Alice's POV
How can you love and hate something at the same time? I know the answer all too well, thanks to my own experience. I hate sleeping because it means I have to fight my demons.
And on those rare mornings when I wake up free from the battle, it only takes two seconds before reality punches me in the gut. And when I'm reminded, I wish I could just go back to sleep.
At least in my dreams, I don't have to face this nightmare.
"Ali, are you even listening to me?"
I blink, suddenly aware of my mom's worried eyes on me. I've been zoning out for too long, and I can tell she's beginning to get concerned.
"Sure, I am," I say, forcing a smile, but I know it doesn't reach my eyes. I can't remember the last time I felt anything close to normal.
She doesn't seem convinced, but she doesn't press me further. Her gaze softens, and she gently takes my hands in hers, her fingers warm against my cold skin.
"Sweetheart, I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know you're struggling, and it may seem like your future is uncertain. But please, trust in God. He has a plan for you, one that's full of hope, not despair. Remember what He said"
"The thoughts I have of you are thoughts of good and not of evil, to give you an expected end. I know, Mom," I finish her sentence, trying to mask the bitter taste that words like that leave in my mouth. I used to believe them. I used to believe in the word of God. I used to believe in everything she said, but that was before everything shattered.
I try to force another smile, but it feels like a mask. Maybe she buys it, but I know she doesn't. She never does.
"I just wanted to remind you, baby," she says softly, her voice still laced with concern. "And since you're insisting you don't want a makeup artist today, at least let Justina do your makeup, okay?"
I nod, almost absentmindedly. It's easier to say yes than to argue. It's easier to let things happen than to keep fighting. I can feel the weight of her expectations pressing down on me like a heavy blanket, suffocating. But I can't bring myself to speak the truth: I feel like a stranger in my own body. I wish I could be someone else. Anyone else. But most especially I want to bring them pain, so much pain that they would wish they weren't alive.
Freda walks in then, her energy almost too bright for my mood. She's been awake for hours, and I can tell from her wide grin that she's excited to do my makeup, to make me "better," as if a few strokes of foundation could fix everything inside me. But the moment she sees my face, her expression shifts. The excitement fades, replaced by something softer, more understanding, maybe.
"How are you feeling today?" she asks, settling beside me on the bed.
I blink, surprised. It's the first time anyone's asked me that today, really asked. But how can I even begin to answer that? How can I explain that my body feels like a prison and my mind is a battleground? How can I tell her that I've scrubbed my skin raw, hoping to wash away what happened to me? That I'm covered in scars, both seen and unseen, and nothing can make me feel clean again?
Instead, I just stare at her, the words too heavy to say. After a long silence, I respond with a question of my own
"What do you think?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she moves closer and wraps her arms around me. Her hug is warm, comforting even, but I feel hollow in her embrace. I don't know how to explain the empty feeling that consumes me, how everything that once mattered now feels like a cruel joke.
"You know Mom and Dad just want what's best for you. They know it's hard, especially with everything you've been through. They want to help you," Freda says softly. "You can talk to me about anything, okay?" She added
But how can I talk to her? To anyone? How can I tell her, or anyone, that I don't believe in God anymore? How can I explain that, after everything I went through, I feel abandoned, betrayed? If God was real, why would He let something so horrible happen to me? If He truly cared, wouldn't He have spared me the pain? Wouldn't He have protected me? How do I tell my Christian family that I no longer trust in the God they swear by?
The words stick in my throat, too heavy to voice. Instead, I mumble, "When do you want to start the makeup so we can get going?"
She smiled, sensing that I don't want to talk anymore. It's easier to let her paint a smile on my face than to face the reality of what's happening inside me.
The car ride feels endless, as it always does these days. I can barely focus on the world passing by outside the window. My mind is somewhere else somewhere far, far away from here.
My dad is probably talking about something important, but I can't bring myself to listen. It's all the same. He's always so focused on appearances, on keeping up the illusion that everything is fine. That I'm fine. But I'm not fine. I don't think I've been fine for a long time.
We pull up in front of a mansion, its towering gates opening as if it's expecting us. I know this house all too well. It belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, parents of the pastor of our church. The pieces fall into place in my head this is why we're here.
Of course. I should have known. My parents are convinced that a few prayers, a few words from the pastor, will fix me. As if praying will erase the past. As if asking God for guidance will make everything okay again. They don't understand that no amount of prayer can take away what's been done to me.
I don't bother looking at them as we step inside the house, my steps heavy with resentment. My parents still don't get it. They don't see how broken I am. They only want answers. They only want me to give the right responses so they can feel better about themselves.
"Ahh, my in-laws are here!" A voice calls out, too cheerful, too loud. Mrs. Wilson steps into view, her face bright with a smile that reaches her eyes. "And where is my beautiful soon-to-be daughter-in-law?" After she said it, all eyes turned in my direction.
The words hit me like a slap. Daughter-in-law? Me?
My heart stops for a beat. I freeze, the world around me blurring. Everyone's eyes are on me now, waiting. And I have nothing left to say. I'm rendered speechless.