The Fall

Fifteen

So here's the thing, dear reader. I've been writing all of this, detached and omniscient, but I don't think I can do this anymore. I have this urge to defend myself, inexplicably, because I know (protip: your therapist is never wrong) that nothing that happened was my fault. But I...I don't know. It feels like it's time to end this, because I don't know if I can finish this story without my mind doing what it always does and romanticizing what happened.  Even though I'm in college now, I feel this urge sometimes to call him and now that I'm having to talk about him on a  weekly basis, it's only getting worse. I think this needs to be the last entry, okay, guys? I've been getting e-mails from readers and shit, and it's just crazy because so many girls have this exact same story and nobody talks about it. SO her goes the last entry, which is probably the worst, but just take my word for it that things got better. Because they did. 

Anyways, I don't know how I got him to make me come over for Christmas. I think he had this weird power over me that tunes me into a different person. I've been analyzing all this, and I still haven't figured it out. I usually tell these stories in some kind of chronological order, all poetic and whatever, but I'm just going to skip to the important parts because honestly, I really hate recounting all this. 

We had sex. 

As Ryder unhooked my bra and gently pushed me onto my back, I realized I wasn't breathing. His body was a weight, constricting my airways and suffocating me underneath him. I tried to get myself oriented, remind myself where and who I was- but it seemed as if I had already split off into two different people, like I was watching myself from afar behind an unbreakable pane of glass.

I wanted to break that glass, the strange barrier between my mind and body. I wanted to smash it into a million little sharp pieces but I couldn't bring myself to move.

There was the real me, a scared fifteen year old lying perfectly still on the bed, under the influence of a boy she had known for all of four months. And then there was the girl doing what my mind wished I actually was, pushing him off of me. My mind was screaming at me to do something, to scream, to go for the nuts and run out of the room, but I was paralyzed.

He traced his finger over my hips, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. I closed my eyes and willed him to stop, ask me if I was okay, do anything but this. His hands felt rougher than they really were, like needles pricking my skin whenever he touched me.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful." he said softly.

I think I shook my head at that point, maybe I squeaked out a no. To tell you the truth, I don't remember.

I vaguely remembered hearing in some teen magazine somewhere that you were supposed to pee after sex, so I slipped out of his room and tried to find the bathroom. His house wasn't near as small as he said it was, so between its size and the darkness I ended up in a room I had never seen before. It had pale pink walls and a crib in the corner, and there was dust coating every surface. It looked like nobody had stepped in there in years. I made my way over to the pile of things, mostly toys, in the center of the room. 

On the top of the stack, there was a card, with a floral design on the front. I debated for a moment, then opened it. 

Our deepest sympathies, it said in an embossed cursive font. Then, in loopy black ink: We were all so happy when we found out you were pregnant. Despite her short life, Emily will surely be missed. Sincerely, Carol and Martin.

Then, the words that made my breath catch in my throat: Emily Mitchell, January 9, 2001--March 12, 2002. 

Emily hadn't died in Afghanistan. She had died as a baby, and Ryder barely even knew her. 

I ran back in his room, grabbed my clothes, and ignored Ryder's protests as I got the hell out of his house. I knew exactly where I needed to go and who I needed to see next, and luckily, it was only a half mile away. I rang the doorbell, crossed my fingers, and waited.

"Kacey? It's, like, 7AM. What are you doing here?" asked Lena. 

"Oh my God," I said, letting myself in and almost collapsing on her couch. "Lena, it's...it's abour Ryder." 

Sympathy flashed across her face. 

"Tell me everything." 

A/N: I'm aware the ending might seem a little rushed, but I just really needed to finish this. I hope you liked Kacey's story.