“Punishment?”
“Have you ever heard of something called survivor guilt?”
I shook my head, but it didn’t take a psychology degree to guess what it meant.
“Might you be punishing yourself for surviving the fire, something your parents weren’t able to do? Might the vast, thick forest symbolize an overwhelming situation—one you can’t find a way out of?”
Except I did get out. “That’s not it.”
“The burning house is gone now, Terra. But perhaps your mind’s creating its own version of a fire.”
“I am my mind. It’s governed by me.” I squeezed the belly of my troll key chain over and over, making the eyes pop.
“The mind processes information to the best of its ability,” she continued. “It isn’t perfect. It protects itself—and protects you … It perceives events and situations as both real and unreal.”
“I know what’s real.”
She mustered a patronizing smile. “Think of it this way: getting abducted, surviving the well … It brought you closer to your aunt, didn’t it? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Because that was the truth.”
“Maybe you manifested that truth because you longed for that closeness. Maybe prior attempts didn’t get you what you needed.”
“Prior attempts?”
“It’s my understanding you had a history of ditching school, disappearing for days, not telling anyone where you were. Isn’t that correct? Didn’t you also get in trouble for shoplifting?”
“It was just a notebook. I needed it for school, and I’d forgotten my wallet. I would’ve paid the store back somehow. Plus, I didn’t disappear. It was just two days at a friend’s house.”
“The point is those attention-seeking strategies didn’t seem to work. So maybe you found another way—a more effective strategy. That’s survival by pure definition. Embrace it. Be proud of that will.”
I continue to sketch, burned out on everyone’s theories, but knowing they aren’t all completely untrue. At some point, during the fire, after the firefighters had arrived, all reality faded away. I know I was there, but I don’t remember watching the scene unfold: the mounting flames, the irreparable damage …
Supposedly, I was checked out by a medic. But I don’t remember that either, or the phone call I had with my aunt in the back of the ambulance.
My patchy memory—like an abyss of its own—is just one of the many reasons I ended up in the hospital after the fire, and probably a major reason why no one believed me, years later, after I got back from the well.
“You woke up in a neighbor’s house with no recollection of how you got there,” Dr. Mary persisted.
“What does this have to do with the fairy-tale book?”
“It has to do with the mind, with how the brain regulates trauma. Does that make sense?”
I shook my head. “The book is real. I’ll prove it.”
But I’ve yet to prove anything. Because I can’t find the book (or evidence that it exists), which is why I’ve started writing the story myself. I’ve asked librarians far and wide, both online and in person, to help me find a copy.
“Reality Bites Press?” most of them ask. “I’ve never heard of it.”
A reference librarian in the town next door asked if it was a self-published title. “But even still,” she continued, “it would’ve been copyrighted, unless the author published it with his own ‘Reality Bites’ printing press, without registering the title first. Do you think that could be a possibility?”
But even she knew.
I could see it in her smirk.
I was that crazy girl from the Emo school, who’d made the false allegations and wasted everyone’s time.
One week prior, the news had reported about the dropped case with no leads or substantial evidence. I’d spoken to a journalist about the fairy-tale book. In that same interview, a university professor, a supposed expert in legends, folklore, and fairy tales, was quoted as saying he’d never (in his thirty years of research and having written two dissertations on the subject) heard of The Forest Girl and the Wishy Water Well.
So, where does that leave me? With zero proof and a bunch of generic sketches of a darkly clothed man with eyes the wrong color.
I check the Jane site, but Peyton isn’t on and I really don’t feel like chatting with anyone else. I log on to Hulu to watch an episode of Summer’s Story, hoping that wherever Peyton is, she’s doing the same, that we’re watching the show together. The mere idea helps make me feel a little less alone.
THEN
14
On the night I got home from the well, I fished the hidden key from the ivy planter by the door and used it to enter the house, just like any other day, like nothing bad had ever happened.
There were no police cars parked out front.
No news trucks.
No missing-person signs.
No one was investigating inside the house.
I went inside, locked the door behind me, and saw the reflection that stared back in the entryway mirror. Layers of dirt painted my face, outlined my eyes, and encrusted my lips. My hair hung down in clay-like clumps.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself up the stairs, straight to the bathroom, where I turned the shower valve to the highest setting and stepped inside, without a second thought, still fully clothed.
The sweet, hot water pounded against my chest, soaked through my shirt. I opened my mouth and drank the water up, nearly choking on the liquid. Dirt and pebbles slid down my throat. My teeth ached. My jaw throbbed.
Once my thirst had finally been quenched, I spat some of the water out as I washed my teeth. I also gargled to clean my throat. Blood and dirt ran from my bare feet.
I scrunched down to the floor of the tub, closed my eyes, and pictured a ball of flames burning up inside me. My hands screamed, the
