The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

do that if my mind is still haunted by the past? And if the two are tethered together, how do I vanquish my demons?

As I walk home, I spot the bright blue walls of Lucid. I wonder if Mr. Edgar showed Julian where the spare key is.

After Kat moved in with me sophomore year, I found myself staying late at Lucid more often. It was quiet and dark, the perfect place for me to study or think, mostly think. I thought about my mom and dad and Eva. I felt guilty for leaving them. Well, mostly Eva. She was only fourteen when I left for college. And without me there to distract my parents from her every move, she didn’t stand a chance in the realm of free will. I knew this. And still, I left. Now when I look at my sister, I see my mother’s reflection, only less jaded. And her marrying Bill, if it’s not history repeating itself, then I don’t know what is.

My mom was twenty when she married my dad. He was twenty-six. They met at college. She was a junior and a cheerleader. He was on campus for the homecoming game and after-party at his fraternity house. When your parents have been together for so long, it’s easy to think they always were, that their lives have always been connected. And while this typically isn’t true, it is for my mom. My mom had barely lived life before making it all about Carrington Marshall. And even though she’ll never admit it, she regrets it. Which is why I can’t fathom why she’s so determined to see Eva marry Bill, a man six years older?

Ever since I found out she and Bill were engaged, I’ve asked myself, why do I care so much? Why does their happiness affect me so? It’s easy to say because I have none, because my engagement failed, because my belief in commitment was shattered. But the truth is, I worry for Eva, because her story is too similar to my mom’s and mine.

I may not have married Beaux, but he still controls me. And to be controlled by a man while you’re still figuring out who you are, well, how will you ever know?

I find myself at Lucid and use my incredibly painful heels to an advantage in search for the spare key.

“Aha,” I say, grasping it from atop the door frame. “Now, let’s hope Julian hasn’t installed some sort of security system.”

Inside Lucid, I unhook my heels, tossing them to the side, and shuffle through the dusty records until I find my favorite, Clair de Lune. Despite my aching feet, I twirl around the dimly lit space as it plays. My long, black satin dress moves with my body in slippery elegance.

I remember the first time I heard the record. I was twelve, and it was the best thing about the pageant my mother forced me to compete in. Another girl named Sydney Mills performed a ballet routine to it, which I watched none of. After her first twirl, I closed my eyes and listened to the music as if I’d never heard music before. And in all actuality, I hadn’t. Not like this.

I breathe deeply, despite the dust in the room, and lift my head to the ceiling. I twirl faster and faster, swaying back and forth to the melody. I allow the piano to drown out my thoughts and silence my demons. I allow myself to forget, and for the five minutes and thirty-eight seconds that is Clair de Lune, I am okay. I am free. That is, until the music ends and the deafening silence allow the voices to creep back in. Or rather, his voice.

I find myself in a corner, arms wrapped around my knees and my face buried between my legs. After it happened, Kat encouraged me to go to therapy, especially after I decided not to press charges. I went once, and this is what I learned, a strategy for feeling in control even when you know you’re not. By making your body smaller, you train your brain to realize there’s less of you that can be hurt. What they don’t tell you is that it doesn’t work if the pain you feel stems from inside you.

Wet tears drip from my eyes onto the shiny fabric of my dress. If my mother were here, she’d tell me how unladylike it is to sit on the floor, in a dress no less, and how even the smallest drop of water can leave a permanent stain on such fabrics as this. But she’s not here. No one is. And with that realization, I let go.

Tears flood my face and dampen my dress all the way to my skin. I scream and choke as all the pain comes rushing back. Pain not only from the first time Beaux assaulted me, but the second—the time no one knows about, not even Kat. It was four months after we broke things off and . . .

“Emma?”

I jump at the sound of Julian’s voice. I lift my head so quickly it begins to ache.

“Emma! Are you okay? What happened?” he asks.

The figure that is Julian’s body rushes toward me, though I cannot see him for the tears in my eyes. “Emma, what’s going on? I heard . . . I heard you screaming,” he says, dropping to my side.

My lip quivers as I try to form words. I want to tell him that I’m fine, it’s nothing, and that I just had a long day. I am unable to. I don’t want to lie to him even though I can’t tell him the truth. When I don’t answer, he slings his arm around me and pulls me close to him.

His t-shirt is soft against my cheek. His arms are strong as they wrap around me. In such proximity the intoxicating aroma of mint and rain I’ve come to associate only with him is even stronger. I inhale it and allow it to calm my rapidly