The Prisoner Project

TWENTY FOUR

"Aria," Diana muttered, her face was a portrait of despair articulated so vividly. "Do you really not remember?"

I shook my head, solemn.

"God," Dianas voice cracked. She looked down at her shoes momentarily and up at me. Her silhouette against the clean walls of my room trembled. "But you told him yes. Why would you confess to something you don't remember?"

It was strange because I couldn't actually remember. I wasn't sure what had made me nod earlier on, I wasn't even sure who 'he' was. What was wrong with me? Was it me who killed Hugh? What truly happened that night? And what happened afterwards?

I bowed my head in frustration. It was tiresome to try and remember. Perhaps I had PTSD and triggering the memories hurt me. "I don't know...I just know I was afraid. I don't know exactly what scared when he had asked. I don't know what I've done. What I did." My eyes were wide when I opened them again. "Diana...you need to help me."

Her face became crestfallen, and she looked ashen at the thought of reminding me. Her lips parted slightly. "Maybe it's best that you don't remember."

I scowled and stood up, hands balled in fists. "You're not going to sit here and keep things from me like I'm a child. We went through it together, you need to tell me what I did."

Diana closed her eyes tightly. "Aria..."

Seeing her so fearsome shocked me into silence.

She sighed, a heavy one and stood up to match my height. In a second, my spacious room suddenly felt cramped up. She took a deep breath and reached over to grab my hand. "What do you remember when you think of that day?"

My chest constricted. This was going to be the hardest thing of my life. But if I was going to make her relive the incident that put us here in the first place, I should too. I closed my eyes and as soon as I did, the faded memories echoed in my head. Images I was fond of from recurring nightmares.

Hugh's gun, his voice, his eyes, the gunshot, screams, Diana, A gun in my hand? Dad screaming at me, Dad, Dad? Screams, Blood, Screaming. A car? Headlights. Darkness. My heart thudded too hard against my chest. My breathing was erratic and my fingers were cold against the skin of my palm.

My thoughts dissipated with a gasp and my eyes sprung open. What the fuck? I could see my facial expression in Dianas eyes. Despair from grasping at loose threads, Confusion from lack of understanding on how to sew the pieces together and Pain from realising the pieces I thought were right were wrong all along.

"I don't know. It's foggy but I remember fragments of things I don't understand. Dad? There was a car? Headlights?" My heart hurt, and my fingers lifted to my face. I felt wetness. "Why am I crying?"

Her voice was a whisper.. "Because your heart remembers."

There was nothing beautiful about the moment we shared. It was horrifying having to relive the trauma that damaged us so deeply. After we had run away from our hometown to Stockholm, there was an unspoken pact that we wouldn't talk about it ever again. Yet, I was here ripping open that Pandora's box from the hinges and spilling it every where.

"I..." As though the universe was in sync with our emotions, pathetic fallacy created raindrops outside. They pelted the window. I bit my lip. "Fuck."

Diana stilled my trembling hands, forcing me to focus. "What do you think of when you talk about Dad?"

I frowned, momentarily confused. "Nothing. He stopped mattering a long time ago."

Diana shook her head vehemently. "To me, yes, but that's a lie to you. Think Aria, you're not thinking hard enough."

"Diana, I don't know what the fuck you're trying to get me to say! He's irrelevant." I suddenly felt annoyed, she was pressing on things that didn't seem to matter.