Chapter 24 - Liars and deniers

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Warning
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This chapter includes themes of violence and sexual assault.
The book is marked as mature and will include such themes.

Sal will deal with the aftermath of what happened in the last chapter and it is a running issue for her that will be brought up from time to time. This could be triggering for some and you should make a decision based upon whether you're okay with reading about such a theme throughout the book. When this is stated, does each chapter need a warning?

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Rosalie POV (Sal)

The 1st of January, 1957

«Are you sure you won't be coming out?» I heard Elvis ask, trying to persuade me to go as planned. He had invited me out to see his third Ed Sullivan appearance on the 6th of January, just two days before his 22nd birthday, when he would be back in Memphis to celebrate with his parents.

Pressing my lips together, I closed my puffy eyes—one of them swollen. «Yeah... I... I'm too sick, Elvis.» Going out to New York looking like a purple and red-faced dalmatian was not in the least tempting.

On the 1st of January, Elvis called as planned at 6 o'clock in the evening. I could barely talk, with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in one of my mom's checkered kitchen towels—pressed against the entire left side of my face. Blaming my throbbing headache on the champagne the night prior, my contribution to the conversation was a lot of «mhm,» and struggling with one-word responses.

In the middle of the two-hour-long call, he would time and time again ask if I was alright—in which I said I was totally fine, telling myself I lied not to worry him. I knew he wanted me to come to him if there ever was something wrong. But the truth was I did not want to believe the attack occurred. It made me feel what I could best describe as being paralyzed—like I wasn't in control of my own body.

Inescapable awareness formed collages of images, words, and sensations. Whenever I closed my eyes, the darkness and the non-existing sight replaced the world around me with the scenery I'd been in on the night of New Year's Eve. Between catching the sense of fingers at my cheeks, hearing close-by words whispered into my ears, and the sour taste in my mouth—there was one thing I couldn't stop myself from repeating. The sight of the parking lot in range of a short run flashed before my eyes—torn away with the jarring grab of my wrist and continued clutching pressure. I found myself shielding my arms in the tight range of my chest, covered in sweater arms that hid the bruise from all eyes—even mine.

I did not want what happened to me to be talked of, which only gave me one option. No one could know. My parents, Patty, all my friends, and Elvis—had to be kept in the dark. The same darkness I wished I could enter myself, in the sense that I wanted to forget. Forgetting could only happen if there was taken no notice of something—colliding with the idea of letting someone in on it. If no one could bring it up, disregarding it seemed to be within closer reach.

To help myself believe I could toss it out and overlook it, I blamed what Wendell did on him being plastered on too many bubbles—talking the whole thing down in my thoughts, so much so that what he did, didn't matter anymore. It wouldn't happen again, and if I dared to think there was a chance it could, I would just call the cops then.

Convincing my parents, I'd just slipped and hit my face on the harsh stone stairs as I went to get some air wasn't that hard. Considering I never really drank and was a sensible young lady that never lied much to my parents—they had no reason not to believe me. I was the exact opposite of a liar when it came to my parents. We were close, and I usually told them everything so they could advise me. While having great trust in me, my mom took care of my bruises with just as great care—unknowingly moving into the new year with her daughter's increased span of troubling emotions. I'd never been comfortable with unexpected or even most expected touches of intimate value—so much so that I didn't know what to expect if it occurred.

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