I wrap my arms around my body and shake my head back and forth in denial. It doesn’t make sense. I want to argue that he’s wrong but I can see the truth written all over his face. He was honestly afraid for my safety. He saw me out at the end of the dock and pulled me away before I could jump in. It’s impossible to be afraid of someone who clearly wanted to save me, instead of harm me. I forget about the fading bruises on my wrist that matched the fingerprints he left on my upper arm the other day because maybe he tried to save me one other time, and I just don’t remember. The only things I’m afraid of right now are the things he knows about me that I don’t.
Without another word, I sidestep around him and take off, fleeing toward the prison. When he shouts my name, I don’t even look back. I run away from the lake, and I run away from the person who could be the key to unlocking my memories. I run because for the first time since I woke up, I’m not sure I want to know the truth.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old, and I live in a prison. I have dreams of swimming until my lungs want to burst…but I don’t know how to swim.”
Chapter 6
I rudely elbow my way through a group of tourists milling about in the hallway, waiting their turn in the gift shop. I ignore the shouts of protests when I bump into shoulders and shove people out of my way as I run down the hallway and race up the stairs. I hear my father call my name in a worried voice, but I ignore him as well, escaping into my room and slamming the door closed behind me.
Staring at the pristine pink room with the bed neatly made, I scream in frustration, stomp over to the covers and rip them from the bed. Before I went outside this morning, I found a dark blue comforter in the bathroom closet and remade my bed with something I found appealing, instead of something that disgusted me. My mother must have switched the blankets after I left to go on my walk. In a fit of rage, I crumple the pink comforter in my arms, open the window next to my bed, and toss it out into the air. Clutching onto the windowsill, I watch it flutter to the ground, landing in a heap in the grass two stories below, and wish I could follow right along with it. Maybe a good solid fall from a second-story window will jar my brain enough that everything starts making sense.
With a frustrated growl, I turn from the window and give the metal frame of my bed a few good hard kicks. The bed shakes and rattles each time my foot connects with the frame, and after the fourth kick I hear a dull thump from underneath. I immediately put a halt to my temper tantrum and drop down on all fours next to the bed. Lifting the ruffled pink bedskirt with one hand, I peer beneath the bed. Lying in between a few dust bunnies and one stray sock, I see a book that must have been the cause of the noise, falling out of its hiding spot when I took my anger out on my bed. Reaching underneath the bed, I grab the book and pull it toward me, letting the ruffled skirt fall back into place as I hold the book in my hands and sit back on my feet. Skimming my hands over the worn brown leather, I realize it’s a journal and excitement courses through me, even though I don’t recognize the book. Obviously it’s mine since it was hidden under my bed. Cradling the journal to my chest, I scoot backward to the wall directly below the window and lean against it, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting the book on top of them. Flipping open the leather cover, the first few words on the page, written in flowery, cursive script, make me smile.
“The diary of Ravenna Duskin. Keep out!”
The words keep out are underlined three times. Turning over the first page, my smile fades when I’m met with a blank page. I turn to the next page and it’s blank as well. Lifting the book closer to my face to inspect it better, I spread open the binding as wide as I can, my finger tracing down the center of the journal where there are several missing pages, ripped out of the book as close to the bindings as possible so as to leave barely a trace of evidence that they are gone. Shaking my head in annoyance, I quickly flip through the few remaining pages in the book, my frustration growing when I realize I won’t find anything helpful, until I get to the final page in the book. My hand stills on the last page, filled with words from the very top all the way to the bottom. Every space of this page is covered with ink, including the side margins. The words at the top start out very small, almost too small to read, but as they continue down the page, they grow larger, the ink becoming darker and darker as some of the words were traced over multiple times. The pretty, flowing script on the first page doesn’t look like my handwriting, even though I know it must be mine. Running my fingers over the harshly written words on this last page, I know with absolute certainty that these words are mine. This tight, angry block lettering is mine and these words repeated over and over again are mine. I don’t recognize the journal; I don’t remember ever keeping a record of my thoughts and memories, but I must have. The book was in my room, hidden beneath my bed, in a place where only I would find it. My hands shake as I skate my fingers over the words that I feel like are screaming the truth, forcing me to open my eyes and accept the reality that my mind won’t allow.