Junebug

C,

My therapist gave me homework. I’m supposed to write you letters to “work through the pain.” But, honestly, there is no pain left, just grief. I mean, I could have been a happy, well-adjusted adult. Maybe I would’ve known a life without all of the medications and therapy. I wish you were in jail. 

I become jittery- scratching my arms, twisting my hair. This usually happens when my brain is awake for too long. Nothing good ever happens when I allow myself to think. I shut the journal and throw it back on the desk. I would deal with it later, but for now, I needed a distraction. The pain usually went away after I melted into the screen of a TV or phone; my eyes not blinking for quite some time, and my brain not functioning for hours. I liked being numb. 

✽ ✽ ✽

Today I am invincible. My long, honey blonde hair fell just the right way, and my makeup from yesterday didn’t smudge. I could almost taste the God complex. The sun was shining, and I downed a bowl of Cheerios without thinking of the weight gain, even adding a pumpkin muffin to the mix. Motivation began to creep in, and the next thing I knew, I found myself working on assignments that were due weeks ago. After hours of work and apology emails, a break was much needed. Grabbing the journal off my desk, the letter from last night fell, slowly, desperate for my attention. I can’t believe I actually wrote that pathetic letter. It was that post-therapy mindset, I guess. 

It had been months since I searched him up. The invincibility and God complex blended perfectly together, and I was suddenly googling “Craig Starne sex offender Eureka Springs, Arkansas.” I have been to this page so many times it should probably be bookmarked. I view his photo and case documents, which I have seen hundreds of times. I open a new tab and go to one of those sketchy private investigation websites to see if there is any updated information for him. I never pay the $20, so deep down I know this “information” is most likely fake, but it comforts me in some messed-up way. 

Everything is looking the same until I scroll down. I freeze. The address has changed. The last time I checked, a few months ago, it showed him living in Arrow Point, but now it lists it as an old address. To entice me to pay the lousy $20, a pop-up immediately took over the whole screen: “ACCESS INFORMATION – $20!” Like I said, sketchy. It appeared that his number was still the same. I have it saved in my phone- not that I would ever use it– just feels nice to have. 

C, 

The sketchy website I use to stalk you sometimes said you moved. I know it’s probably not true and is just the website’s way of trying to get $20 out of me, but it still makes me wonder… what are you up to? I always forget you still have a life, even though you should be in jail. There’s no way a school district would hire you, so what do you do now instead of teaching? Do you go on dates? Whatever happened to Shelby? Does another church allow you to attend services? Do you ever think about all the people you have hurt, or are you still giving in to these “deviant temptations”? That’s how Pastor Monty described the situation to the congregation. That’s all he said— temptations. He didn’t bother getting into what you actually did. I was so confused. I was sitting in our special spot, second row on the left, crying and wondering why the pastor was saying my best friend couldn’t come back. 

✽ ✽ ✽

It was a Thursday. Today, I hated myself more than usual. Despite waking up at 3 pm, I have only moved from my bed once- and that was to piss. Therapy starts in twenty minutes, and thanks to being away at college, I get to talk about my feelings from the comfort of my own bed. I know Melissa will notice the “funk,” as she calls it. One can easily tell that I am still in my pajamas and my hair hasn’t been washed for God knows how long. I scroll on my phone until the session is supposed to start. 

“June!” That familiar high-pitched voice rang through my laptop, up my headphone wires, and then abruptly stopped at my eardrums. I always forget to turn the volume down. I make an agitated face and wave. 

“Did you do the homework we discussed last time?” she asks hopefully. 

“I feel stupid,” I responded, obviously annoyed. 

Melissa goes on and on about how it will take some time to get used to, but it will end up “clearing the fog,” and some other therapeutic bullshit. 

“Did you get rid of them?” she asked, drawing my attention back to the conversation. 

I totally forgot that the second part of the exercise was to dispose of the letters somehow. During our last session, I joked about mailing them, which she then turned into a 25-minute lecture on impulse control. 

“No, I mailed them,” I joked with a smile. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” she responded, while giving me a side eye that looked fuzzy through her awful camera quality. Melissa is in her 60’s, and I am the only client she will use telehealth services for. She is awful with technology. For the rest of the hour, we talked about my manic episode from the previous day and how she wants me to write three more letters before our session next week. She also wants me to come up with a helpful way to dispose of them. 

“I could burn them,” I said sarcastically. 

“Well, as long as you don’t burn yourself in the process, that’s better than mailing them,” she continued before saying goodbye and ending the call. 

Melissa and I have a love-hate relationship. She loves me, and I hate going to therapy. Still, deep down, in the part of me that’s not fucked up, I know it is the right thing to do. Since my parents pay for it, I can pretend to care and talk about my feelings for an hour. 

✽ ✽ ✽

The next morning, I woke up indifferent. Out of all my possible moods, I suppose this one is my favorite. It is definitely the one where I feel the most normal. I get out of bed and start to clean up a bit. I make myself some coffee and think about what to do with my day. As I am tidying up my desk, I come across the two letters. I pick them up and throw them in the little waste basket I have sitting next to my bed. I don’t know why it’s there- it’s not like I ever take it out to the trash. Cleaning is one of the only activities my mother and I ever did together. Instinctively, I pull out my phone to call her. Despite knowing this would probably not be the most productive conversation, I pressed the green phone-shaped icon anyway. 

“June!” She exclaims after three rings. “I was just headed to the grocery store. Your father ran out of his potato chips.” 

“Hey,” I say, chuckling. My father is very particular about his food– especially his snacks. 

We caught up for a bit. I tell her about school and update her on my grades. She tells me about my father and brother. I asked her to send pictures of the dogs. She finally asks about therapy– a topic that is avoided almost as much as my father’s diet. 

“The doctor upped my prescription a week ago.”

There was silence for a moment. 

“I thought you said you were doing better,” she defensively exclaimed. My mother isn’t quite there in the whole “normalizing mental health” scene. She kind of believes in the power of therapy, but that’s about it.  

“In some ways,” I say hesitantly. “We started to talk about Craig.” I continued. 

“Craig? That guy from church a long time ago? What does he have to do with any of this?” She shot back, clearly confused. 

This is what I was afraid of. The church was not exactly clear when they told the congregation as to why Craig would no longer be serving or attending church. They conveniently swept it under the rug to save their own asses. At the time, I was just confused as to why my best friend would not be returning due to “temptations.” I had no idea that I was a victim. 

“You know, he like, groomed me,” I say slowly. 

“You weren’t the one he raped,” she fired back, sounding as if this entire conversation was a nuisance. 

“He still hurt me.” The tears started to fall. 

“Why do you think I kept telling you to stop sitting in his lap and letting him give you piggyback rides? Why do you think I told you to stop hugging all over him? You should have just listened to me!” 

The tears started to intensify, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. With a gasp of air, I was able to let out one more sentence.

“I was a kid,” I managed to say through clenched teeth, then hung up the phone. 

I paced angrily around my room. I knew this would happen. God, why did I have to be so stupid? Just because I was cleaning meant my mother and I could have a civil conversation? I started to laugh. I knew I was stupid, but not this pathetic. The words my mother said on the phone were rubbing alcohol on a cut that had been infected for years. She hated it when I would bring up Craig. I miss the way he made me feel. I miss that for years, he was the only one who truly “got” me. I miss the kind words he would whisper into my ears when no one else was around. The kind of words that were planted, watered, and grew into beautiful thoughts I had about myself. God, I miss him so much. 

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see the waste basket. Without even thinking, I picked up the two letters, placed them into two separate envelopes, stamped and addressed them to the address in Arrow Point, walked to my apartment complex’s mailroom, and slid them in the outgoing mail chute. I needed them to go somewhere. I needed my words to take up more space than just my room. There was a 50/50 chance of him receiving them. If the sketchy website was correct and he did move, then I sent it to the wrong address. And if the sketchy website is wrong, well, I didn’t think that far ahead. Either way, this was the perfect blend of self-destruction and impulse that satisfied my pain for the rest of the day. 

✽ ✽ ✽

C, 

On the off chance you get these, you might be confused. Everything comes in waves, and today I miss you like crazy. Well, not you specifically, but the idea I had of you when I was young. Even after all these years, I still consider you a friend. I know… It’s a little fucked up. But this is the pain that you caused. This right here, these letters, is just one of the many consequences of your actions. But when I miss you, I feel guilty. How can I miss you when Samantha and Julie have suffered far more than I could ever imagine? Or do they still not know? Hell, I don’t even know what all happened between us! I remember the messages and the photos. I remember your old red truck. We were alone so often… but not as much as you were with the twins. I was always so jealous of them. I felt dumb, being jealous of some Kindergarteners, but that’s what you do– make me feel crazy. I remember the day you told me to stop “acting like a child.” That’s ironic, isn’t it? I wished I were them for so long. 

I ripped out the paper from my journal, placed it in an envelope, addressed it, stamped it, and took it to the mailroom. Whoever lives on 2908 Grand Lane will be receiving the first two letters tomorrow. What if it is some elderly woman, or a family with children? What if these letters frighten them? Or worse, what if this really is Craig’s address? What if he hates me? Or, even worse, he doesn’t even remember me. The thoughts begin to spiral around my head, making me dizzy. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a shot of Tito’s while swallowing my Zoloft. Mixing antidepressants and alcohol doesn’t usually end well, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I end up taking two or three more shots. One foot staggered in front of the other, and I stumbled back in my room. I grabbed the journal off my desk and grabbed a pen. I knew I would regret this in the morning, but I began to write. 

C, 

I think I’m drunk. Actually, I know I’m drunk. and its all your fault. I was so harsh in the last letter. But I had a right to be, you can’t be mad at me. Please don’t be mad at me. Please. You showed me love, and then you left. With no warning! Do you even know who this is? Who has been writing you all these letters? I wish you were in jail, but we can thank Samantha and Julie for that one, can’t we? Shelby tried. She tried her hardest to put you in jail. How did it feel having your own wife call the cops on you? But, since Samantha and May didn’t know, they couldn’t testify! Did you drug them so they couldn’t remember? Or was it so they wouldn’t put up a fight? Was that my problem all along? That I needed to be even younger? Were you happy they didn’t testify? Do you ever feel bad at all? I used to envy them, you know. But then I realized one day that they didn’t have a nickname from you. I guess they weren’t so special after all. God, I would do anything to go back in time and hear you call me that nickname one more time. Remember that game we used to play, where you would always tickle, poke, and grab my hips? Or, when I was upset, and you would give me piggyback rides to make me smile? What about how I fit so perfectly in your lap? Your favorite place for me to be. What happened every summer when we went away for camp? All those times you made sure we were alone. You said I was different from the others. I was “so mature for my age.” I was special. You made me finally feel special. And all I learned was that when grown men think you’re special, they can do anything they want. Why can’t I just hate you?

I rolled out of bed, not knowing what was left, right, up, or down. I grabbed a stamp, a marker, and an envelope. I addressed the letter, and in a lapse of judgment, added my own in the top left corner. I stumbled down to the mailroom and slid it down the mail chute. Making my way back to my apartment, I fell quite a few times. Thankfully, it was 2 a.m., so no one was around to notice. I stumbled into the kitchen. I looked at myself in the little mirror that I had hanging by the entrance. I looked pathetic. I had never hated anything more in this moment than the person staring back at me. I downed a glass of water in an attempt to help the hangover that I knew would be waiting for me in the morning, and passed out on the kitchen floor. 

✽ ✽ ✽

The sun was obnoxious. It shone through the cracks in the blinds that just so happened to be right in my face. Head pounding, I stayed on the kitchen floor for a good hour or two before I finally got myself up. I checked my phone- three messages from Melissa. My therapy appointment was an hour ago. I deleted the messages and decided to deal with her next week. I don’t even know what I would tell her.

I grab myself a glass of water and try to recall the events of yesterday. I remember being outside, but I have no idea why. My stomach starts to churn, and I run to the sink. My body discarded the last ounce of self-respect I had left– and it smelled awful. The post–puke clarity sparked a memory; I was writing a letter. I run to my bedroom and search frantically for something I might have written last night. After throwing everything off the desk and bed, I stop dead in my tracks. The return address. I put the fucking return address. I fall onto my bed and the tears make their appearance. How could I have been so stupid? So careless? Even though I am the last person He wants to hear from, I pray to God that the address in Arrow Point is not Craig’s. He was never supposed to have a way to contact me. Would he even know it was me? I don’t even remember what I wrote. Did I sign my name? Did I say anything that would lead him to believe I wanted to talk? Or, worse, that I wanted to testify? I know at times I can miss him, but I still ultimately know that he is a predator who put my innocence in a grave, leaving her six feet under. Maybe I should have listened to my mother. Maybe I should have stopped sitting in his lap and being alone with him. Alone. 

✽ ✽ ✽

I spent the next day or two in bed. Honestly, it could have been more like a week. I genuinely have no clue. His weight was on top of me, and he would not move. I thought I would feel better after knowing. Memories that have been blocked for ten years seem like a breath of fresh air. Trust me— they’re not. The part of me still poisoned misses him, longing for his attention. I was an addict, and attention was my drug.  Would anyone ever make me feel as special as Craig Starne? I know it’s not good to think like this. But it’s the truth.         

Knock. Knock.

My attention immediately shifts from self-pity to the knocks at the door. I doubt it’s my mother or father; they don’t do surprise visits. It could be someone from the apartment management team thinking I’m dead. I haven’t left the place for who knows how long. I take my time getting out of bed, knowing that if it is important enough, they will wait. Maybe it’s a concerned neighbor or someone from school. I try to get to the closet through my explosion of a room. I throw on the least smelly oversized t-shirt from the pile on the floor, and head to the door, throwing my hair into a loose braid as I walk. When I reach the door, I don’t see a shadow. Great, probably some kid playing a prank. But as I open the door, I catch a glimpse of an old red truck driving away. Then, I see it, sitting there on the welcome mat. A note. 

✽ ✽ ✽

Junebug, 

You have to stop contacting me. 

✽ ✽ ✽

Tears stream down my face. It was him. He read my pathetic letters and thinks I’m crazy. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. That was it– my one shot. I thought I was finally angry, but one knock on my door, and I’m back in his grasp. He was so upset that he drove to my apartment. Unless he wasn’t upset… He easily could have ignored the letters or mailed his own response. He chose to respond to the letters. He chose to drive all the way out here. He chose to place the letter on the doorstep, and he chose to knock. I know he said to stop contacting me, but is that all he has to say? Can he not legally stay in contact with me? Does he want me in his life? Am I supposed to read between the lines? I pull out my phone and call the number I swore I never would. 

“Hello?” He picks up after two rings, almost like he is expecting my call. His voice sounds different now. It sounds older, deeper, and scratchier. 

“Hey, Craig,” I say through a smile. 

“Who is this?” 

“It’s me, your Junebug.”