An Attempt to be Normal

My parents sat across from me, my mother glaring into my eyes, my father looking at the floor. They sat there waiting for me to respond. But what could I say? It wasn’t like I had any choice in the matter. It wasn’t like I could defend myself, say that I’d be better, that I’d work on it. I knew I couldn’t work on it. I knew I couldn’t “be better.” This was the third time it had happened. Well. The third time I had been caught at least.

“Well?” my mother asked, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do,” I muttered.

“And what do you want?” my mother retorted back, “Don’t you want this too? Don’t you want to get better? To be normal?”

I looked at her, her eyes so narrowed they were like slits- barely there, as if she almost couldn’t stand to look at me; her hands wringing in her lap, nails digging into her skin so roughly she almost made herself bleed.

I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her what I knew to be true. That there was no getting better. That this was just what it was no matter how hard I tried.

So instead, I just said, “Yes, mother. I want to be better. I want to be normal.”

The long, yellow, school bus pulls up in front of the house. It makes me feel like I’m going to camp.

Which I am, I guess.

The doors to the bus open.

As I start to walk toward it, my father pulls me back into a hug.

“We’re doing this for your own good. You know that, right?” he whispers into my hair, his voice choked with I don’t know what. Sadness? Regret? A little bit of rage?

I nod against his chest.

“Let her go, George,” my mother says gruffly, “She has to go.”

My father shoves me away, looking at the ground.

I look at my mother, waiting to see what she wants to do. A hug, a handshake.

“Be good,” she says, making no move to touch me. Maybe she wants to wait until I’m clean again. Normal. (as if I ever was).

I nod at her and turn around. Walk to the bus.

I climb the steps without looking at the bus driver.

I keep my eyes cast down, seeing only pairs of feet as I walk the length of the bus.

I choose an empty seat and sit.

The doors close and we pull away.

I look out the window at my parents.

My father is looking at the sky.

My mother waves.

It’s the very last time I see them.

After miles and miles of freeway, we exit onto a road and drive miles and miles, and eventually we are driving through forest. Nothing but forest. And then, after more miles and miles, we finally stop in front of a trail head that I assume leads to more forest.

“All right ya’ll, time to get off the bus,” the driver yells.

There is a scuffling of sound around me as I can feel people grab bags from under their seats, stand and begin to move toward the front of the bus.

I wait until it’s quiet.

“Hey you,” the driver says, “Off the bus.”

I nod and stand and keep my eyes cast to the ground.

I want to wait until I absolutely have to, to see the world I’m stepping into.

I want to wait as long as possible to face my new reality.

This therapy that’s supposed to cure me.

Change me forever.

Make me normal.

I step off the bus and stand next to the other pairs of feet.

“What’s your name?” someone whispers next to me.

I open my mouth to answer but am immediately cut off by a high pitched, “HELLLOOOO CAMPEEEERRSS!”

For the first time in at least eight hours, I look up and standing in front of me is a tall, rail-thin, woman with bleached-blonde hair, eyes that look like they’re going to pop out of her skull, and a wide smile that reminds me of the Joker.

“My name is Susan,” she says, “Can you say, Hello Susan?”

I can feel the intake of breath around me.

The tension like electricity.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

Susan narrows her eyes, but her smile remains the same. The effect is chilling and in a quick moment the group collectively mutters, “Hello, Susan.”

“Oh, come on!” she screeches, “You can do better than that. Let me hear you say, ‘Hello, Susan!”

I should probably mention that next to Susan are two tall, very large, men that look sorta the same. Muscley. Short cropped hair. Security type men. And as they clear their throats, reminding us of who’s in charge, the group says again, louder this time, “Hello, Susan.”

“Now, that’s better,” Susan says, clapping her hands, “Now, look,” she continues, her voice dropping to a reasonable level, “I am not one for messing around. I am not one for beating around the bush or insulting your intelligence. I know why you’re here. You know why you’re here. There is something inside of you that needs fixing. That needs to be…cured. And we, Mark, Tyler, and I, are here to help. We want to help. You might find what we do…unusual. But please, believe me,” Susan’s eyes widen with sincerity, bringing her hands to her chest, “Please believe me. We only want to help.”

And the thing is, I believe her.

Susan, Mark, and Tyler lead us, single file through the woods.

We are told to stay silent.

To appreciate the nature around us.

There are 10 of us.

Girls.

All around the same age.

I haven’t really looked at anyone.

Not really.

I’m not interested in anyone else here.

I’m only focused on myself.

Fixing myself.

Making myself normal.

“What’s your name?” someone whispers from behind me.

“Silence!” Susan screeches from ahead, “Be one with yourself. One with nature.”

We are silent.

We walk.

There is a cool breeze that makes the trees sound like they are sighing.

In pleasure or in pain or in sympathy, it’s hard to tell.

After what feels like hours we finally stop.

In the middle of these woods, someone has made a large open clearing.

There are three picnic benches.

Three small cabins.

On the far side of the clearing there is a pile of large stones.

Susan points to a girl and then points to a cabin.

Four in one cabin, four in another, 3 in the last.

Susan will stay in one.

Mark in another.

Tyler in the third.

“Ok, girls,” Susan says, “You must be exhausted. Feel free to make your way to your cabins.”

I am in the cabin with Tyler. The smallest group.

We go into the cabin.

There are two sets of bunk beds and a single bed, which I assume is for Tyler.

“Choose a bunk. Stay quiet,” Tyler grunts, putting his backpack on the single bed.

I look at the two other girls.

One of them has short cropped hair and a thick layer of eyeliner. She wears cargo pants and a baggy shirt with a band I don’t know.

The other has long brown hair tied back into a braid. She wears jeans and a tank top.

We stare at each other.

“Just choose,” Tyler grunts.

I head to a bunk bed.

Short Hair follows me, and Long Braid takes the other bed.

I stop in front of the bunk.

I look at Short Hair and with my eyes ask her if she wants the top or the bottom.

She shrugs.

I put my stuff on the top bunk.

It is the fastest I have ever made decisions.

Tyler stands.

He walks toward us.

“Get in a line,” he grunts, “Facing me.”

We do.

“Good,” he grunts, “Now we wait.”

We stay like that.

Facing him.

Him facing us.

He takes turns looking at each of us. I wonder what he sees. What he thinks.

After a while, I hear the door open behind us.

“Ah! Group number 3,” I hear Susan say.

She walks in front of us.

The Joker smiles appears on her face.

In her hands she holds a stack of linen.

I can’t tell what they are.

She looks at each of us, her eyes stopping on Short Hair.

“My oh my,” Susan says, “Now that simply won’t do.”

She hands the linen to Tyler and walks up to Short Hair.

Short Hair steps back.

“I’m not going to hurt you dear,” Susan says, “I’m going to help you.”

Susan gestures to Tyler who walks up to Short Hair and grabs her shoulders, holding her in place.

Susan raises her hand, she licks her fingers, and begins to wipe the eye-liner from Short Hair’s face. She wipes and wipes, hard and fast. Short Hair just stands there. Takes it. It’s hard to gauge how she feels. She keeps her face stoic, staring straight ahead.

When the eyeliner has mostly been rubbed off, Susan stands back, satisfied. She hands each of us some linen. I realize it’s a gown. A white gown.

“This is what you’ll wear for the rest of your time here,” Susans says, “It’s easier. Elegant.”

Susan smiles at us again and as she’s about to leave, she stares at Long Braid.

She pulls out the braid, letting Long Braid’s hair loose down her shoulders.

“It’s better this way,” Susan tells her, “It’s more elegant. Feminine. Isn’t that what we want?”

Long Braid nods.

Susan leaves.

Tyler gestures for us to put on our gowns.

We stare at him, waiting for him to leave the cabin.

“Change,” he grunts.

We stare at each other, seeing which of us will make the first move.

“Change,” Tyler says again, louder this time, an edge creeping into his voice.

I start to undo my clothes. The others follow suit. Tyler looks at each of us as we change. His eyes moving over our bodies. His face remains the same. Passive. As if he doesn’t care that he’s staring at three naked girls. His eyes are the only thing that give him away.

Once we are changed, he gestures for us to go to bed.

I climb to the top.

I stare at the ceiling.

I can hear Tyler lie down in his own bed.

I can hear the sound of breathing.

I wonder whose it is.

Maybe all three.

After a while, there is the sound of loud snoring.

I look over and see Tyler fast asleep.

“What’s your name?” someone whispers.

It’s the same whispering from before and it’s coming from below.

Short Hair.

“Mel,” I whisper, “Yours?”

“Sasha,” she replies.

After a while, I whisper, “What’s your name?”

There is a silence and then, “Itzel.”

There is another long silence and at some point I wonder if maybe one or both have fallen asleep. If maybe they’re too exhausted from the journey and their own history to keep their eyes open, even in a strange place. And then Sasha whispers, “So, what’s your story?”

I wait to see if Itzel is going to answer first but there is nothing.

After another long pause, Sasha starts to whisper her own story.

When she’s finished, I tell her mine.

And after another long pause, Itzel tells us hers.

The details differ but the main point remains the same.

We are the same.

We are here for the same strangeness.

The same sin.

At some point I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, I wake up with a scream bubbling from my throat as cold water is thrown on top of me.

“Get up!” Tyler yells.

The three of us scramble out of our beds.

“Get in line,” he says.

We do.

“Now march,” he says pointing out the door.

We leave our cabin and shiver against the cold air.

We start to hug ourselves for warmth but Tyler shoves us from behind.

“Go, follow suit,” he grunts.

We look ahead of us and see the rest of the girls carrying stones from one side of the clearing to the other.

“We must sweat the sin out of you,” Susan screeches from the top of the clearing, “Sweat it out my dears! If I can do it, so can you!”

Susan’s eyes gleam with tears, her smile wide with hope and desperation.

Me, Sasha and Itzel get in line.

I try to pick up a stone but it’s too heavy.

I feel something sharp strike me in the back.

I scream.

“Pick it up,” Mark says.

I look to see the stick he holds in his hand. It is covered with dark, red, stains.

I can feel the blood dripping down my back.

I try to lift the stone.

It doesn’t move.

Again, the stick.

I scream.

“Pick it up,” Mark says again.

“You can do it,” Sasha whispers from behind me.

I stare at the rock.

I try again but again it doesn’t budge.

Mark hits me again.

He hits me again.

He hits me again.

At some point, I pass out.

This is how we pass the time.

Moving stones from one side of the clearing to another.

If we can’t move the stones we are whipped.

We pass out.

This is the cycle of our lives.

In our beds, once Tyler has begun to snore, Sasha, Itzel, and I share secrets.

Moments of joy.

We talk about our parents.

We confess past loves. The reason we’re here to begin with.

“Her skin was so soft,” I say.

“She had the voice of an angel,” Itzel says.

“She was my best friend,” Sasha whispers.

We hold each other’s hands.

“Do you…” Sasha begins.

After a moment of silence I ask, “Do we, what?”

“Do you…ever think that we’re ok? That there’s nothing wrong with us? That they’re the ones who need to be fixed?”

Itzel and I say nothing.

We are not as brave as Sasha.

Neither of us have the courage to speak such thoughts out loud.

There comes a point where I stop thinking.

Stop dreaming.

Where I am almost becoming simply my routine.

I am woken up with cold water.

I carry stones.

I sleep.

I forget who I am, where I’ve been, where I wanted to go before being brought here.

I am on the precipice of disappearing.

And then, one night, I am woken by the smell of smoke.

Smoke fills our cabin.

I cough myself awake.

I shake Sasha and Itzel awake.

We run out of the cabin, leaving a passed out Tyler behind us.

Outside, the clearing is on fire.

The other two cabins are covered in flames, already beginning to fall apart.

The rest of the girls stand wide-eyed.

Susan screams into the night, “Who did this?! Which one of you monsters is responsible?”

We look around.

We search each other’s faces for clues.

And then, from out of the darkness step a group of girls.

Their faces are painted with ash.

They hold long, sharp, sticks in their hands.

Their hair is wild, pointing in all directions.

Their gowns have been torn into makeshift shirts and pants.

We don’t have to ask who they are.

We know who they are.

They are the ones who have come before.

Who have somehow managed to escape.

“Hello Susan,” the girl at the head of the group says, her smile so wide it reminds me of the Joker.

Susan steps back, her hands wringing with fear.

Susan turns to us, “Help me, girls! Help me get rid of them.”

We stare at Susan.

We stare at the girls. The wild girls with their gleaming eyes and hungry smiles. The wild girls who reek of freedom.

And I don’t have to look at Sasha, or Itzel, or any of the other girls to know our response. To know what we’re going to do. I don’t have to look at them to know that we’re all stepping toward Susan with our hands raised, our mouths open, our bodies ready to pounce.

We are ready to join the wild girls.

We are ready to feel like ourselves again.