HONOR
Hannon,
Doctor Hart says I need to find ways to deal with my grief and anger toward you. She suggested I journal it all down. I tried. It didn’t work. So, I’m trying something else. If I write to you, it’s like you’re still here. Makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, the words will make it to you.
Come back to me.
Over the past two years, I haven’t been me. I don’t even know what me looks like anymore. I’ve got a degree I don’t use and money I don’t know what to do with. I still sleep in the same bed I have my entire life. Maybe I should get my own place? But then I would really be alone. Utterly alone. At least with Mom and Dad and the staff, someone is always here.
I’m scared to be by myself. Scared of change. Scared of who I am without you.
What should I do?
How can I live without you?
All my love,
Honor
As I close the journal, I stare out the window. His voice comes to me.
Bunny…I’m always going to be with you. Just be still…find your peace.
Again, his last words haunt my thoughts.
“What does that mean?” I blink back the tears and wipe them away while staring out the window.
The grounds of our estate are lush and green. Perfectly trimmed bushes surround multiple flower gardens, though we’re not allowed to pick the flowers. They’re just for show. Everything in my life is for show. Mother would go on a rampage if I picked a few to have in my room. She’d tell me to order them from the local florist and have them delivered, not pick them off the bushes and make them unbalanced.
A knock at my door is promptly followed by the devil’s entrance.
“Honor, you’re not dressed? The fundraiser is in one hour.” My mother’s voice needles my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. “We need to show up in advance, give our support of the charity as their highest donor. We’re receiving an award this afternoon for our continued commitment.” She tuts.
I sigh, stand, and walk to my closet, where one of my mother’s staff has left a dress. I didn’t pick it out or try it on; though, I’m sure it will fit perfectly. It has long sleeves as my mother wouldn’t want anyone to see the henna I’ve added to my body. Not that she cares what’s under the designs.
In the past, my mother saw the scars, before I got too clever at hiding them. She didn’t do anything then, and she hasn’t since they started reappearing after Hannon’s death. Judi Gannon-Carmichael would rather push the skeletons into the closet and provide me with long sleeves than bring light to a situation that’s obviously harmful. The point is she doesn’t care. Never has, never will.
I pull my tank over my head and push off my yoga pants before stepping into the silk garment. The dress is black with a high neck and long sleeves. The bottom flares out from the nipped-in waist in an A-line that ends just above my knees. There is a pair of black Louis Vuittons sitting near my closet, so I slip my feet into them.
My mother offers a small smile, as if she likes the way I look, but doesn’t offer a compliment. I can’t remember the last time she complimented me on anything. Not even when I graduated college with a perfect GPA. Likely because, as with all things, perfection for a Carmichael is expected.
Mother bustles to my vanity, where she pulls out an ostentatious, black diamond necklace they purchased for me as a gift for my twenty-fifth birthday. It’s huge and hideous. Looks exactly like something my mother would wear.
“Not that one,” I say, finding my tongue against the wicked witch’s stare.
“Then which would you like? You must wear something with that neckline. It’s too simple as it is.”
“The strand of pearls.” The one my brother gave me when I graduated college just before he took his life. It’s the last thing he gave me and the one item I will cherish for the rest of my days.
Mother rolls her eyes, which, coming from her, is shameful. Showing emotion goes against the training of a tried and true blue blood. Rolling one’s eyes would be frowned upon in her familial lines.
“Always with the pearls.” She walks over to me and loops them around my neck.
I double them and allow them to hang prettily. There is one pink pearl hidden in the midst of the long strand. My brother said that was added on purpose. He wanted something unique to show me nothing in life is perfect and to remind me that being different is the same as being as pretty and lovely as a single pink pearl.
With my brother’s pearls around my neck, I feel a bit more at ease. “What is this charity?”
“As if you care,” Mother scoffs.
I frown, realizing that I don’t usually care. I go to these events because I’m told to, forced there by my family and our obligations. It’s high time I actually participate. As Dr. Hart says, be present in the day-to-day. Find things that give me joy in each day, and it will be easier to feel as though I’m taking charge.
“I would like to know.” I clear my voice and stand taller.
Mother grabs a ring she deems appropriate for my outfit, along with a handbag, and brings them both over to me. I hold out my first finger, where she slides on a large, black, oval-shaped ring made of real onyx. It’s my favorite ring, and for a brief moment, I wonder if she chose it because she knows I favor it.
Mother ushers me to the chair near
