When my mom finally arrived, I stood up and walked slowly toward her, my eyes cast down at the floor.
“What happened?”she asked.Andrea froze, seemingly waiting for me to speak, but I remained silent.
“She wanted to play, but I didn't have time.I guess she's just mad at me,” he finally replied.My mom looked at me and took my hand.
“Let's go; it's pouring outside,” she said.Just then, Andrea rushed over from behind.
“You forgot your doll,” he said, forcing a smile as he offered it to me.I didn't take it, nor did I look at him.My mom glanced at it for a moment before angrily snatching it from his hands.
“What on earth is going on with you today?”my mom asked as she opened her umbrella.By the time we reached the car, we were soaked.I stole a glance at the doll sitting beside me, wondering if she could see what had happened.But even if she did, she couldn't speak about it.
My mom continued to chatter, but I was lost, still trapped in that studio.I couldn't find the words to express what I felt, nor did I want to.I felt like that doll, silent and still.
My mom pulled me out of the car, and, drenched, we entered the house.She kept talking, shaking me, but no sound came out of me.I would rather not speak—now or ever.Confused, my mom told me to go change, and I obeyed.
For days I remained silent, and my mom voiced her worries to Andrea, asking him repeatedly what had occurred, but he offered no clarity.My dad desperately tried to engage me with anything, but I remained mute.
At school, I didn't speak either.I completed my homework, wrote, and read, but I didn't utter a word.Perhaps I was processing everything; I couldn't quite justify my behavior.A twist of emotions churned within me, mostly anger, and for reasons I couldn't comprehend, I directed that anger at the doll.I blamed it for everything.
For weeks, I wrestled with the memories, desperately trying to erase them as if forgetting would make them untrue.I thought that if I never spoke of it, it would be as if it never happened.
However, my attempts to suppress those memories only distorted them, creating false recollections.Eventually, I couldn't tell what was real and what was fabricated.My mind began to block access to specific memories to shield itself, but I still retained fragments of recollection.
I decided to convince myself it was merely a bad dream, a nightmare.I repeated that to myself each day.My parents, in their desperation, took me to various doctors who posed the same questions I had no desire to answer.Some suggested a change—perhaps a vacation or redecorating.
My parents opted for both: they painted my room and bought new furniture, and then we took a week-long vacation.Upon returning, I realized that this fresh room could symbolize a new beginning.I could ignore the past and start anew.
Yet, I still had the doll I loathed.I had convinced myself it was responsible for everything, and it deserved punishment.I stepped onto the terrace, walking to the edge, and watched as the doll tumbled to the ground.
It didn't shatter completely, but its face cracked.I felt a sense of justice; it had paid for its transgressions.I left it there until my mom discovered it, her disappointment evident.
When I finally told her I didn't want to play with dolls anymore, she was taken aback, seemingly forgetting everything else.
I couldn't rationally explain my actions.That was my unique way of coping, of overcoming what had been done to me.I still struggled to comprehend why life had chosen to punish me at such a young age.What had I done?What was my fault?
Life, fate—whatever you call it—seemed to see it as a challenge, because what lay ahead would be something not everyone could survive.
Chapter 39
Iwoke up in a cushioned chair, a cup of coffee and a bottle of electrolytes perched on a small table beside me.Across the room sat Andrea, absorbed in a computer, presumably sifting through the photos we had taken earlier.He glanced over at me with an air of indifference, and offered no word.
Confusion washed over me—how could he act so casually after everything that had occurred?It had really happened, hadn't it?I wished it were just a bad dream, but the memories lingered, the discomfort still fresh, and his scent clung to me.
He approached, and I felt paralyzed.He reached for the bottle of electrolytes, twisted off the cap, and extended it toward me.
“Drink this; it'll help you feel better,” he said.I couldn't wrap my mind around it.
“How can you expect me to take anything from you after what you did?”I shot back, hoping he would deny it, that this was all a figment of my imagination.He hesitated, then set the bottle back on the table.
“At least drink the coffee; it'll help clear your mind,” he suggested, moving to perch himself on the edge of the table instead of returning to the computer.I sat there, bewildered, weighing my options—scream, run, cry, or lash out—but I was frozen in shock, unable to move or react.“What happened shouldn't have happened, but it was consensual…” he began, only to be interrupted by my outburst.
“But you—!”My anger bubbled up, and I spat the words out.
“Shhhh…” he held a finger to his lips, motioning for silence.“I didn't.You provoked me.And it can't be proven otherwise; your body was, well, relaxed.”
“But the juice—!”Tears streamed down my face.
“I didn’t.You took a pill from your mother's purse,” he countered coolly.
