13 | tina shepard
CHAPTER THIRTEEN | TINA SHEPARD
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The fact that praise of my strength—of character, of spirit, or even just my physical strength—often has to come at the expense of my friends and Zach makes me sick to my stomach. I'd much rather listen to people blabber on and on about my luck than to hear them say I found hidden strength even when everything about my circumstances at the time was stacked against my survival.
It's very easy to look away, to stand on the other side of the line (gone through a traumatic event that left everyone dead but them versus didn't go through such a thing), and spew out bullshit that they think is helpful, and it's also incredibly easy to at least try and look at things from my perspective. Trying is easy, but actually succeeding is near impossible, so I try not to take it personally. Regular people just aren't equipped to deal with something like that and, truth be told, neither was I.
Until the moment I had to be.
Doctor Albott telling me she thought I was strong before The Incident and not thanks to it was a good, rich meal for my ego, one that made the guilt subside for a bit, but now I understand why that happened. The guilt was quick to be replaced with the painful realization that my survival, strength-fueled, happened at the detriment of everyone else's because they weren't strong enough. Knowing that implication doesn't make me feel any better.
After all this time grappling with figuring out how and why I survived, I'm more comfortable with leaning towards it having been thanks to a combination of factors, some of them related to me, others to external agents. Him deciding to save me for last did help, and so did Zach's unfortunate decision to try to buy me some time, regardless of how bitter of a pill it is to swallow, but where does that leave me, then?
I know I wasn't a passive agent in that whole ordeal. Though I spent most of the time running, hiding, crying, and pleading, there was a point something clicked in my brain, something that triggered me to switch my approach, and that was the moment I knew I had nothing left to lose. If everyone in there died, there would be no one to tell the story, to tell the true story of what went down, to avenge others.
The moment I realized I'd have to save myself, no longer being able to afford the luxury of waiting for the police to arrive and rescue me like a damsel in distress, I was enraged—hurt, but filled with adrenaline and determination just so I didn't have to feel scared. I've never been a quitter, and that wasn't how I was going to be defeated, so I reached out for the bat and did what I had to do to survive.
I am no hero.
Calling me a hero makes the whole situation sound a lot more fantastical and whimsical than it actually was, like it's something that can even be glorified. There was nothing heroic or badass about hiding in a storage closet, genuinely convinced I was going to die—to be killed by someone I considered a friend—and forcing myself to believe it was just a nightmare, a prank, that everyone would get up and start laughing at my horror. Very funny, guys.
There was nothing badass about emerging from a cabin, soaked in blood that both was and wasn't mine, battered and bruised, concussed, dragging a baseball bat behind me. If He hadn't followed me outside, wielding the machete, and threatened everyone, everything could have easily been twisted to fit a narrative in which I was responsible for every death. If I had killed him with the bat, I would've stooped to his level, and things would be a lot different now.
Except they aren't. Except I lucked out.
It's with that newfound reflection that I force myself to attend the mental health events on campus in the first week of September, very much against Betty's wishes, something she insists on reminding me of during the drive to UAS.
"I still think this might not be a good idea after all," she tells me, turning into the parking lot. I sigh, leaning the back of my head against the seat, wishing we weren't having this exact conversation for the fifth time this morning, but things somehow always circle back to the topic. "If it triggers you . . ."
"There are many things that trigger me," I clarify. "I can't spend the rest of my life avoiding them all."
"That's valid, but consider this." She stops the car and the engine, but doesn't remove the keys from the ignition. The keychain is a cartoon knife, with TRUE CRIME JUNKIE carved into it, and I promptly look away from it before the conversation turns even more awkward. "There are unavoidable triggers. We all know this. Those are the ones that are more urgent to tackle because they're a part of your everyday life. I get it. But this? This is something that's not even mandatory. This is something you're forcing yourself to attend when you don't even want to. Maybe stop to think about why that is."
I unbuckle my seatbelt. Behind us, Sidney eyes me carefully. "I know why I want to go. I want to try and find some different perspectives, see how other people have dealt with things. Maybe it will help me. My therapist even said it could be useful to listen to other people, and I trust her judgment. She has training in this, you know."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm not saying I know more about mental health than your therapist. That's not what this is about?"
"Then what is this about, exactly? Every time I try to talk about it, you get all catty with me and Odette, whenever she's around to agree with me." She visibly stiffens at the mention of Odette's name, and I'm beginning to think I'm nearing the root of the problem, but I don't want to assume things beforehand. If Odette really is that sore of a spot for her, then they need to sort things out without getting me involved; things are complicated enough for me as is, and I don't need a feud to make it worse. "I'm doing what I think is best for me. If you're being like this just because you're at odds with Odette—"
"That's not what I'm saying!" she snaps, finally turning to me. "If Odette's opinion is the only one that matters to you, then fine. She can do no wrong, can she? All I've been trying to do is to help you both in the best way that I can, but you two keep pushing me away and disregarding everything I say. How is that fair? Why do I always have to be the bad guy?"
"I didn't say you're the bad guy."
Her baby-blue eyes well up with tears that she rushes to wipe away with her sleeve. "You didn't have to. It's implied."
"Look." I lightly touch her elbow. "I've been getting the feeling that you and Odette are going through a rough patch"—she scoffs at this, but doesn't deny it—"and I understand that it hurts and is frustrating, but there's no third option for me to choose here. I either go, or I don't. Choosing one of them over the other doesn't mean the opposing opinion is irrelevant."
"She doesn't listen to me. She never does. There was a point when she did, but that was before . . . well, before she started dating Callum. She used to be much chiller a few years ago, but then her parents introduced her to him and I can't help but feel like I'm losing her. Sometimes I wonder if her thoughts are genuinely her own or if there's his voice in her head whispering menacing things. He's never liked me or our friendship, so I wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case." She scowls. "I don't know why, but she thinks he's her only ticket out of Juneau. Out of Alaska. You know, like she clearly doesn't have the brains to do it by herself. I hate that she's dumbing herself down for the sake of this dude's ego."
"Do you know why he doesn't like you?"
Betty shrugs. "Probably because he's jealous that I'm closer to her than he'll ever be. Or used to be closer to her. I'm not sure of anything anymore." I shudder. That's what was being said about Him—He was jealous, sick and tired of being rejected, of being left behind, of being replaced—and I've heard one too many stories about entitled jealous men to be comfortable with this. "I think he's harmless, honestly"—so was He, until the day He wasn't—"but this is just petty behavior. He thinks I'm a bad influence on people, including Odette, and thinks I'm the only thing standing in her way. He should probably get a good look at himself instead of pointing fingers at other people."
"I'm sorry. That sounds like it's taking a toll on you."
She exhales deeply through her mouth, but it comes out a lot shakier than intended. Sidney bumps her nose against the back of her arm to comfort her. "Yeah. I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just exhausting, you know? All my life, I've been putting her first, but now I'm not even her second or third choice. It feels like everything I do is wrong."
"Seems like you need to put yourself first for a change. You can't be present to help other people if you don't try to help yourself, too."
She tucks a lock of bright hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I guess you have a point."
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I almost go back on my decision to attend this meeting.
Once Betty heads off to yet another meeting with her advisor—what for, she doesn't tell me, but she's been having plenty of them—and leaves Sidney and me to our own devices, my newfound courage begins to vanish. Though there's a text from Doctor Albott in my inbox, encouraging me and reminding me this is an act of great bravery, I don't feel that brave.
Betty's words echo in my head—maybe think about why that is—and I stop right outside the lecture hall right before World Literature starts. All this time, I was convinced I was doing it for myself, to meet new people and hear their perspective, but it's hard to be certain of anything these days, and I have a hard time trusting my initial convictions and moral reasonings. I mentally curse my Ethics professor for that one.
I don't think I'll be getting any answers out of these meetings, as no one there was at Camp Comet when it all happened, and I don't trust strangers to figure things out without knowing the full story. I doubt I'll ever know the full story, since I don't know why He did it, but I'm not sure whether it's worth it to keep chasing memories determined to drain and kill me.
My World Literature paper is resting on my professor's desk and in her inbox and I occupy my usual seat while wishing it's good enough, featuring compelling arguments and a good defense. I'm good at writing essays, which is one of the few things I have going in my favor, but Juneau feels like a whole new world, and part of me thinks there might not be that much room for subjectivity.
Nadia and Claudia are two of the boldest, most outspoken people taking this class, and I find myself agreeing with plenty of the points they make, but I know I'd never be able to let my voice be heard quite like they do. I don't have the courage to publicly voice my support, especially because I'd just be agreeing without adding anything relevant to the conversation, and I'm not comfortable with sitting under the spotlight. They—along with most of my classmates—understand the nuances and intricacies of literature, being able to reference obscure works and recognize patterns I never saw coming, and it's a great way of strengthening my feelings of inadequacy.
I know I don't have to be perfect and it's true that the professors here aren't nearly as demanding as mine back in Chicago, but these are still skills I feel like I should also have and I don't. I'm not witty or sharp-tongued like my classmates, and I worry this will no longer be where I shine, easily eclipsed by other people.
"Hey, Wendy," Claudia greets, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she sits next to me. The smile I give her in return is a lot frailer than I wished. "You doing okay? You look a bit pale."
"Well, this is Alaska," I stupidly say, in an attempt at being like one of them.
"Make sure you don't fall ill. The cold weather here can be brutal."
"I'll keep that in mind." I open my laptop to have an excuse to look at something else other than her, sincerely hoping she'll get the hint that I'm not in a talkative mood, but she doesn't.
"Are you coming to the meeting today? It's from eleven to one, so you can have lunch with us, if you'd like."
"I don't know. I guess so."
Her smile drops and she scoots closer to me, as much as our individual chairs allow. Since they're drilled to the floor, it's not much. "Look, you don't have to come if you feel like it's going to be too much. I get it. It's my first time, too. I didn't have it in me to attend the meetings last year. Things can get a bit . . . intense. It's almost like group therapy without the commitment, but with every heightened emotion, just like the real deal. There are psychologists, psychiatrists, and regular people involved, and they're there to talk about a whole variety of topics, not just . . . well." She sighs. "Not just trauma. Most people have had something happen to them."
I know that comment is meant to make me feel better, make me feel more at ease with the idea of being stuck in a room with strangers for a whole week, but it falls flat, through no fault of her own. If I were in her shoes, if I could be the slightest bit less shy, I probably would have said the same thing to that universe's Wendy.
It's far from being the worst, hardest thing I've ever had to do. I can go there once and never take part in such an event again—Claudia assures me there's no long-term commitment, which relaxes me a bit—but they'll still know who I am, and I'm self-centered enough to convince myself I'll turn into a topic of conversation. I want to believe it truly won't be that big of a deal if I only attend one meeting—or none at all—but the look in Claudia's eyes is so hopeful I'm having a hard time going forward with that decision.
"I'll give it a go," I eventually say. Her whole face lights up. "Are you sure it's okay to only go once?"
"Oh, yeah, absolutely. People there are super understanding." She finally turns around to face the front of the lecture hall, as the professor has just entered the room and has closed the door behind her, meaning no one else is allowed inside. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. It's a safe space."
Camp Comet was also a safe space. Until it wasn't.
I don't tell her that. Instead, I just nod and try to push the subject away from my mind until it's time for the meeting. The less I think about it, the better.
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