Taylor
But even if I can’t see him, I can still feel his hand in places I hadn’t even allowed my own mother to touch since I was little. I want to throw up, but I can’t. If I can’t tune out his hand, I at least can tune out the sounds that he’s making. I can’t throw up. I wonder briefly, idly, without knowing where the thought is coming from that if I do, maybe he’ll back off. But I can’t throw up. The contents of my stomach seem to burn their way up my esophagus to my throat, but never go past that point. I wish they would. I want to throw up. I want to throw up all over him because that’s really the only thing I can do. But I can’t. I can’t get my body to do it.
I want to call for help, but the feel of the sharp knife being held to me in various places of my body stops me. At first it’s on my arm, then it’s on my back. Then it’s somewhere over my heart. Back to my arm. At one point it even travels down to the places he’s been touching and I shut my eyes tighter, anticipating, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, something much worse happens and the knife moves back to my arm while it does.
I can hear him say my name behind me.
“Taylor...,” he says. “Taylor...Taylor...Taylor...”
It sounds like some sort of ritual chant.
After about forty repetitions of my name, somewhere through my fear, I begin to notice that it’s not my name he’s saying anymore...
“Parker....Parker...Parker...”
I swallow, thoroughly disgusted and still praying to be able to throw up. It still won’t come. I try and try...
And instead I do something much worse.
And I begin to cry after that.
Even after that, he continues to say names, changing back to mine.
“Taylor....Taylor....Taylor...”
I cry and cry and try to throw up all over him. It’s all I can do.
I start to think of my family, but my thoughts are distracted when I notice the change in his voice.
He’s still saying my name, but somehow it sounds more panicked now.
“Taylor!” he seems to call to me, almost like he’s falling off the edge of a cliff I have the ability to push him over.
I wish like hell that I did.
“Taylor!”
“No!” I call back, only because I don’t know what else to say.
He’s still calling to me.
“Taylor! Taylor!”
“Taylor! Open your eyes, Taylor!”
My eyes flew open, but quickly shut again when I was taken by surprise by the bright light from the lamp as it hit my pupils. Hands were grasping my arms--hard enough to bruise and I was aware that I was being shaken.
And it took me a moment to realize that they were not his hands that were grasping me so hard.
It was Isaac’s.
And I was not in the bathroom of the Lowell’s house.
I was in my bedroom. My old bedroom. Where I had fallen asleep only a few hours before.
Cautiously, I opened my eyes and found myself faced with Isaac’s panicked brown eyes. It might have occurred to me that I had never seen so much panic and concern in his eyes before if I wasn’t too busy being relieved at the fact that it was not him.
But it could’ve been.
“What the hell was that?” he said, the panic in his eyes transferring tenfold to his voice. It was almost funny to think that this was the brother whose eyes had been so cold to me earlier in the day and who hadn’t spoken more than he had to to me all day long.
I didn’t dwell on that for long, though.
“Oh my God,” I said and again felt the tears well up in my eyes as they had in the nightmare.
The nightmare. I could only wish.
The hands left my arms and instead arms encircled me and pulled me to him as I began to cry as I had in the dream.
“Sssh,” he said as comfortingly as he could, the panic not leaving his voice. He began to stroke my hair--a little awkwardly. I stopped myself from pulling away from the touch. If I did, that would only hint to him what the dream had been about and then he’d badger me for details.
I couldn’t give the details.
A few minutes later, I sensed a few more presences surrounding me and pulled away from Isaac to find my mother and my father crouching next to me and my sleeping bag on the floor. The expression in their eyes was the same as Isaac’s.
I turned around to see the rest of the family standing in the doorway. Jessica was holding Zoe and Zac had his hands on the shoulders of Avery and Mackenzie. To get them to stop shaking, he would tell me later, meaning his arms.
So I had an audience. It wasn’t often enough someone in the Hanson house scared the rest of the family enough to have an audience. But that only emphasized to me the terror of what had just happened.
What had just happened?
“What happened?” I asked.
My father’s brow creased more than slightly, something that he usually didn’t let happen so as to not worry someone who had just had a bad experience of some kind. This time he did and that really worried me. How much had I said in my sleep?
“We were hoping you could tell us,” he said.
“The neighbors probably heard your screams, honey,” my mother told me by way of answering my question and the implied question of why everyone was staring at me. “Are you all right?”
I took a deep breath and then nodded.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, all too aware that I was lying.
How could someone be all right after that?
But I brushed the thought away. Self-pity never did anyone any good, I told myself.
“Just a bad dream,” I added when it was clear that that answer would not suffice.
“Some bad dream,” my father said. “Has this happened before?”
“Yeah,” I answered honestly.
“Does Annie know about it?” he asked next, something coming into the tone of his voice that I couldn’t quite place.
I shook my head. “I’ve never woken anyone up with it before.”
“Is it always the same dream?”
“I think so,” I said, only because I knew what his next question would be after that.
“Do you remember any of it?”
“No,” I lied. “Not really.”
He sighed. “You’re sure?”
I nodded.
He didn’t believe me, that much was obvious, but he didn’t push it. It was too late at night. Or too early in the morning.
“Are you going to be all right?” my mother asked.
I nodded again, though I knew different. Every time I had this dream, I would never be able to go to sleep again after it.
“Are you?” I asked, trying to exhibit humor so that they would stop asking me questions.
She smiled a little bit, but my father didn’t.
“Well, you gave us a good scare, that’s for sure.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, getting to her feet. My father followed her. “All right, show’s over. Everyone back to bed.”
The younger kids retreated, followed by my mother. I wondered if any of them would be able to get to sleep after that either.
“Is Taylor going to die?” Mackenzie asked innocently as they walked down the hall together.
I didn’t hear my mother’s answer.
Zac closed the door behind everyone.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked me.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said.
But he knew I was lying, too.
“Think you can get back to sleep?” Isaac asked.
I debated for a moment over whether or not I should tell the truth on this one. I didn’t want to keep them up or anything.
Truth won out for once.
“No,” I said.
He nodded, settling himself in a sitting position on the top bunk.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network (RAINN): 1-800-656-HOPE
Send all letters of outrage and disgust (at me or at Lyle) this way.
Chapter Five
Chapter Seven