Secrets in Silverton

7. the truth & the end

WHEN I AWOKE, my throat was dry and my tongue had a foul taste settled on it. I coughed and spat. My arms automatically moved to wipe the disgusting feeling of dust off my face.

My eyes were still sealed, despite the fact I was fully aware of my immediate surroundings. All of my senses were intact, which had to be a good thing.

I forced my eyes open, only to have them slam shut again when the sun's rays of light baked them.

I waited a minute before I tried again. My memory jolted me to a sitting position.

I was outside of the mines. How did I get there?

Then it made sense. Michael must've gotten me out.

But where was he?

I looked around. Michael was on the ground, with his back turned to me, far to my left. He must've passed out after carrying me out.

I crawled toward him because I felt too weak to use my legs. "Hey, sleepyhead. We should probably get back and call 9-1-1 now. What do you say? Sound like a good plan?" that was me trying to lighten the mood a bit.

No answer.

"Michael? C'mon, wake up. We need help, in fact, I think I might've actually -"

Michael had blood on him. I scrambled toward him, flipping him over so that he was facing me.

His eyes were open and dull, like the brightness that was once there had been sucked right out of them. I screamed.

"Not you too, Michael. Oh my gosh, I have to get help. This town isn't safe. Something really weird is going on..." I started crying again, but I didn't care. I was so used to it at that point.

Click.

My eyes were greeted with the wonderful sight of my father. He had found me!

But he was also pointing a gun at something behind me. I held my breath as I turned to see what it was.

Nothing. There wasn't anything behind me.

I turned back to my dad, the question dancing on the tip of my tongue.

Then some wheels turned in my brain, and it felt like pieces of a missing puzzle fell into place. My dad wasn't holding the gun steady. He was sweating, and it was because he was pointing the gun at me, his own daughter.

My fingers were threaded in Michael's white hair, like a part of me was trying to hold onto him. I wanted to keep him from leaving me. My grip loosened on Michael after I saw the gash engraved on his cheek, identical to the ones on Luke and my mother.

My tongue swept over my teeth. The weird taste was... familiar, in a way.

I touched my tongue and then pulled my fingers away to look at them. The red dripped from my fingers and slid into my palm.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I carefully set Michael down and scooted away. I didn't deserve to hold him.

"We should've told you," Dad began, his face red. I began to tremble. "We thought that you would be okay if we took you to an asylum, that you would lose the other part of yourself you've never met."

I couldn't accept it. I'd killed my family and the boy I'd grown so fond of.

A fat tear rolled down his cheek. "They both loved you, Alaina. They tried keeping you away from people so you'd never have to bear with the guilt when you realize what you become when you are disconnected from your mind."

I allowed myself to ask questions, to stall a bit. "Was there really an escaped criminal?"

He was silent for a moment. His eyes looked like fire cooling on ice. "No."

So he lied to me.

"This entire time you knew it was me... why didn't you tell me? That it was me who killed Mom and Luke?"

"I couldn't do that to you,"

"So you were acting,"

"Yes."

I paused, and then spoke. "What do I have? What's wrong with me?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder. That's D-I-D for short," he said.

D-I-D. That's what the voice was whispering back in the mines.

That made it easier for me to make peace with my fate. I closed my eyes and held back more tears. It was what I deserved, anyway.