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Hell and Back - Chapter 13

chapter 13 ao3

November 28th, 2004 Dear diary...

I can't stop thinking about Kurt.

Not in a 'I still love him' kind of way. If I'm being honest, I don't know if I ever did. If there's anything I can be grateful for about my abduction, it's that it put an end to our relationship for good, something that I'm not sure I would've had the courage to do if things had stayed normal.

I wonder if Kurt already had something going on with that Brittany chick while we were still together. Or if maybe he felt relieved that I was out of the picture so he could finally move on. I know I'm being nonsensical, but it feels so unfair that he's doing well while I'm still such a fucking mess.

I wanted him to see that he was wrong and that I was turning things around and getting better, but I don't think last night gave him that impression. I still haven't gained back most of the weight I lost while in the cabin, so I'm just as pale and sickly looking as I was when he last saw me; I haven't washed my hair in days, I've been wearing the same five shirts for weeks now because I'm too tired to do my laundry, and I haven't been getting much sleep lately. I know I look more like a zombie than a person.

Before last night at the gas station, the last time I saw Kurt didn't go very well.

It happened a month after I came back. I was discharged from the hospital that week, and I was staying at my parents' place. I was in my old childhood bedroom, surrounded by posters of famous people I had a crush on when I was younger and old childhood photos I didn't take with me when I went to college. It was well past noon, but I was still in bed, exhausted from another sleepless night. Just as I was starting to drift off to sleep, I heard a familiar voice that made me leave the saintity of my bedroom and into the kitchen.

Kurt was there, helping my mother finish lunch like it was normalest thing in the world. They didn't notice me at first, but then he turned around to grab a dishtowel at her behest, and he saw me standing there.

"Hey, Ronica," he greated me with that smile that showed his slightly crooked front tooth.

Upon hearing my name, my mother turned around, too. She instantly put on that fake, cheerful, 'We're going to keep talking about liverwurst and badly written spy novels because even though my daughter is now seriously damaged, we're pretendibg that everything is hunky-dory" expression she used whenever I was around.

"What is he doing here?" I asked my mom.

"Kurt brought you these flowers," she pointed to the bouquet of purple and blue hydrangeas on the kitchen counter. "So I invited him to stay for lunch as a way to say thank you."

"If it's alright with you, of course," Kurt chimed in. He looked so at ease when it was just the two of them talking, but the second he noticed me, the ambiance grew uncomfortable. My presence has that effect on people now.

Before I could respond, my mom interrupted with an "Of course she won't mind. Kurt, sweetie, help me set the table, will you?"

I thought lunch with just my parents was awkward enough (with them constantly trying to cheer up the mood with jokes and mundane conversations or literally anything else to fill the silence. If you're too busy talking about the weather, you don't have time to think about your only daughter being raped and tortured, right?) but adding Kurt into the mix kicked it up a hundred notches. Hell, even the betta in my dad's fish tank looked ready to jump out of the water and spare itself from the torture.

I never thought I'd be thankful for the existence of football and vintage cars, but otherwise, Kurt and my dad wouldn't have anything to talk about. I'm not as thankful for the slightly invasive questions to Kurt that my mother was peppering in on the conversation, as every mother does, but it was still better than nothing.

The whole time, I just sat there in silence, like a movie extra, who wasn't given any lines to keep the budget smaller. I half listened to their conversations as I twirled the overcooked pasta with my fork, hoping that would trick them into thinking I was eating, but in my mind, all I could think was that I wasn't supposed to be having lunch at that time and my stomach kept clenching with fear of being punished for breaking his rules.

He's not here. He's not here. He's not here...I kept repeating to myself. My little mantra to keep myself from falling apart.

I felt three pairs of eyes lingering on me, so I looked up from my plate. "What?" I asked.

"I was just asking if you liked the flowers," Kurt said. God, I was so out of it, I didn't even notice him talking to me. I really needed to get some sleep...

"Yeah. Thanks," I said. And I counted that as my contribution to the conversation.

At one point, Kurt stopped chatting about the next football season to comment on how great my mom's food tasted.

"Val, I forgot what an awesome cook you are," he said, his mouth full of my mom's pasta bake. He had always loved her food. Loved to talk about how he wished I had inherited her talent in the kitchen, too. Always jokingly, of course, at least according to him.

"Oh, you're too sweet," my mother said. I could see, past the fake humbleness, that she was flattered, by the way her chest puffed ever so slightly, and she looked down at her own plate with her eyes beaming with pride, like the thing had won just won an award or something.

"I bet you really missed your mom's cooking, Ronnie," Kurt said.

Kurt's complete obtuseness made the dining room grow quiet. You couldn't even hear the sound of the cutlery against the fancy porcelain plates my mom only uses when we have people over. We all stopped, and the rememberance of what happened hit us hard, like a bucket of ice cold water. Well, they were reminded of it; I, for one, never had the pleasure of forgetting about it in the first place.

All of a sudden, there was JD again, invisible but always present, looming over me just waiting and watching, always watching. Every time someone mentions him, I feel his fingers running against my skin or his hands wrapping around my neck.

I'll never get rid of him, will I?

"Yeah, I missed a lot of things," I said, bluntly.

My freedom, my dignity, being able to say things without the fear of being beaten up, having autonomy over my own body...

Kurt scrambled to hammer out an apology, awkward and empty, and the rest of lunch happened in silence. I released a breath of relief when everyone finally finished eating, thinking Kurt would head home and I'd go back to bed where no one would bother me, but that was soon crushed when my mom said:

"Leonard, why don't we go outside? You still have that cigar, don't you? Let's leave these two alone for a minute."

My dad looked confused for a split second before he reluctantly agreed and followed my mom out to the backyard. Before she left, I noticed the glance she exchanged with Kurt. I waited until the glass door to the yard was closed to speak up.

"Did you ask my mom to set this up so you could talk to me?"

At least he had enough decency to look embarrassed. He turned his head to make sure my parents weren't listening, but they were already seated on the lawn chairs, far from the living room, and my dad seemed pretty focused on getting that cigar lit up. I wondered what they were going to talk about. Probably how they hoped Kurt and I would get back together, so their fucked up daughter would be someone else's responsibility.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Yeah, I did. I think we have a lot to talk about. Don't you?"

No, I thought. I don't want to talk about anything. Please, just leave me alone.

"I have to get this cleaned," I gestured at the table. Before he started talking again, I began collecting the dirty plates and glasses and carrying them to the kitchen sink. Kurt followed me.

"Look, Ronnie," he started. He was closer to the door, and I was near the sink. I wanted to go back to the living room and busy myself cleaning the table so he'd leave me be, but I would have to get past him. I didn't want to get any closer to him, so I stood there.

"I think I need to apologize for, you know, the whole thing that happened at the hospital..."

Oh yes, the whole thing that happened at the hospital. Also known as the day Kurt went to visit me while I was still hospitalized, and I completely freaked out.

It was the first time we saw each other since I was kidnapped. Other than my parents, the hospital staft and the police who often dropped by to ask me questions, he was the first person I had contact with since JD.

I didn't think I was ready to see anyone yet, but my mother kept bringing him up, talking about how worried he had been, and how much he helped with the searches, so I agreed. I thought I could do it. It was just Kurt. Kurt, who couldn't watch anything scarier than The Gremlins, and always asked me to kill the spiders because he was afraid of them. I figured I'd be okay. He wouldn't hurt me.

But then he gave me a hug, and I started to panic. I don't remember much except the feeling of his arms around me and how much it reminded me of him, and how much my throat burned when I started screaming.

I only calmed down when a nurse came in and sedated me. When I woke up, Kurt was nowhere in sight, and I asked my parents to tell anyone who tried to visit me that only family was allowed.

"You don't have to apologize. You didn't know I was going to react like that," I said.

"I wanted to say sorry. I felt awful for doing that. I hated seeing you that way..." he said. Like those bizarre dolls that chance faces, his expression went from sorrowful to positive in a split second. "But your mom says you're getting better. Soon enough, you'll be back to your old self and put this whole thing behind you."

I don't know if my mom was being delusional or if she's just a liar. Sure, physically I was okay. But I don't know what part of her thought that the panic attacks, the nightmares, and the manias indicated that I was getting better.

"What if I don't?" I asked. "What if I just stay messed up forever?"

"Don't say that," he reprimanded me. "You'll get better, I know you will."

It was like he was trying to convice me, and himself, of that. Like that was the only choice I had. I had to get better.

"Thank you for apologizing. You didn't have to," I smiled. I was so used to faking smiles now that it didn't even faze me.

"Of course," he smiled back, proud of himself for handling the mess.

He went back to the dining room to help me carry the remaining dishes. I eased into the monotony of the activity (gathering the plates, throwing the food scraps on the trash bin, putting them on the sink, repeat...); after all the years with JD, living the same days over and over, repetitive tasks tend to keep me calm.

I was feeling better until Kurt opened his mouth and ruined everything.

"So, I heard you're getting a book deal. That's pretty great."

"What?" I stopped in the middle of the kitchen. The heavy casserole dish that I was carrying became weightless on my hands, my focus completely changed. "Who told you that?"

Kurt looked confused. "Your mother. Is that not true?"

"No," I said. "I mean... A book agent talked to me about it, but I turned her down."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I don't want to talk about what happened," I said. "Why would I want to relieve something that I'm trying so hard to forget?"

Kurt looked at me like I had grown two heads. As if suddenly, I was out of my mind for wanting to preserve what was left of my privacy. "It's a lot of money," he argued. "Besides, you always wanted to write a book."

"Not about this," I said. "And I don't care about the money. It's not worth the exposure. I don't want hundreds of people to read about what that freak did to me for their own entertainment."

I was never a fan of pieces of media that were based on true stories. It makes me feel a little queasy when I hear people gawking, with their mouths full of popcorn, about how real the death scenes looked on Titanic or how cool is the villain in The Hills Have Eyes, even though he killed a bunch of people in real life.

Thinking about people opening this hypothetical book on the subway on their way to work or in a dainty cafe with a nice cup of tea and reading all the details about JD raping, humiliating, and breaking me makes me sick. I hate thinking about them putting the book back on a shelf and then moving on with their lives, ready to pick another story to read.

That's what that would be to them, right? Just another story. Just a way for them to realize that their lives aren't actually as bad as they thought. They'd call me brave and discuss in their book club how inspiring it all was, but they would never actually get it. No one does.

But Kurt was right about one thing: the money is good. God knows I could use it. I'm still unemployed, making ends meet with my parents' help and what's left of the money from when my place was being rented. The university offered my job back, but there's no way I'm going back to that place.

"You don't have to talk just about that. Write about your personal life, the life you had before all of that shit happened. Take charge of the narrative or whatever you used to teach in your english classes," Kurt said. "Right now, when people look at you, all they see is a rape victim."

The noise coming from the dishwasher was the only thing we could hear as the two of us went silent. I felt my face redden and sting, like the metaphorical slap to the face had actually, pshysically hurt me.

"Ronnie, I-"

"Is that all you see when you look at me now?" I asked.

"No. Of course not," he said. "Listen-"

He stried over to me. Before I could register, he put his hands on top of mine, and I recoiled. The casserole dish that I was holding fell on the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces.

A scream left my throat, and I kneeled to clean up the mess. "Shit!" I cried out. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

My whole body began to tremble as I barreled on to gather the broken pieces of glass with my bare hands. I was overwrought, my vision blurry, and my ears ringing. When I looked at the pair of shoes in front of me, they weren't Kurt's worn-out sneakers anymore; they were JD's black boots, stained with mud, dirt and dried blood. I was back in the cabin, shaking and terrified, bracing myself for whatever punishment I'd receive for making a mess.

Stupid fuck, you can't do anything right, I heard his voice whisper in my ear, just as hard and cutting as the pieces of glass that were slicing open my skin. You fucking useless bitch.

"Hey, it's okay," Kurt's voice hovered somewhere above me. His voice was soft, but there was something else to it that I couldn't quite .He got down on his knees, too, and put his face in front of mine. "It's just a dish, Ronica. Don't worry about it."

I didn't stop. I needed to get the mess cleaned up before my parents saw it. In my mind, I was thinking they'd be pissed. I didn't want to be beaten again.

"Veronica, stop, you're hurting yourself!"

He clutched my arms and forced open my hands. The tiny pieces of glass fell on the floor again, scattering on top of my legs, and the hardwood kitchen floor like rain. His body was close to mine, and his grip on me was tight. I felt like I was suffocating.

"Let me go," I whimpered. "Let me go! Let me go! Please, let me go!"

With each word, my desperation increased, and I got louder until my cries turned into screams. I wriggled my arms frantically to get away from him, but he was strong. I started hyperventilating. I could feel the cold tears run down my face.

Kurt let go of me, so suddenly it was like my skin had burned him. His eyes were wide, pupils turned to pinpoints with shock, wandering around the kitchen and the turmoil in front of him like he was processing what had happened.

The second he released me, I got to my feet and stepped away from him, pressing my body right in the corner. I leaned on the closer wall for support, scared that my shaking legs were going to put me back on the floor.

Kurt looked at me, brows furrowed in concern and confusion. "I can't touch you at all?" He asked. He sound so hurt.

I forced myself to look him in the eye, but I couldn't stand the way he was looking at me, so I let my gaze fall to the floor.

"I...I just can't..." I mumbled.

Kurt took off his beaten-up soccer cap and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. He let out a long exhale.

"Man, this whole thing is so fucked," he said. He took a step in my direction, and I flinched. "See, I can't even be near you!"

"I'm sorry," I said. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded tired, so...broken.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do here, Veronica," he huffed. "I mean, look at you. You refuse to let people in. You refuse to talk about it. It's like you don't even want to get better."

"I do," I said. "I just...I don't know if I can."

"Well, you have to at least try," he said. "Because I don't know if I can deal with this schizo shit."

I looked down at my bleeding hands and then at the chaoes on the floor. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"I think you should go," I told him.

"Ronnie..."

"Please, just go."

I left the safety of the corner to go back to the living room and open the door for Kurt. Shame kept me from looking at him as he passed by me. Before he left, he turned around to face me. His eyes were soft, not with love or fondness but with remorse. He felt pity. He had never looked at me like that.

"I'm really sorry, Veronica."

#heathers #heathers the musical #veronica sawyer #jason dean #kurt kelly #heather chandler #heather duke #heather mcnamara #chansaw

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