The Illusion of Annabella

  “Why do you even care?”

  She diverts her attention to her food. “I don’t. I’m just sick of hearing Loki whine about it all the time. It’s starting to get annoying.”

  I think there’s something she’s not telling me. “How’d Loki find out about Miller getting busted for drug possession?”

  “Probably through town gossip.” She throws me a wave over her shoulder as she heads for the doorway. “Well, it’s been great talking to ya, but I have way better shit I could be doing, and I’m sure you want me to get the hell out so you can raid the cupboard and look for those pills you came down here for.”

  “I didn’t come down here for pills,” I say, feeling way too transparent suddenly. Am I really that obvious?

  “Sure you weren’t.”

  “I wasn’t, Alexis, so stop assuming things.” Noting the splatters of neon paint on the back of her grey t-shit and holey jeans, I shift the focus onto her. “Wait. Are you painting again?”

  She scrapes her fingernail across one of the pink paint spots on her shirt. “Nope, these are from last night.”

  “You’re still in your clothes from last night . . . What, were you, like, at a rave or something?”

  “That’s none of your damn business.” Shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth, she strides out of the room.

  Moments later, her bedroom door bangs shut and music booms through the house.

  I rush to the cupboard to check for my pain meds and immediately flip out. They’re gone. “Shit.” I slam the cupboard and massage my temples.

  I don’t need them. I’ll be fine.

  But my skin clams up just thinking about it, and as I head for the stairs, my body feels so weighted, heavy, like I have absolutely no energy at all, yet my mind is the opposite, wired, needy, begging me to feed the hunger inside. I swear I’m going to die if I don’t find a way to get some more pills. I just about break down and text Miller to buy me some and bring them over, but then I picture the last time I saw him, how his fingers marked my skin, how he held me down. My stomach burns just thinking about it, and I know I’m not ready to go to Miller for anything yet.

  When I shut my eyes that night, the last dose of pills I took is pretty much out of my system. I’m shaky and out of it and tumble into a dream for the first time since the accident.

  I’m in the rain in the middle of the road wearing holey ballet shoes too small for my feet. I know I’m supposed to go somewhere, but I can’t get my legs to move, as if the flesh of my feet has melted to the asphalt, and the pain is so unbearable, I nearly pass out. When I wake up, I don’t really understand the point of it, but the fact that I dreamed at all doesn’t sit well with me. I end up getting my father’s journal and stare at the envelope.

  Dennis, who are you?

  Drenched in sweat, I almost open it. But a half an hour later, I put the book away without looking inside. I spend the rest of the night streaming episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix and then turn on Halloween. Back in the day, I would’ve watched something cheery, like a romantic comedy, but mushiness is the last thing I think I can endure at the moment.

  After a night of horror movie marathon, with hardly any sleep, Loki barges into my room, looking stiff and awkward in the button down shirt and slacks he’s wearing. His shoes are shinier than lip-gloss, and even his hair is combed to the side. Only a year ago, when he came home from college last summer, he’d been sporting scraggily hair, a scruffy beard, and lots and lots of plaid shirts and torn jeans.

  He takes one look at the blood and gore on the screen and frowns. “You used to hate this kind of stuff. In fact, you’d almost pass out if you so much as got a paper cut.”

  My gaze remains locked on the television screen. If I look at him while I’m sober, I’m going to crack apart. “Things change after seeing your leg flayed open and your parents bleeding out next to you.”

  He studies me from the foot of the bed, then leans over to catch my gaze. “I’ve been thinking and talking to some people, and I really think it might be a good idea for you to see a therapist.”

  “No, thanks. I already spend way too much time with the school counselor.”

  “This isn’t the same kind of counselor. He specializes in cases like yours.”

  “I don’t have a case. My parents died and I changed. That’s it.” My voice is too high—too revealing. I quickly focus on the television screen.

  “You can’t keep running from the past like this. It’s unhealthy, and one day it’ll all catch up to you.” When I remain silent, he turns off the television. “You’re going to talk to a therapist. End. Of. Discussion. I’ll set up an appointment on the same days as your physical therapy, which you’re going to start going to tomorrow. I have an appointment scheduled, and I took off the morning so I can personally drive you there.” He smiles an ah-ha-now-let’s-see-you-get-out-of-it smile.

  “I’m not going to physical therapy. It’s just a waste of time.” I pick up the remote and flip the television back on “And, FYI, you really need to stop getting information from Laretta. She may think she can relate to you because she thinks Steve is like me, but she’s not a twenty-one-year-old parent to four teenagers, so her opinion’s pretty irrelevant. Plus, Steve’s been in jail more times than I can count.”

  “Don’t be so unsympathetic. Laretta’s a single parent.” He grows even more frustrated when I don’t react. “God, don’t you even feel the slightest bit bad for her? For anyone?”

  “I feel bad for you that you have to talk to her.” I feel bad for you for having to take care of me. I feel bad because you don’t know the truth. I feel bad because I do. Yes, Loki, I feel bad, but I worry if I tell you, I’ll tell you about everything. The pain. The secrets. The lies. The confusion. Everything I’ve done over the last six months. Tell you about the horrible person I’ve become.

  He steals the remote from me, clicks off the movie, and sinks down on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t come in here to argue with you.” He tugs his fingers through his hair, causing a few strands to go askew. “I came to tell you that I have some good news and bad news.” He rolls one sleeve of his shirt up then starts on the other. “The good news is the owners of the home you broke into have dropped the charges. I guess they know what happened to Mom and Dad and took pity on you.”

  “I don’t want anyone’s pity . . . I’m not a charity case.”

  “You should be damn grateful they do. Do you know how much shit you would have been in if it went to trial . . . You already have shoplifting charges pending against you that we have to go take care of later today.”

  I reach for a bowl of stale popcorn on my nightstand and shovel a handful into my mouth. My head is pounding from this conversation and my ears feel super sensitive to noise. “I thought that was next week.”

  “I reminded you yesterday morning and the morning before that.” He snatches the bowl from me. “Get up and get dressed so we can go. I want to get there early and try to look like I have some clue about what I’m doing. If you care about this family at all, you’ll at least try to clean up a little.” He leaves my room, slamming the door behind him.

  I sift through the clusterfuck of emotions streaming through me. Who do I go as? This version of me, whoever I am today? Do I get dressed in something appropriate? Who’s going to court? Me? I glance at the mirror. Her? Black liner rings my eyes, and my purple hair is a tangled mess.

  I really start missing the pills the more I think about it—the more I think period.

  I get out of bed and go into my closet to find something to wear. As I’m rummaging for a hoodie, my phone buzzes from my nightstand. Backtracking to my unmade bed, I pick it up. Even though I didn’t add him to my contacts, I recognize Luca’s number.

  Luca: Word on the street is the bad girl next door might be going to jail today.

  An audio file is attached to the message. I consider deleting it, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I push play. “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny
Cash turns on. I roll my eyes, but I’m on the verge of grinning as another text comes through.

  Luca: Or we can go more emo, if that’s what you’re digging today.

  Another audio file is attached, and with hesitancy, I click on it. “Prison Song” by System of a Down screams at me through the speaker of my phone. My fingers dance around the screen as I reply back.

  Me: I’m glad you find my messed up life so entertaining.

  Luca: I don’t find it entertaining. I’m just trying to cheer you up.

  Me: Well, it didn’t work. Not at all.

  Luca: Yeah, right. I bet you’re smiling right now.

  I brush my fingers across my mouth and find my lips turned upward.

  Me: Whatever. I so am not.

  Luca: Your short response means I totally win.

  My eyes shoot invisible daggers at the phone.

  Me: I’m trying to figure out what ur deal is . . . Why u r so persistent on making me smile and talking to me and wanting to hang out and be my ‘new best friend.’ It doesn’t make sense when clearly you’ve heard rumors about me. And u have eyes. Plus, witnessed me in fine Anna form the other night while I was hurling on the side of the road. That wasn’t an act. I really am messed up.

  Luca: I already told u I’m okay being around messed up people. And besides, u NEED to smile more.

  Luca: P.S. U totally lost me at the eyes thing. Please explain your weirdo-ness.

  Me: I meant you can c me, right? Ur not blind. U know what I look like.

  Luca: Um, yeah. I probably c u more than u want me to.

  His response makes me uncomfortable.

  Me: So how does your mom feel about u wanting to make me smile? Because I’m guessing u learned about my court date from her.

  Luca: My mom doesn’t really care about that. She tries to see the good in everyone, maybe too much sometimes.

  I wonder if that remark has to do with his sister or maybe even his dad who seems to spend so much time crying on the porch.

  Me: That doesn’t matter since I have no good in me. I’m all wicked, my friend. Trust me.

  Luca: Trying to scare me away with your wickedness? Because it’s not going to work. Plus, u called me your friend so u lose.

  I shake my head. How can he be so positive all the time?

  Me: I’m just trying to warn u that I’m a terrible person who does bad things and lies to good people.

  Luca: I’m not going to take your word on that. U have a messed up self-perception.

  Me: No, I don’t. I’m just saying stuff how it is. U won’t find anything good within ten feet of me no matter how hard u look.

  Luca: I bet you a date that ur wrong.

  Me: No way. I’m not betting u anything ever again.

  Luca: Too scared I’m right, huh?

  Me: No . . . U know what . . . consider it a bet. But ur not going to win.

  Luca: Trust me. I’ll totally win.

  “Anna! Come on! We have to go!” Loki yells up the stairway.

  Me: Good luck with that. I have to go before my brother loses more of his marbles.

  Luca: K. I just wanted to wish u luck. Cheer up and don’t let the man get ya down :)

  By the time I put the phone away, I’m grinning again. I try to get it under control, but it’s impossible. As I head for the closet, I purposely twist my knee, just to erase the happiness from my face. As my muscles wind into tight, painful knots, I realize how seriously fucked up I’ve am, preferring pain over happiness.

  Is this how I’m going to be for the rest of my life?

  As I’m slipping on a studded leather jacket over my baggy shirt, someone knocks on the door.

  “I’m coming!” I shout. “I’m just getting my shoes on.”

  The door creaks open and Nikoli pokes his head in. “Hey. Can I come in for a minute?”

  “Oh, I thought you were Loki coming to bug me to hurry up,” I say, reaching for my clunky boots that are caked in about two pounds of mud.

  He tentatively enters my room, instantly noting my bare walls. “What happened to all your posters and pictures you had hanging up?”

  “I took them down a long time ago.” Six months ago to be exact. Stuffed them away with my ballet shoes and leotards and hid them in the back of my closet where they’re now collecting dust.

  He ruffles his messy brown hair into place as he faces me. “You should put some of them back up when you’re ready. Your room’s kind of creepy without anything on the walls, like a tomb or something.”

  “Tomb? That’s an interesting choice of word. Are you reading ghost stories again?

  He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It was the first thing I could think of when I looked at your room.

  “Did Loki send you up here to make me hurry up?” I ask, picking up a hairbrush from my dresser.

  He shakes his head, staring out the window. “Nah, I came up here on my own. I wanted to talk to you about something . . . I want to ask you for a favor.”

  I roughly comb the brush through my tangled locks. “You know I’m not good at favors.”

  He meets my gaze. “You used to be.”

  For a faltering moment, I see my younger brother standing in front of me, the one I used to get along with and talk with all the time. The one I pushed in the swing when we were kids, stole cookies from the cookie jar with, played hide-and-go seek with.

  “We all used to be a lot of things,” I say quietly, dropping the brush into the dresser as I swallow hard.

  “I know. And I know things have changed, and no one’s the same, but I really don’t want to end up living in some weirdo’s house, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d at least pretend for the day that you care about someone other than yourself and impress this judge dude.”

  “No one’s going to take us away, Niki.” I feel so bad that he thinks that, and knowing Nik, he probably worries about it more than he lets on. “Loki just says that sometimes to get us to behave.”

  “He used to, but I overheard him talking to someone on the phone the other day, and he was muttering all these things about not taking us away and that he could handle it.” He scuffs the tip of his sneaker against the carpet. “Please, just do this, okay? Do it for Mom and Dad because they wouldn’t want us living with someone else. And you owe them. They were good parents.”

  I feel sorry for him for being in the dark about the truth, but at the same time, I envy him. It’d be so much easier to change my clothes and comb my hair—make myself presentable—if I could still hold onto those Fourth of July days filled with warm sunshine, showering fireworks, and the scent of apple pie. Now, every memory is tainted with thunder and lightning, and it’s hard to see clearly through the downpour.

  “But anyway, that’s all I have to say. Thanks for listening.” He rolls his eyes and leaves my room, as if he’s already convinced I’m not going to give him what he asked for.

  I don’t want to do it. I want to wear my tattered clothes and smudge on more eyeliner, cover myself up and sedate my body and mind by swallowing a couple pills. Walking into a courtroom as the shy, timid, fully aware of the consequences of her actions Anna will be a hell of a lot difficult. Not-gives-a-shit Annabella can deal with life so much better. Can deal with death. Getting into trouble. Knowing that she really doesn’t have a future anymore.

  No, I need to be not-gives-a-shit Annabella.

  But as I reach for the eyeliner, a tsunami of guilt crashes over me, pierces my heart, strikes my darkened soul.

  I attempt to ignore it as I slip on numerous leather bracelets, but as soon as I reach for the doorknob to leave, I hesitate. An invisible rope is tied to my waist, secured there by a guilt woven so thickly, I can’t break it.

  Letting out a sequence of curses, I shuck off my jacket, kick my boots aside, and wipe off my eyeliner. I dab on some lip-gloss, braid my hair, and change into a clean purple, button down shirt. The fabric has been untouched for so long that a layer of dust covers it. I brush it off, change m
y holey jeans for a pair of black slacks, and slip on a pair of ballet flats.

  Ignoring my reflection, I limp down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Loki’s eyes widen at the sight of me. “Wow, you look—”

  “If you say anything, I’ll go upstairs and change,” I tell him, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

  He elevates his hands in front of him. “I didn’t say a word.”

  I unscrew the lid off the bottle. “But you were thinking it.”

  “I was thinking a lot of things.”

  “I don’t care just as long as you keep them to yourself.” Otherwise I won’t be able to handle this. I move toward the door, but halt when he doesn’t follow. “Why are you just standing there? I thought we were on a time crunch or something.”