TIME NO LONGER EXISTS.
Hours.
Minutes.
Seconds.
They don’t mean anything anymore. They’re just useless markers, doing nothing to push time forward, because time is nonexistent when your world has crumbled into nothingness.
I find myself staring out my window, watching as the sun and moon trade shifts in a warless tango. A dance so beautiful, so simplistic, that it never fails. You can depend on them to show up again and again. And they do. Casting heat and light down upon me—the suffering.
Four new cuts adorn my marred canvas. And here I sit, again, on the floor of my bathroom about to add a fifth with a brand new blade that shines in my dad’s straight razor handle.
I’m down to the last messages. For the past few days, I’ve slowly been erasing evidence of David. Slowly removing texts, one by one, reliving all the conversations we’ve ever had. Reading them . . . and then deleting them.
I told myself days ago just to delete everything in one foul swoop, but I couldn’t erase him so quickly. So instead, I drag it out, reminiscing and then eliminating, and when I can’t go on, I cut myself to release the pain.
Delete
Delete
Delete
And then there was one.
Me: Where are you?
It’s been three days since I sent that text. Three days since my universe came crashing down. Three days since we said our goodbyes. It was supposed to be another typical day; it was anything but. Both of us were completely blindsided. First him and then me. He was so scared to give me a heads up or a warning of any kind that he never responded to that text.
I want to call him so bad. I want to hear his voice, but I already deleted the voice mails that I had saved to my phone. All I can do now is wonder: How is he? How bad is he hurting? Has he been brought in for questioning?
I’ve yet to talk to the police. My mother never even mentioned the message I left on her cell, so I can only assume she never bothered to listen to it. I decided not to say anything to her out of fear and panic. Instead, I’ve been ditching school, waiting in a constant state of despair, wondering if, or when, the police will make another appearance.
I’m living in the unknown, and it’s a scary place to be.
Delete
With a stroke of my wrist, the blade sinks deeply into tender flesh.
“Camellia!”
My mother’s loud calling wakes me, and when I blink my eyes open, I see the sun has returned yet again.
“Camellia!”
“Coming!” I shout as I roll out of bed after another restless night’s sleep.
Dragging my feet across the floor, I open my bedroom door. When I look over the railing at the top of the stairs and see my mother standing next to two police officers, I know my time is up. Their eyes cast upon me, and my stomach twists dreadfully.
“What is going on?” my mother questions accusingly.
I take a hard swallow and turn it around on her. “Maybe you should answer your phone once in a while.”
“Watch your tone, young lady.”
“If the two of you could be at the station in an hour,” one of the officers says.
“Of course,” my mom agrees in a much sweeter tone than the one she saves for me.
The cops give a nod to my mom and one last look up to me before walking out the front door.
My mom waits a moment before marching up the stairs. “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“It isn’t nothing when the police show up at our house and ask us to go to the station so they can question you. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time: What is going on?”
“Someone at school apparently started a nasty rumor that I doubt is even true.”
“What kind of rumor?”
Heartache returns, and my voice comes out uneven as I try to temper its flaring. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”
“They? Who?”
“The principal and an officer,” I tell her as she looks at me with an expression of concern I’ve been void of for so long.
“I need you to tell me exactly what is going on before we go down to the station.”
But I can’t. I made a promise to David, so I tell her what I can. “Mom, I don’t know anything. Just that on Monday, I was called to the office. The cop told me something about an allegation being made. I asked what it was about and who it was that said something, but he wouldn’t tell me. That’s honestly all I know.”
“Okay. Well, go get cleaned up so we can head down there.”
Apparently, the fear of having the cops show up on our doorstep has her acting more like a mom than she has for this whole past year. And thank God for that, because I don’t think I can go through this on my own.
I take a quick shower and throw myself together as anxiety builds with every step I take. When we hop into the car and start driving, I mentally prepare myself for what’s about to come. But how can I possibly prepare for this when I have no idea what I’m walking in to? David told me not to admit to anything, and that’s exactly what I’ll do. I will lie until my last breath if I have to, just to protect him.
When we arrive, we are led to a small room with nothing but a table and three chairs in it and are offered something to drink. We both decline.
“Detective Banks will be in shortly,” we’re told before being left alone.
My mother and I don’t say a word as nerves shock my system into overdrive, ramping up my heart rate. I look around the room, spot a small video camera mounted in the corner that overlooks where we’re sitting, and my palms begin to sweat.
After a couple more minutes of silent torture, the door opens and a woman walks in wearing a badge clipped to the waistband of her pants.
“Good morning,” she greets before taking the seat adjacent to me. “I’m Detective Banks, and I’m just going to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“What is this all about?” My mother stops Detective Banks’s first question before it’s even asked.
“First and foremost, I just want you to know that this is a voluntary interview. I understand that this can be a very stressful situation, but I assure you that your daughter has done nothing wrong. There was an allegation made, and we just need to ask Camellia a few questions,” she tells my mom before turning her attention back to me. “Just so you are aware, we will be recording this visit by audio and video,” she tells me before informing us of a few more details about my rights and so on.
Feigning calmness as best as I can, I tell her that I understand, and she begins questioning me, “So, Camellia—”
“Cam,” I correct.
“I’m sorry. Cam, can you tell me how this school year has been going for you?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Senior year,” she notes, “you must be getting excited to graduate.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re a swimmer? Can you tell me about that?”
I’ve watched enough television and read enough books to know exactly what she’s doing. Getting on to my level so I’ll trust her enough to tell her whatever she needs to know isn’t going to work with me. If she thinks she can manipulate me, she’s wrong.
I answer her trivial questions, telling her about my swimming and about my plans for college, plans David and I made together, plans I’ve never shared with my mother. She stays quiet, but I’m sure she will bring it up later.
“And who is your swim coach?” she finally asks, forcing me to say the name that still tastes so sweet on my lips.
“Coach Andrews.”
“Is that David Andrews?”
I nod, and she continues to scribble notes on her notepad, which she’s been doing all along.
“Were you in any of his classes?”
“English Lit.”
“Now, with you being his student and one of his athletes, would there be any contact about school or swim-related information that he would send through email?”
“Yes.”
“What about text messages?”
“No.”
“Phone calls?”
“No,” I continue as my pulse races, and I fight to keep myself from fidgeting.
“Have you ever received an email, a phone call, or a text from David Andrews about anything other than school or swim related information?”
“No.”
“Never?”
I shake my head as a thousand memories of staying up late and talking to him on the phone and texting him all throughout my days swirl through my mind. For the first time, I’m thankful I deleted every single one of them. If she asks to see my phone, she wouldn’t find a single trace of him.
“I want to remind you, Cam, that no matter what you tell me, you are not in trouble. But it’s important that you tell the truth here.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
She nods and then continues, explaining, “I’m going to ask you some questions that may be uncomfortable, but again, I need you to answer them honestly, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Has David Andrews ever touched you in a sexual manner?”
“Are you accusing my daught—”
“Ma’am.” Detective Banks addresses my mom. “Again, we are just trying to collect information that will help us confirm or negate this allegation.”
“Well, I suggest, before we move forward, that you explain exactly what allegation has been made that concerns my daughter.” My mother’s patience finally snaps, and I warm a little at her protectiveness of me.
And finally, it’s disclosed what’s been said when Detective Banks reveals, “We are currently investigating a claim that was made that you and David Andrews have been engaging in a sexual relationship of some sort.”
“That’s insane!”
I sit silent, frozen in my seat.
“It may be,” Detective Banks tells my mother, “but we take these claims very seriously. And in no way has your daughter done anything wrong.” She then asks me and my mother if she can continue with her questioning, and when we both agree, she asks again, “Has David Andrews ever touched you in a sexual manner?”
“No.”
“Has David Andrews ever touched you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Has David Andrews ever kissed you?”
“No,” I state, standing firm as beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck.
“Have you ever had oral sex with David Andrews?”
“No.”
“Have you ever engaged in vaginal sex with David Andrews?” she presses, and I wish she would stop using his name the way she is, as if he’s some inanimate object instead of the warm loving man who has the biggest heart of anyone I know.
“No.”
“Have you ever engaged in anal sex with David Andrews?”
“This is ridiculous,” my mother murmurs under her breath.
“No.”
“And you’ve never texted with David Andrews in a sexual nature?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to David Andrews’s home?”
My mouth goes dry, and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s being plucked as I answer, “No.”
Detective Banks sets down her notepad and pen and leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Cam, I can’t stress the importance of you telling the truth here.”
“I am telling you the truth. I’ve never done anything with Coach Andrews,” I argue.
“You’re not protecting him by lying.”
“I’m not lying.” My voice octaves up in defense, and I know the woman who is ripping my world apart right now can see right through me.
“We have a witness that says they saw the two of you kissing. We also have evidence that’s been collected that suggests what you are telling me isn’t the truth.”
Holy shit.
My blood runs cold, but I stick to my promise. “Again, I am not lying.”
Even my mother backs me up. “If she says she’s telling you the truth, I can assure you, she is.”
“Who was it that said they saw something?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she tells me. “But I can share this with you.” She then opens the file that’s been tucked under her notepad and pulls out a stack of papers that are clipped together. “These are text messages between you and David. Do these look familiar?”
Oh, God. How did they get these? David assured me that he deleted everything off of his phone when I last saw him. But here they are.
“These are not my texts,” I lie, but then fear cripples me the moment I see my cell phone number highlighted in yellow at the top of the page. “Where did you get these from?”
“I’ve obtained a search warrant that allowed me to pull the text history from David’s cell phone carrier.”
Panic crystalizes, and my gut churns in shock when I read a few of the texts that have been highlighted as well, texts that are so intimate they made me blush when we exchanged them. My mother leans in, reading words that were never meant to be shared with anyone. Then I go stone silent when the realization hits.
We’ve officially been caught.
How the hell am I supposed to lie my way out of this? Lie David’s way out of this?
“No more talking, Camellia,” my mother barks before snapping at the detective, “We’re done.”
She immediately pulls out her cell phone when she grabs my arm. “Come on. We’re leaving right now.”
The room spins in a hurricane of fright, and I can’t even focus on what the detective is saying as my mother pulls me out. All I hear is static in my head. I’m not even sure how I’m managing to walk right now when my heart is consumed with what’s going to happen to David.
How can I save him from this?
How can I spare him when I should be next to him, taking this fall with him? Because I’m to blame too.
Mom rushes me to the car, and as we drive home, she starts making calls, but I’m so far gone. I curl into myself and stare out the window, trying to deal with the fact that I am completely helpless. That there is nothing I can do to protect David. They already know. If they have dozens of pages of our texts, they probably have hundreds of pages of our call logs that show countless hours worth of conversations.
Pulling into our driveway, Mom hangs up the phone. “Marlene’s husband is an attorney,” she says of one of her old tennis club friends. “He is going to make a few calls and will stop by later this evening.”
And as soon as we step into the house, my mother slams her purse onto the kitchen counter and kills all hope I have that she would snap back to the supporting and loving mom she used to be.
“How could you be so stupid?”