Page 47 of When The Mountains Held Us

My little sister’s tears land on the hand that covers her mouth, and her body rattles against my own. I try to cover her ears, but I can only cover one as the other is held over her mouth. If I let go, she’ll cry out to Mom, and I can’t let that happen. Instead, I press her closer to my chest, praying that it’s over soon. He never lasts long when he’s drunk like this.

I don’t have enough hands.

There’s no one to cover my ears.

The memory fades, leaving me empty and aching on the living room carpet, slumped against the couch. I don’t know how I got down here, but I often find myself like this when one of these episodes hits me. I practice the breathing exercises that my therapist taught me all those years ago.

In for a count of three.

Hold for three.

Out for a count of three.

I repeat the process, allowing myself as many of these slow, deep breaths I need, while pushing back against the memory and willing it to crawl back to the pits of hell where it came from.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, my eyes watching but not seeing the moving images on the screen in front of me. It’s been a while since the memories hit me this bad, something I can only assume is triggered by Oakley’s own scare tonight. Overwhelming exhaustion consumes me, leaving my limbs weak. I lick my dry lips and try to swallow, my mouth and throat feeling like I took a bite of sandpaper and swallowed it down.

I’m just as broken as that girl upstairs. Maybe more so. How the hell am I supposed to protect her from something I know about so intimately, when the very thought of her being in danger sends me into a tailspin like this? If I’m lost to the dark place, how can I expect to shield her when and if the time comes? Who the fuck am I to think I can protect her?

I push myself up slowly and head into the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I remove the cap and down the entire thing in one go, desperate to bring some moisture back to my dry mouth. Tossing the empty bottle in the bin beneath the sink, I take a look around. The kitchen looks no different than it did this morning when I left, save for the dishes in the drying rack.

Two dishes. A stark reminder that I’m not alone in this house tonight.

There’s a woman sleeping soundly upstairs, unaware of the memories that plague me in the dark. A woman who made the dark place go quiet, if only for a little while.

I’m no stranger to trauma and the lasting effects it can have on a person. I’ve had my fair share of it in my lifetime, but I made myself a promise a long time ago that I would no longer let it dictate my life. I take another deep breath.

This episode doesn’t define who I am, nor does it negate the obvious progress I’ve worked hard and fought for over the years. My past is part of what makes me who I am, but even more so, that promise I made to myself all those years ago is a solemn reminder that I decide my own path.

I’m not responsible for my father’s actions, but I am responsible for mine. It’s not a notion I came up with on my own, or even one I came to accept overnight. It took years of therapy to rewire my brain to accept that I am not the bad guy. But still, fear has a way of slithering into our psyche and making us believe the lie that we are destined to become what we hate most in the world simply because that’s all we were taught.

It’s easy to accept that idea, easy to accept that it’s not our fault, and that we’re a product of our environment and life experiences, but as far as I’m concerned, that idea is a lie from the devil himself. I refuse to believe that all that will become of me in this life is the thing I fear the most.

I am not my father.

I take another deep breath and lean my arms against the counter, letting the island hold me up when my strength to stay standing slips. My limbs shake from the aftermath of the adrenaline, and I greedily gulp down another breath. A loud vibration against the counter startles me, my heart jumping into my throat at the intrusion when I already feel so raw.

When I search for the source of it, I notice a cell phone sitting on the counter. Oakley must have left it down here after her shower. The screen is lit with a text notification, and I fight the urge to grab it and look at who might be texting her this late at night. It’s well past midnight. We got back a few hours ago, and I have no idea how long I had been lying on the living room floor. Another vibration and the screen lights up with another text.

Tentatively, I reach out and pick up the phone, holding it out like it’s a bomb that’s about to go off at any moment.

I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t look. It’s an invasion of privacy that I have no business betraying. The phone vibrates in my hand again, and—damn it—I can’t resist giving in. She doesn’t have a lock on her phone, and the words that greet me leave a hollow feeling of unease in my stomach.

Unknown

Sorry I missed you earlier.

Don’t worry, I didn’t take much. Just what’s owed to me. Though after this stunt you’ve pulled, you and I both know you owe me a hell of a lot more than that.

I told you, baby, you can’t hide from me.

My stomach drops straight through the soles of my feet to pool in a puddle on the floor beneath me. I grip the phone tighter in my fist, fighting the urge to shatter it before another text comes through.

Unknown

I’ll be seeing you.

White-hot rage blinds me, and I have to take another deep breath to steady myself. Placing the phone back on the counter, I stare at it like it’s a venomous snake, each vibration a hiss echoing through the mountains surrounding me. Thankfully, it falls silent, but that doesn’t put me at ease. Those texts confirm the very thing I was afraid of.