, watch the rain pour down against the windows, and bury my face in Ralphie’s fur, rubbing the titanium between my fingers.

The Key to Candyland (Revised Short Story)

My heart started pounding and my breathing lessened to a hum the moment I realized what I was facing. Since moving here five years ago, I had tried to maneuver my way past the locked door to our unfinished basement that my dad never failed to latch and bolt shut. I had always wondered what was behind that door. Why was it so important to keep it locked up? Why had my father gone to such lengths to move it here to our house in Georgia from our old house in Kansas – and before that Nevada – separate from the rest of our belongings each time. I always tried to finagle my way into the basement, or get answers out of him directly, but he never budged. But this was the last thing I expected to find. The bolt was supposed to be latched, but for the first time it wasn’t. My dad had been in a rush all morning after getting a call for some important interview, causing him to forget to close the door completely. All those years of wondering, questioning, missing out – she couldn’t believe it; the room was full of dust, hard-packed sludge, and boxes.

As I walked further into the cave-like basement, glimpses of the pictures that were scattered across the ground caught my eye. Ralphy. I hadn’t thought about Ralphy in years, but his face always jogged the same memory: endless games of Candyland. I never won, except for once. It’s the last memory I have of him.

I sat down on the cold, dirt floor in the collection of dust and tried to remember my brother using the pictures that surrounded me. He had been my best friend. There isn’t a picture of me without him by my side. We were only one year apart in age, and my last memory with him was at age four, but he was five. It was the only time I won a game of Candyland against him. And he had cheered me on. I faintly heard Ralphy’s far away chants: Go Clara!

It had all been right under my feet the entire time. Everything from before; everything from my past; everything from the first four years of my life. Dad told me there were no secrets between us, but even that was a lie.

The panoramic view of my early childhood surrounded me in that moment. That locked door held all the secrets of my life. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve seen Ralphy. Thirteen years of lies and deceit and all of the answers were through a two-inch, nineteenth century wooden door for the past five years and locked up elsewhere before that. How could he have done this to me? How could my father lie to me like this?

Thirteen years ago, everything in my life changed without me even knowing. My mother and older brother had gone out one day and never returned. As far as my father told me, there had been a car accident and they hadn’t survived. I forgot about that. I had managed to forget most of those details. Until today when the most dramatic and painful memories penetrated my forgotten past that had been blocked for years, thanks to my father.

I turned my focus back to my surroundings, trying to forget the “memories” that were no longer blatantly true. Parts of my life that I didn’t even remember were reliving themselves right before me. I don’t understand. What am I even looking at anymore? My heart raced, beating in disbelief, unsure of what to do next. My father lied to me. About all of it. I looked around and I knew that I couldn’t stay there and dig through the past – my forgotten past – for long, but after thirteen years of secrets, I didn’t have the willpower to turn away.

Footsteps overhead seemed to get closer. Did I close the door behind me? My heart throbbed as I waited. I sat there and debated whether or not I was willing to get caught or if it was worth it to discover more of this underground chamber – this extension of my mother and brother. Everything around me resembled them. Everything around me was them. The footsteps above me passed over the entrance and began to fade off into the distance. My heart went back to its new pace – a fluttering that had become constant upon discovering the slightly ajar door.

Stumbling in the dust to get up, I finally began to walk around. I ran my hands along the decrepit tables that weren’t far from collapsing beneath the stacks of boxes that rested on them. I took a deep breath and decided to open one of the worn-out boxes. It was resting on the corner of the table closest to the entrance and the flaps of the old box weren’t completely folded closed. Billowing with years of neglect, the box popped open revealing pictures that were stuck to one another, grimy and discolored. I worked through the piles of faded memories slowly and attempted not to ruin them as I pulled them apart and gave them each a glance over. Stuck to the side of the box there was a letter. Opening its crusty creases, it read:

Dear Clara,

If you’re reading this, that means you now know. I guess you now  understand why I kept the door locked all this time. Also, if you’re reading this, I’m sure I’m gone by now … I’ve been very protective of this room and have done my best to keep you from finding it while I was around. I wish I could protect you from the truth forever, but you deserve to know what really happened after all of these years, I guess I won’t ever be able to explain that to you completely, but I hope you don’t blame me.

I’m sorry I kept the truth from you. I’m sorry I kept Gineene and  Ralphy from you – the memories of them. I never intended to hurt you, but I couldn’t let you discover the truth, Clara. There was never a car accident – and I’m sorry I could never be a good enough father to you to tell you this to your face: Your mother did not hit that truck as the papers led you to believe…as I led you to believe. I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to tell you the complete truth even in writing, but I can show you.

Inside the envelope where you found this letter, there is a key. I’m sure you’ll figure out what it is for.

I’ve always loved you, Clara, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed and deserved. I hope one day you’ll understand.

Try to forgive me,

Dad

Rivers of water trickled down my cheeks as I tried to understand what his letter meant: How could they have not been in a car accident? What else happened to them? Where are they? Why hide everything if he had just wanted me to find it when he died anyway? Is it that difficult to face?

I realized I hadn’t found the letter in an envelope. Looking back in the box, I noticed a small crevice in the corner. I gave the box a shake and the key popped out. The key was too small to be for a door and it resembled the one I used to use for my jewelry box when I was younger. The key being hidden instead of placed in the envelope as he had said it would be, was typical of my father. He had raised me to look for the unexpected and to earn knowledge just as he had done throughout his life as a reporter.

Placing the key in the shirt pocket that rested lightly against the left side of my chest, I put the slightly damp letter in my jeans’ back pocket and continued to look through the boxes. They were stacked three or four high all across the room. Some were titled “Home Videos,” while others were labeled, “Pictures.” Without a VCR available, there wasn’t much I could do with the videos, but upon opening the box, I realized they were all dated from before I was four-years-old – before the so-called “accident.” I closed the boxes and put them back where I found them, before I turned to the photographs.

There were pictures of Ralphy – pictures I had spent years searching for and wished I had found years ago, were now right in front of me. Photographs of me hugging my older brother, being held by my mother, holding onto my dad’s pant leg, never wanting to let go. All of these memories flooded my vision. My father told me everything had been destroyed and that he couldn’t handle looking at their faces every day after the accident. There was only one picture he kept: a professionally taken photograph of the four of them that hung on the wall in the hallway upstairs. He told me he destroyed the rest of the memories lessen the pain; for coping reasons. But why lie about that? Why hide all of the memories?

Footsteps overhead sounded again, except this time doors slammed and things fell. My heart began to race when I realized that it was getting late and I hadn’t checked in with my dad since that morning when I had left for school. I heard every door in their condo-sized house open with a gust and slam with anxiety. After five minutes of the consistent slamming, the footsteps died down and I knew I was safe downstairs for now. Pulling out my silver phone, I saw three missed calls from my dad and the phone shimmered, telling me it was 9:42 P.M. – practically three hours late for dinner. I slid the phone open and found my dad’s number in the contact list and dialed.

I waited through the ringing while staring at the earth-packed ceiling of the secret vault.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“CLARA! I’ve been worried sick. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. I’m sorry I never called you... I got distracted. I’m at Sasha’s house. Can I stay the night?”

“I don’t know Clara... I haven’t seen you all day. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m fine. Please? We’re... we’re working on a project for school. It’d help our grade if I could stay longer...”

“I guess...”

“Thanks, Dad! I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Night.”

I hung up with a click and took a deep breath, thankful that my part of the lying was over for now. I hated lying to her dad – as ironic as that may seem now. He has always been there for me – or so I thought. It wasn’t such a horrible thing to fib a little bit this time. After all, I was supposed to be at Sasha’s; I just never went.

Pocketing my phone, I remembered the key in my shirt pocket. What truth could this thing show me? I closed the box of photographs of Ralphy and took a few steps forward, maneuvering my way through the maze of boxes and tables, until a gleaming piece of metal in the corner caught my eye. Lodged between two dusty stacks of boxes was a briefcase.

I brushed my fingers through the inches of dust that caked the outside of the briefcase and let out an exasperated, choking cough after yanking it out of its hidden nook. Turning the briefcase over, I noticed it was locked shut. The rusty piece of metal had begun to feel at home in my shirt pocket, but I pulled it out and placed it in the reddish-brown keyhole that had begun to chip away from age. With a sharp twist, the buckles released and a gap manifested between the top and the bottom of the briefcase. I slipped my calloused fingers into the gap and pried the briefcase open with a ruthless tug.

Newspaper clippings fluttered to the floor. Ones that I had never seen before. They were all about my mom and Ralphy. Reaching for one specific, dog-eared article that was still on regular printer paper, I read:

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MARCH 1998: Local family faces death. Mother and wife, Gineene Fitzpatrick, 29, was driving with her son, Ralph Fitzpatrick, 5, on Tuesday, March 17th towards the local petting zoo when an oncoming truck strayed into the lane, hitting the 1995 Subaru in a head-on collision. Gineene Fitzpatrick was killed instantly upon impact. Ralph Fitzpatrick was declared dead at Barton Memorial Hospital, due to severe trauma to the head. Father and husband, Roger Fitzpatrick, remains in his Kingsbury home with daughter, Clara.

Fitzpatrick? But our last name is Fitzgerald… It didn’t make sense. The byline was my father’s name, but as Roger Fitzpatrick. The heading was directed towards the Kings Journal as a submission for publication. But this doesn’t make sense. He wrote in the letter that there had been no accident. If that was true, then why would he have written this article? Fidgeting through the other papers, different headlines filled my sight: “The Truth Exposed!”, “On the Run”, and “Truth Is Out! Daughter Knows Nothing!” What are these? I picked up an article with the heading: “Father and Daughter Live In Denial” and read:

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – MAY 1998: Local family exposed. Father, Roger Fitzpatrick, submitted an article to the Kings Journal in March describing the fatal events in his family. Upon further investigation, it has been discovered that the article was fabricated to conceal the truth from friends and family. There was no accident. Due to the inability to locate death certificates for the supposedly deceased family members, Gineene and Ralph Fitzpatrick, Roger Fitzpatrick provided the Kings Journal with reluctant commentary on the matter.

“On Ralph’s birthday (5), Gineene took him out for ice cream and a trip to the zoo,” said Fitzpatrick. After two days had passed with no sign of Gineene and Ralph, Roger Fitzpatrick had immediately filed a Missing Person’s Report – a document that was found during the investigation. Ralph has yet to be found.

“Six days after she first left, Gineene returned home, but she refused to explain where she had been and why she returned without Ralph.

“Gineene confessed to taking an ‘extensive detour’ that day, but wouldn’t tell me where. I don’t know where she left my son or if he’s okay,” said Fitzpatrick.

Gineene refused to disclose any information of Ralph’s whereabouts, although police have reason to believe he was brought out of state. Gineene has since been located and arrested.

“I wrote the false story so my daughter, Clara, could grow up with no hard feelings towards her mother,” Roger Fitzpatrick told the Kings Journal.

Mouth hanging wide open, I finished the article and let it slip between my fingers. I can’t believe it. The real truth was hidden in a briefcase? Flipping through other articles, I realized they were all the same: Mother Abandons Child – Child Still Missing. They were all consistent in what happened – except for one. Going back, I found the article titled, “The Truth Exposed!” and read:   

KINGSBURY, NEVADA – JULY 1998: Four months ago former reporter, Roger Fitzpatrick, attempted to publish a false account of the whereabouts of his wife and son. After investigation, Gineene Fitzpatrick faces charges of child abandonment, neglect, and child endangerment. Ralph Fitzpatrick remains missing. Gineene Fitzgerald faces 5-10 years in prison.

How could he have done this to me? The words from his letter flashed before my eyes: “I couldn’t let you discover the truth Clara” … “I can show you” … “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed.”

At the bottom of the pile of newspaper clippings was a ragged and taped piece of rustic paper. Smoothing out the creases, words came into focus before me. Legal documents. My name scrawled across it in different forms. Fitzpatrick. Fitzgerald. Attached to the back was a near copy, but instead of “Clara,” it read “Roger.” He legally changed our names. To hide us. To hide me. From knowing about it all. Tears rolled down my freckled skin. Slipping down to the grimy floor, I wrapped my arms around my knees and pulled my legs close to my chest as I rested my head in my lap. What am I supposed to do now?

Moments passed. I sat on the cruddy, packed-down floor, leaning against a knobby dirt wall. Tears ran down my face, moistening the patches of earth that were scattered between various shoe imprints in the soil. I rested my head against my knee and curled up on the floor, trying to shake the awful lies that surrounded me. A gasp sounded from across the room. My father stood across from me, tears in his eyes as he looked at the pictures and articles that surrounded me on the ground. I just stared.