Chapter 13

Chapter 13

T he boy is standing in front of the coffin, a coffin made for a child, for a very, very small child. The size is approximately for a six-year-old. But the boy is older than six, he can't say exactly how old because it's never his birthday. He's grown lately, his pants now reaching his ankles. If he grows another twenty inches, he'll be as tall as the man.

He's still staring at the coffin, not knowing what the man intends to do with it. It's also not as finely worked as the coffins that the man usually sells and that the boy has to polish and oil for hours—actually, it's a box. The boy knows nothing of family or love, but he knows he would never put his dead child in such a box that was so carelessly thrown together.

"Who's the coffin for, sir?" He lisps because his tongue is swollen. Every word stings his throat, which the man's hands wrapped around yesterday and choked him until he almost lost consciousness.

"Well, what do you think?" The monster grins at him.

The boy's stomach twists into a knot, he knows that grin. It promises danger.

"It's too small for me, sir," he dares to say.

The grin widens. "If I break your bones, how small do you think I could fold you up afterward?"

The boy shifts from one foot to the other, there isn't a muscle that doesn't hurt. The monster's fists spared no spot.

"But don't worry, you little shit, someone else will take your place in the coffin." The man leaves the workshop and opens the adjacent, high-pitched squeaking steel door.

The boy hears a whimper and a chill runs through his veins.

The man can't be serious. He only wants to scare him. He has already punished him for trying to escape. He's not seriously going to…but deep inside he knows what's going to happen. He knows it even before the man comes in with Blacky in his arms. Blacky's legs are oddly twisted and he's yelping and whimpering all the time…

The boy feels something pulling over him. A bell made of ice. Nothing can come close to him anymore. He wants to say something, but he can't get a word out.

The man throws Blacky on the table. Blacky has only been fully grown for a month, a small retriever mix. The man bought him for himself, but Blacky never loved him, only the boy, the bastard with no name and no age. Eventually, the man gave up and tormented the dog as much as he could, knowing it would hit the boy even harder. Now Blacky is lying there on the table next to the coffin with broken legs.

The man pulls a thick rope from his pocket. "If you cry, if you make a sound, I'll kill you. And that damn mutt will suffer even more. Maybe then I'll burn him alive." He bends Blacky's legs even further and ties his four paws together.

The boy is standing there. How is he to weep when the horror is so great it mutes him? How should he weep when his chest is so constricted that tears cannot come out?

The dog's whining is everywhere. Anywhere but under the bell that isolates the boy. He keeps swallowing, but he doesn't cry. Although he wants to. This time he truly wants to because then the man would finally kill him. What is he supposed to do without Blacky?

Yes, yesterday he still wanted to run away, but he would have come for Blacky at some point. He had promised him that. So he took the key. For the first time, the man forgot to lock away the key for the back door before the boy was locked in the closet. The boy pocketed it, and when the man was in the bathroom, he used it. He unlocked it and ran through the yard. Running, running, he doesn't remember much more, he can't remember.

The man punches Blacky in the muzzle, yells for him to shut up. A thin thread of blood drips from Blacky's lips, but he no longer whines. He just looks at the boy, but the boy can't help him.

He will be alone again when Blacky is gone. It will be like before. His heart grows so heavy he feels like it's going to fall out of his body. No, the boy can't do it, he can't stand it. Help me! He cries silently, not knowing who is to come. But suddenly there is a glowing red fog inside him.

"Step aside," says a deep, unfamiliar voice. It comes out of the fog and the boy feels like he's being pushed out of himself and someone else is stepping in his place.

He's in the dark again. In this lonely silence of death. In a place without time. He could be in the coffin, he could be in the forest, he could be in the slums, he doesn't know. He wants to scream, but he is mute. He just listens.

Wasn't there something? Very quiet in the background? If he breathes shallowly, he can hear it. Yes, there is a voice. It somehow reminds him of the blue of bluebells. Of vastness, of the sky. He knows that voice; it whispers as if not wanting to wake him. He cannot move, but his mind follows the words. They are like wings that carry him to a better place. For a moment, he lets himself be carried away, forgets everything that was.

Coolness caresses my face. Birds are chirping all around me and a woodpecker is hammering somewhere. I blink a few times as if to focus my vision. The branch of a spruce bobs up and down in front of my face looking like a dark green fan. Dazed, I straighten up and try to wipe my eyes with my hand when raw pain shoots through my wrist.

Only then do I recall what happened: I had a flash and chained myself. But then it was twilight, now it's daylight. Early in the morning. My heart skips a beat.

What did I do with Lou?

Where is she?

Stiff, I get up and take a few steps toward the motorhome. Luckily, I spot Lou right away. She is not lying under the RV as I told her, but sitting against the side. She looks as awful as I feel. Frozen, wet, and neglected, but she seems fine otherwise.

I feel the kind of relief I felt back in the slums when I found something edible in the garbage. I want to call out to Lou, but then I realize I don't really know what happened last night. She ran away, I knocked her over, and grabbed her by the neck. I remember that, but after that I'm missing a few moments. I chained her up a short while later.

I watch her carefully, trying to figure out what I've done based on her behavior. I know absolutely nothing. There are still a few images of the boy in my head, nothing more…or is there? Wasn't this time somewhat different than usual? Was it because of Lou?

I walk quietly through the undergrowth to the graveled area, ignoring the biting burning under the handcuffs. I don't even want to imagine how tattered the skin underneath looks.

Meanwhile, Lou rummages in her pocket and pulls out the key for my handcuffs. Has she noticed I'm back to normal? Was I ever lucid last night? I don't think so because I pretty much always remember lucid phases during a flashback. And yet I have a memory. Something bright, clear, and vast like a streak of blue sky.

I watch Lou for a while as she tries to put the key in the lock. A smile creeps across my face. A genuine smile because that's so typical of her: trying in spite of knowing better. Just like her attempt to escape! The last thought erases the smile.

"I told you it only unlocks mine," I say before she breaks the key.

She barely flinches at the sound of my voice, but that's nothing new. When she looks up at me, her eyes are wary. "What happens if I give you the key?"

"I unlock our cuffs." I'm glad she didn't ask: What happened last night?

"And then?"

I can't help but smile again. "And then you should shower."

She looks down her mud-stained blouse to her dirt-caked feet. I notice even her face is covered with muddy brown specks. They look like big freckles, kind of cute.

When her gaze returns to me, something strange is reflected in it. Suddenly, I feel like a predator who is finally chained up where she can examine it safely.

"Are you going to punish me by putting me in the box?" she asks suddenly.

"Heavens no, Lou!" I exclaim, startled.

"But you threatened me with it!"

"I thought maybe locking you in there would be for the best if I… I mean, if that kind of thing happened." I raise my hands for show, the steel rings chafing my sore skin. Finally, I have an answer for her, even if it's a lie. I threatened her so she wouldn't try to escape and I wouldn't get a flash, but she doesn't need to know that.

She's still looking at me. "What are you going to do, then? You're going to do something, right?"

She already knows me too well. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't." I crouch down to eye level with her, hoping it takes away her fears. I study her for a few seconds, trying to figure out what's going on inside her, but I can't. "I don't remember what happened last night," I say honestly after a while.

She avoids my gaze, staring at her feet.

Apparently, she doesn't want to tell me either.

"Flashbacks, they're called. Reliving an old traumatic experience. Ever heard of them?"

She looks past me. "On TV," she whispers. "But I changed the channel."

I don't know if it would have been better if she had learned more, but from what I know about Lou, based on all her posts, things like that weren't important in her past life.

"There are different forms of flashbacks," I say, untangling a strand of hair that's stuck to my forehead. "Afterward, I never remember what I did. They start by everything turning black and white. Everything grows darker and seems like it's moving away from me." Lou is still looking past me. "Eventually, it's like I'm trapped inside myself, I'm not aware of my surroundings anymore." I risk a glance at my wrists. It's worse than I feared. The wounds on the wrist on which I wear the braided leather bracelet with the coin aren't quite as bad. On the other, the skin hangs in tatters all around, strips I could peel off like a rabbit's fur. Underneath is raw meat riddled with bits of bark, pebbles, and dirt.

"Must have been a bad one," I say. "I tried to break free, didn't I?"

Lou nods, a look of terror in her eyes.

"Once during a flashback, I beat someone unconscious because I thought he was"— a monster —"someone else. That's why I chained myself up. I didn't want to hurt you."

Lou's eyes narrow to slits. "You never want to," she whispers tightly, "and yet you do. Constantly!" She blinks a few times and I know what she's trying to hide. Weakness and tears.

I stare at a spot on the ground in front of me. "I'm sorry, Lou."

"Then why do you do it?" she hisses.

I look up suddenly. "You just can't run away. There's no point anyway. I'll always catch you. The old cat-and-mouse game."

Lou's eyes fire bursts of angry bolts of lightning at me. Okay, the cat-and-mouse insinuation was unnecessary—who wants to be the mouse anyway. I suppress a sigh because I continue saying the wrong things and I can't help it. "There are a couple of things that bring this out in me," I return to the subject again. "We call them triggers."

Lou looks at me like I'm a cockroach she'd like to crush under the sole of her shoe. "Um, are there any others? Seems like something I ought to know."

"Yeah, but I don't want to talk about them," I snap. I hate the look she gives me. "Now give me the damn key."

"You sound so mad. I'm not giving it to you when you're this angry."

I let out an exasperated sigh. "You're still scared." It's more of a question.

She looks at me silently, her free hand clutching the key. The disapproving expression on her face gives way again to this pleading that leaves me defenseless. She seems so tiny in front of the huge RV. A dull pressure fills my chest. I'm a pathetic idiot! Where do I get the idea I'm not scaring her? After all, she can't look inside me. And all this here is crazy: me, the wilderness, my flash.

"I could never do anything bad to you," I reply harshly. "What can I do that will make you believe me?"

"Let me go."

Her prompt reply makes me smile. "One–zero for you. But you know perfectly well that that's not going to happen. Now toss me the keys so that I can reach them."

"What if someone finds us here?" she snaps suddenly, jerking on the handcuff as if to beckon for help. "People are searching for me. Maybe the cops will fly over in a helicopter."

I think of the newspaper reports in the locked cupboard. "Maybe. Maybe not. The police believe you ran away. Same as hundreds of other teenagers every year. I don't think they're going to go to all the trouble of searching these deserted woods."

"You're lying!" she chokes out. "Of course they're looking for me. That's why you wouldn't let me watch Find Me ."

"I'll let you listen to the news if you want. You're not in them anymore." At least not in Canada . "What do you think your friends told the cops?" I give her a piercing look. "Your brother's so strict, he doesn't let you do anything…you said yourself you wanted to take the bus home. Or somewhere else. Trust me, the police have better things to do than run around looking for a rebellious little teenage girl. Give me the key and I'll let you read the newspapers from the first couple of days after you disappeared."

Lou purses her lips and peers up at the Travel America sign. "That's blackmail. It's not fair. And you know it." Her voice sounds like she's about to cry.

Now I've hurt her again, that sucks. I take a step back. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. But you can go on waiting, of course. Until we're both too exhausted to move. Which will be quicker for you than me." Lou glances over at me, only to stare back at the Travel America sign. "This territory is almost 200,000 square miles and has a population of 30,000. Nobody's going to save you here." She shouldn't have any hope. It's almost unthinkable that someone would come by here. Still, I need the key. Not that she falls apart in the end. If she faints from exhaustion, I can't help her.

For a moment, it appears like she's going to stay there, but then she apparently decides to come to her senses and scoots forward. As she stretches out the hand with the key in my direction, I can see how badly her fingers are shaking.

"You're really not going to put me in the box?" she asks in a shaky voice.

"Nope." I shake my head affirmatively.

"But you're going to do something else—you said that earlier!"

"True." I don't avoid her eyes. I want her to trust me so badly.

"What?"

I sigh loudly. "I won't lie to you. I hadn't planned on keeping you chained up permanently. But I suppose I'm going to have to for a while." That's a big part of the truth, after all. Obviously, I was hoping to be able to do without as soon as possible, at least during the day—I wanted to get by with the bell bracelets. There is no alternative during the night.

Lou slides back and leans her back against the RV. Lost in thought, she stares up at the light blue sky, her gaze following a few crows gliding over the moss-green treetops.

Does she honestly believe someone will come and save her? How bad does it feel for her to be here with me?

I think about how hard I knocked her over and how tight and unyielding my grip had been on her neck. At that moment, I didn't care if I hurt her because I was so angry. Even though it's buried deep inside me, I know what it feels like to be at the mercy of someone superior; being tied up, knowing the other could theoretically do anything to you. Anything. Truly everything. This time, I'm the superior one and that feels good. It gives me security. I'm okay, but what about Lou?

Thoughtfully, I look at her, but she's still sitting there staring at the sky.

I'm forcing her to live with me even though I can hardly stand it myself. How did my stepdad feel all the time I was locked up with him? Did it give him satisfaction? And if so, why? Why didn't he put me in a home when my mom left? Did he need someone to torment? But I don't want to torment Lou. And she shouldn't be afraid of me either because otherwise, it won't work with us.

Restless, I sit on the ground, grab two stones, and let them circle each other in the palm of my hand. The chain tinkles a delicate melody as it scrapes the raw skin with every movement. It burns like fire as splinters and dirt eat deeper into the flesh, but the pain is good. It takes my mind off what I'm doing to Lou and if I'm going to let her suffer like the monster made me suffer.

I don't know how long I've been sitting like this. The sun burns my crown and back and my damp clothes dry in the heat.

Lou still doesn't move. I don't want to get angry again because every time I do, I ruin the progress I've made with her, yet I can't suppress my impatience.

If she does pass out, we have a problem.

During the course of the late morning, she lies down under the RV and I hear her mumbling numbers to herself. She may not even be aware she's talking to herself. I watch her for a while. She seems to be scratching something in the dried earth with her stick. It seems strange to me. She seems strange to me.

One time she looks at me from under the RV. Reproachful and discouraged. And a little pleading. At least that's how it seems to me, but how things seem is often not how things actually are. Besides, everything appears different to me today. Even my flashback seems different than usual, in retrospect. And I feel different. More real. More in my body. Not like I'm simply wandering through this life like a ghost.

The powder-blue sky thickens and changes color to a brilliant steel blue. As the sun climbs to its zenith, it gets sizzling hot and the air stands still as if a glass bell has been put over the area.

I pace up and down restlessly, kicking stones back and forth while doing the math on how much Lou has eaten and drunk over the past few days. She's still under the RV and I feel my anger rising again because she refuses to use her head.

"If you're trying to provoke me," I call out to her at some point, "it's working."

"I'm waiting for someone to rescue me," she calls back.

"Not going to happen."

"We'll see about that," she insists defiantly.

"Yeah, we will."

Okay… Lou has perseverance. That's what I'm learning about her today. Despite last night, in which a thunderstorm must have raged without me being aware of it, during which I most likely freaked out, she serves me pushback. On the other hand, maybe she's merely desperate enough to cling to even the tiniest straw.

I disappear between the spruces because I need to pee and wonder if Lou might have to, too. At any rate, when she has to go to the bathroom, she will give up her resistance, I'm certain of that.

For the rest of the afternoon, I find myself a shady spot and sit down with my back against the trunk of a pine tree. With my eyes closed, I listen to the sounds of the forest: the gentle buzzing of the bees, the chirping of the birds, the rustling and crackling of the chipmunks in the undergrowth.

Finally, as the light begins to fade and the shadows lengthen, Lou crawls out from under the RV frozen stiff. She doesn't look at my face, but at my stomach. Without saying a word, she throws the key in my direction—much too high. I manage to catch it before it flies over my head and lands out of reach. Clumsily, I unlock the handcuffs and walk over to Lou.

When I see her, I don't know whether to shake her or hug her. She presses against the side, trembling, yanking at her bonds as if she wants to break free and flee.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I blurt out far too harshly. I'm starting to feel like a parrot. I crouch next to her and undo the handcuffs. Our bodies touch, but she sits still. In order not to scare her, I stand up extra slowly.

"Come on. You need to drink something." I grab her arm to help her up and she gasps in pain.

I let go immediately. "What's wrong?"

"I can do it myself!" she snaps. With one hand on the RV, she heaves herself up and clenches her teeth.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"No!" Lou crosses her arms defensively over her chest.

She couldn't be more obvious! Sternly, I grab her wrist. "I don't believe you. Let me see!"

"I banged my arm," she says too hastily. "It's not a big deal."

"Banged your arm, hm." I look her in the eye until she looks away and rolls up the sleeve of her blouse. "Oh, shit!" What I see terrifies me. There are two bruises on her upper arm as big and purple black as overripe eggplant. Basically, the whole arm is a single bruise, just in different stages. Her elbows are surrounded by a yellow wreath that must have come from the day of the kidnapping, with green, blue, and green-blue spots everywhere in between.

"Both arms?" I demand through clenched teeth, wondering how that matters.

She nods, but doesn't meet my eyes.

Anger wells up inside me, this time at myself. "It won't happen again!" I blurt out. "Never. You have my word, no matter what happens!"

She slips out of my grasp. "Don't make promises you can't keep." Trembling, she rolls down her sleeve before looking hard at my face. "But even then…" She shakes her head wildly. "Do you seriously think these bruises are worse than anything else you're doing to me? Trust me, you could beat the crap out of me, rape me, whatever, I wouldn't care as long as you dropped me off by the side of the road afterward."

I wince like she head-butted me in the stomach. Everything in me turns. I would like to grab her and press her against the RV, yelling that she's completely insane to even think such a thing. I clench my hands to release my anger. "You don't know what you're saying," I reply with an iron-cold calm. "You've lost your mind. Go on, get inside." I nod to the side door and this time she obeys immediately.

Lou first goes to the bathroom while I run water over my torn wrists at the sink. My gaze falls on the wide scar that is usually hidden by the leather strap. It goes once around the joint and looks like a burn. The monster didn't give a damn if my skin tore, bled, or wept through the bonds. He also never switched sides like I do with Lou. A few times, he even made me dip my hand with raw flesh in a bucket of salt. I had to count to fifty, often more. Sometimes, when the weather changes or the seasons change, the scar tissue starts to sting. Then, I smell salt and blood in the air, hear myself counting, and feel the pressure of the suppressed screams in my lungs. The memory of the pain sickens me.

I quickly put the bracelet back on. Luckily, today's fresh wounds are in a different spot.

I've just finished as Lou emerges from the bathroom.

"May I take a shower?" she asks, her voice monotonous as if she's been alone for the past few years.

"Sure." I shake my hands to let the water roll off. "Shall I get you your shampoo and shower gel?"

She grimaces like she's about to burst into tears.

"You can also use my things," I say quickly. I open the closet above me and pull out a brand-new black-pepper-and-mint-scented body wash and Irish shampoo. I hand it to her and she immediately retreats into the tiny shower room.

Maybe she's afraid I'd only picked out shower gel for her that turns me on. I have no idea what's going on in Lou's head. After what she just threw at me, I don't know anything anymore except that she strongly despises me. But that was to be expected. It simply takes time. I've always had to wait for the most important things in my life: for the lid to open, for escape, for food to be found, for fights, and for the healing of wounds afterward. Maybe that's why I'm so impatient with everything else.

While the water is running in the shower, I gather the things I'll need for Lou later: Iodine, a pair of scissors, and the herbal ointment with rosemary. As I go to the mirrored cabinet in the bathroom to get Band-Aids and gauze bandages, I hear her sobbing.

Not just a little bit, but so violently and desperately that a cold hand closes around and squeezes my heart. I can't help it and stand close to the door—it's like a compulsion. I don't deserve anything else. I told her I could handle her feelings, but this is tough. She cries and cries like she can never stop, like she's choking on her big deep sobs.

I swallow. I would like to go in to her right now, but that would be the worst thing I could do. She doesn't want me, nothing of me.

When the pounding of the water suddenly stops, Lou immediately becomes dead quiet.

I turn to the water gauge behind me. The red lamp lights up. I silently walk a few feet away from the door. "You used all the water in the tank!" I shout loudly.

Silence. Moist, hot air seeps through the gap between the floor and the door. "Are you all right?"

Still silence. A bad feeling overcomes me. She couldn't have found razor blades, they're well hidden. "Louisa? Everything okay?" Has she passed out?

When she doesn't answer again, I throw the door open without giving a thought to the fact that she might be naked. She stands before me like a mummy, wrapped in a white towel but completely frozen. What can be seen of her skin glows scarlet, looking almost burned. I make a note in my head that I need to turn the water heater's maximum temperature down so she can't intentionally scald herself.

She walks past me far too ghostly, disappearing into the RV's bedroom and pushes the folding door shut behind her.

It takes an unbearable amount of self-control not to run after her to hug her, stroke her hair, and promise her that one day everything will be fine. I just know it. No one resists forever, and if you can't change the circumstances, you accept them as normal. You stop fighting.

I set out a tray with water and a bowl of oatmeal and wait another hour for her to calm down. Before going to her, I stir hot milk into the flakes.

"Lou?" I pull open the folding door with one hand.

She sits in the dark with the shades drawn, staring straight ahead, kind of at me, but actually sort of through me.

"Here, for you, something to eat." I set the tray down on the bed in front of her, then turn on the light.

She's wearing the black T-shirt and capri Levi's jeans. I chose both pieces independently of her clothes because I liked them so much. The wide neckline of the shirt reveals her delicate collarbones. They stand out, reminding me of two finely curved wings.

Lou's expression is still as if frozen.

"You have to eat something," I say after standing by the bed for a while, waiting.

Lou doesn't move. Sighing, I pull up the shades and slide open the window to let in some fresh air. It is already evening, but there is still quite some light. The clear whistle of a hermit thrush penetrates the RV, and in the background, the toc-toc-toc of a woodpecker sounds again. "I won't leave until the bowl is empty."

Apparently, the threat does its trick because Lou starts eating: spoon in the oatmeal, spoon in the mouth, swallow. And she repeats the movements like a robot. Inanimate .

Just as mechanically, she drinks the water I give her.

As I bandage her chafed wrists, her condition does not change. Listless, she lets everything happen to her, following my words like a marionette, completely without will. To be on the safe side, I press the ointment for bruises between her fingers so she doesn't feel like I'm using the injuries as an excuse to touch her. Like a sleepwalker, she rubs her arms absently like she's a million miles away. Finally, I tend the abrasions on her knees before putting the ointments back in the kitchen cupboard.

I realize I must chain her now even if everything inside me is against it. I hesitantly go back to her.

"Give me your left hand again."

She holds it out to me with a dull look.

I want to swear and bang my fists against the RV's paneling. Goodness gracious, Lou! Scream at me again, cry, but do something! Please, do something! Clenching my teeth, I untie the cuff and snap it around her ankle. "So your wrists can heal a bit." As soon as I've said it, I realize how horrible it sounded, like she's doomed to live with chains forever. With a sigh, I click the free ring of the handcuffs onto the iron chain that still hangs in its peg on the wall.

I actually wanted to leave her alone today, but when I leave, I have to think about her words again. "You weren't serious earlier, were you?" I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at her.

She doesn't say anything, instead, she grips the fabric of the T-shirt and twists it into little sausages.

"That you wouldn't care if I raped you and beat you half to death if I would just drop you off by the side of the road afterward."

Maybe it's the harshness of her own words that brings her out of her rigid state, but suddenly she looks like she's present again.

I still don't get a real reaction.

I shake my head in resignation. "I really must be a monster."

She closes her eyes, avoiding my gaze. Her fingers clench the fabric of the shirt so tight her knuckles turn white.

"I merely want you with me. That's all… I won't touch you again…especially not in the way you think. Not as long as you don't want me to."

She doesn't move, breathing shallowly as if my words were a perfidious lie and I might attack her. I don't know what else to do to make her believe me. I recall the moment again where she was drugged and had wrapped her arms around me, and my dreams of her here in the Yukon. I still feel that dark deep burning in my chest, but it flickers less intensely.

"I'll wait until you're ready. I promise," I hear myself say and I've never meant anything more seriously.

Maybe it's the softness of my words that makes Lou look up.

"That's never going to happen," she says after a pause, her voice cracking. "Ever."

This time, she doesn't look away, yet it's like she's completely withdrawing from me as if I had never possessed her less than in this moment.

Maybe that's why I take a step toward her, to show her that it's impossible to escape me. Maybe I simply have a problem with her contempt.

I unfold my arms, which I had crossed, and hold my wrists in front of her, the torn skin and raw meat. "This time, you were lucky. I was able to chain myself up in time," I reply angrily. "I might not make it next time. So think carefully about if you want to try to run off again." I purposefully direct my gaze to the chain. "Assuming I ever give you a chance to try."

With that, I turn and march away. Her words sink deep inside me like an anchor: That's never going to happen. Ever .

Okay, Lou, we'll see about that!

I can't help it, I'm furious. I know how wrong it is and that I have no right to be angry. It is obvious that Lou hates me. But my feelings completely ignore that. I'd like to rage and scream and rip the steering wheel from the RV's column and throw it into the forest like a Frisbee, but then I recall how desperately Lou cried in the bathroom.

It's like there are worlds between the things I feel. I've never felt the difference so strongly—it's like a crack dividing me in half. Good Bren, bad Bren .

I go outside, slam the door behind me, and light a cigarette, but the nicotine doesn't soothe me. I walk a few yards into the woods and pound my fists on a lodgepole pine. The bark cracks, revealing the underlying layer of bast. My wrists explode in pain and start bleeding again.

I stop, my breathing ragged. I don't know which I prefer, pity or anger. Anger is wrong, pity is right. But anger doesn't go away just like that simply because my mind knows it's wrong to feel that way.

When I return to the RV, I don't know who I am or what I'm supposed to be like anymore.