15-05-2021-052358It-Ends-with-Us

I still don’t know who called the police. I’m sure it was my mother, but it’s
been six months and we still haven’t talked about that night. By the time the
police got to my bedroom and pulled my father off of him, I didn’t even
recognize Atlas, he was covered in so much blood.
I was hysterical.
Hysterical.
Not only did they have to take Atlas away in an ambulance, they also had
to call an ambulance for me because I couldn’t breathe. It was the first and
only panic attack I’ve ever had.
No one would tell me where he was or if he was even okay. My father wasn’t
even arrested for what he’d done. Word got out that Atlas had been staying in
that old house and that he had been homeless. My father became revered for his
heroic act—saving his little girl from the homeless boy who manipulated her
into having sex with him.
My father said I’d shamed our whole family by giving the town something to
gossip about. And let me tell you, they still gossip about it. I heard Katie on the
bus today telling someone she tried to warn me about Atlas. She said she knew
he was bad news from the moment she laid eyes on him. Which is crap. If Atlas
had been on the bus with me, I probably would have kept my mouth shut and
been mature about it like he tried to teach me to be. Instead, I was so angry, I
turned around and told Katie she could go to hell. I told her Atlas was a better
human than she’d ever be and if I ever heard her say one more bad thing about
him, she’d regret it.
She just rolled her eyes and said, “Jesus, Lily. Did he brainwash you? He
was a dirty, thieving homeless kid who was probably on drugs. He used you for
food and sex and now you’re defending him?”
She’s lucky the bus stopped at my house right then. I grabbed my backpack
and walked off the bus, then went inside and cried in my room for three hours
straight. Now my head hurts, but I knew the only thing that would make me
feel better is if I finally got it all out on paper. I’ve been avoiding writing this
letter for six months now.
No offense, Ellen, but my head still hurts. So does my heart. Maybe even
more right now than it did yesterday. This letter didn’t help one damn bit.
I think I’m going to take a break from writing to you for a while. Writing to
you reminds me of him, and it all hurts too much. Until he comes back for me,
I’m just going to keep pretending to be okay. I’ll keep pretending to swim, when
really all I’m doing is floating. Barely keeping my head above water.