Jessie shut herself in her room all day and wouldn’t come out. Dad asked me if I knew what was wrong, but I pled ignorance. Late that night I woke to find her sleeping next to me, so I slipped out and went to the couch.
I woke to the smell of coffee.
“Rough night, son? Dreams again?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. A really bad one.”
The following night she was back. This time I had the advantage of surprise, and shoved her onto the floor. Dad came running down the hall, and I thought that she might confess, but she was either too stunned or too intimidated.
“I was having another nightmare, Dad. She must have heard me thrashing around, and come in to see if I was okay.” Jess didn’t contradict me.
She left me alone for a couple days, but then I caught her sneaking in again. I got up to go to the couch but she grabbed my wrist.
“Oh, God, Cory,” she whimpered. “Don’t do this to me!”
I tugged her out into the hall. Dad heard the noise, but by the time he was up she had slithered back into her room.
Dad was beside himself with worry. He dragged me to a counselor, but of course I couldn’t tell the guy about my problems. I felt bad – he was sincere, and really wanted to help, but I wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe by then I couldn’t. The habit of keeping secrets was pretty well ingrained.
He did get me to confess that I had obsessive thoughts, but I was able to stay vague on what I thought about. He asked if I ever felt like hurting myself, and of course I lied. I was glad I’d worn a long-sleeve shirt.
He concluded that I had an anxiety disorder, and sent me to a psychiatrist who prescribed some pills. They seemed to make my insomnia and lack of appetite even worse, but it was hard to tell. I guess the pills worked a little; after a couple weeks I didn’t need to burn myself as often.
It was cold that winter, the kind of hard, bitter freeze that makes your joints ache. The weather outside wasn’t much better. I couldn’t stand to look in Jessie’s eyes; they were full of bitterness.
Dad told me once that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, but apathy. Love and hate were both passionate kinds of caring, different sides of the same coin. I knew how much Jessie had loved me, because now it was clear how much she despised me. Daniel was wrong; it wasn’t easier when she was angry.
I hid my feelings the best I could, but it was torture. I had to avoid even sitting close to her, and I think she felt that withdrawal. She retreated from me too, maybe in self-defense.
Eighth grade was a blur; I was exhausted all the time. My obsession grew even worse, if that was possible. One of those long nights in my doorway I was thinking about my scars. I touched the place where the jagged bone had torn right through my muscle and skin, and remembered how badly it had burned and ached. I’d have gladly traded that physical pain for my anguish. Yeah, a broken arm hurts like crazy, but you don’t have to hide it. More important, bones heal and the pain passes.
But this pain never ended, and I was so alone. Who could I tell? Our minister? Not! The therapist? No chance. And not Dad. Definitely not Dad. I couldn’t even talk about it with Spaz. It was just too dangerous. Not for me – I’d happily take the consequences just to get it off my chest. But just the chance it got out... I wouldn’t ever do that to Jess, or to Dad.
More than ever, it was my own little hell; to love the one girl in the world I could never have, and to bear the guilt of her pain on top of my own.