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Kimber found my sleeping pills. She needed to borrow my hair dryer when hers bit the dust. While she was in my bathroom, she saw the bottle that I had accidentally left out. When she kept questioning me, I told her I was taking them because the stress of school was keeping me up at night. I don’t know whether she believed me or not, but it really doesn’t matter since our relationship seems to be drifting further apart.
I fought with my mother this morning when she called to bitch at me for not being a better daughter and returning her phone calls. I hadn’t spoken with her or my father since the blowout about me not attending the banquet that honored my mother. Every time either one of them calls, I just let it go to voicemail, but this time I answered. My lack of conversation ticked my mother off, and she went on another one of her tangents about how childish and disrespectful I am. I didn’t argue back. I didn’t have the energy, so I just sat there and let her say everything she needed to say. If it wasn’t for her pushy attitude, I would have never agreed to go on a date with Jack, and none of this would be happening. I know what he did isn’t her fault, but I hate her for it anyway. So when she finished lecturing me on her expectations, I simply disconnected the call without saying anything.
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6 weeks later
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Yesterday was a horrible day. My mind has been consumed with flashbacks, and the stress finally caught up to me. After dance class, I came home. Kimber was still on campus, so I thought I would take a quick nap before having to go into work. I woke up screaming, and I couldn’t calm myself down. My heart was racing, and I must have been hallucinating because even though my eyes were open, Jack was right there with me, muffling my mouth with his hand and ripping my clothes off. No matter how much I fought, he wouldn’t stop. I huddled down in my closet and tried shielding my eyes from the images of him, but he was there too. With me in the dark. I felt like I was going to die. The pounding of my heart made my chest hurt, and I could barely breathe.
I managed to call Jase when I started to calm down. He came over right away and sat with me in my closet while I sobbed uncontrollably. It seems that no matter how hard I try to let go of it all, Jack finds a way to creep into my head and remind me of everything I want to forget.
I decided to go ahead and go into work, even though Jase wanted me to call in sick. But I really needed the distraction. It was a busy night, so I didn’t have much time to think about anything other than making lattes. In fact, I barely even noticed the taunting bell above the door, which usually has me in a constant state of paranoia. The busier I keep myself, the less time my mind has to wander. So when I am not at Common Grounds, I’m buried in schoolwork: dancing and studying.
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8 weeks later
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Jase has been trying to convince me to see a therapist. He believes my erratic behavior is post-traumatic stress disorder. The last thing I want to do is talk, so I brush him off and pretend like it’s no big deal whenever he brings it up, which is often. All I need is a little more time to pass, and things will get easier. I keep telling myself this every day, but so far, nothing has changed. I can do nothing but hope that one day I will wake up and things will be different.
Ms. Emerson told me to report to her office this afternoon at three o’clock. I have never been to her office before; I hadn’t even been singled out in class like I have been lately. She’s constantly barking at me in class, telling me to feel more. I can only imagine that this meeting will be more of the same.
When I pull up to the studio, I take a deep calming breath before getting out of the car. Feeling nervous as I walk into the building, I head down the hallway to all the instructors’ offices. When I reach her closed door, I take a few moments before lightly knocking on the door.
“Come in,” she says loudly, and I slowly open the door and peek my head in. “Ms. Parker, please, have a seat,” she says as she motions to the large leather chair with weathered nailheads.
Sliding my purse off my shoulder, I plop it on the floor next to the chair before sitting down. I look at Ms. Emerson as she folds her hands together on top of her desk and clears her throat.
“Ms. Parker . . . Candace?”
“Please, call me Candace,” I answer as I fidget with my watch.
“I can’t help but notice a decline in your performance lately, and it’s beginning to concern me.”