Page 129 of Unspoken Truths

“So you need space?” Lili asks to make sure as I let the blanket drop and strip off my undergarments.

My mom’s eyes trail over the words that she can see, while I firmly refuse to look still. I’ll do that in a few minutes, from the shower, while I’m alone to process things.

“Yes, please,” I tell her, disappearing into the shower. The warm water feels like a million needles in my chilled skin, forcing me to swallow back a hiss.

“We’ll be in your room,” Mom says, walking out with Lili.

Reaching for the shampoo, I see the word “Selfish” across my inner arm. This is easier to discard, because I don’t feel that I am. I have moments of selfishness like anyone else, times where I need to look inward in order to be able to keep from exploding into a million pieces.

However, I do not think I’m selfish. Whoever wrote that doesn’t know me at all. That’s the rub, the infernal nature of hating someone on sight. There are times where you don’t know them well enough to make the deeper cuts.

Taking my time to wash my hair twice, and then leave the conditioner in, I begin to tackle the dried mud from my skin with body wash and my shower loofah. Slowly, more words begin to appear as the dirt and grime wash away.

Most are bullshit words designed to make me feel bad about my body, which I refuse to do. While every teenage girl has their hang ups, I have Lili who tells me how beautiful I am. She will never let those words grab hold of my mind, not now or ever.

The words fat cow, bitch, or flabby are inconveniences that live on my skin for now. They’ll all come off eventually. It’s the word “weak” across my hip where I used to cut that brings tears to my eyes though, the breath leaving me as I sag against the cool tile wall. Though these boys don’t know me well, the secrets they know from my files at the psychiatric hospital are enough for them to make up their own narrative.

So many awful moments where I was simply trying to make sense of my life scar my hip, and this is how I’ll always remember them. The Kings can’t make me feel differently about how I experienced trauma, I’ve already repeatedly pulled myself through the wringer.

“Fuck them,” I whisper, continuing to scrub at my skin until all the mud is gone.

“Rachelle?” Mom calls through the door.

“This mud is not being cooperative,” I call back. “I think it’s as good as it’s going to get now. I’ll be right out after I finish washing the conditioner out.”

As I tackle rinsing my hair, I promise myself to take care of its length as well. I’m so tired of having it yanked on. I want to stop being a victim, something I can see is written across my chest.

Fuck the Kings and the lies. Victims only remain so if they refuse to get back up. This girl has a lot to say about their choice of lies to scrawl across my skin.

Turning off the water, I open the door to grab a towel, promising myself that no matter what, I’ll always continue to get back up.

CHAPTER24

LILIANA

“Mr. Emil, I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whisper in the hallway as the paramedic talks to Rachelle.

Somehow, this shit always seems to go down in the living room. I’m glad it stays out of her bedroom so she has a safe place, but I hate seeing her so hurt. I can hear the paramedic checking her blood pressure, and telling her that he’s going to need to start an IV with an antibiotic because she’s dehydrated and to keep her from getting sick from her swim in the creek.

“Come with me,” he mutters, glancing at the living room.

“I’m going in with her,” Julia says as she sees us talking. “Go be mysterious somewhere else.”

Unbidden, a small smile tugs at my lips, despite the rough day. Julia is starting to grow on me. She could have flipped her shit and made things worse, but instead she’s been keeping things calm. She was a nurse once, so it makes sense that she would have a cool head.

As Julia walks into the living room to sit with Rachelle, I follow Mr. Emil to his office. I changed earlier into a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt I had in my bag from spending the night, but didn’t have time for a shower.

All of my energy is focused on Rachelle right now, I can live with feeling a little gross and my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head for now.

“Do you have your phone with you?” Mr. Emil asks, sitting in a chair other than the one behind his desk.

Pulling it out of my pocket, I show it to him as I sit across from Mr. Emil. I don’t often spend much time here, as there’s no reason for it. There’s a cappuccino machine behind him at a coffee nook, books all around us in a library of some sort, and all the furniture is made of dark wood.

It’s the equivalent of a man cave. I will never say that out loud because he still scares me, but it’s amusing to think about.

“Send my son the meanest message you can possibly imagine, please,” he says. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m living vicariously through you.”

Shaking my head, I open my messages, surprised to find there’s one waiting for me from Ignacio. I haven’t checked my phone outside of texting my father that I’d be spending the night here again.

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