The Truth is like a Needle in a Haystack

Can memories, not your own, destroy a place that has woven itself within the very fabric of your soul? Should someone else’s pain erase a past that never belonged to them? I teeter totter between; I hope not and how can it not. Greedily telling myself to not let it. For some reason these thoughts connect to a mantra that got me through high school, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” It doesn’t really apply to this situation, but I feel like the intent remains within the same vein. I twist it to suit my current purpose. “No one can take away how you feel without your consent.” But I struggle with the word consent. It implies that a person had a choice to begin with. And all those choices were made by other people and not me. But can I really say that? Just like consent I struggle with the notion of culpability.

Where to begin? I brought myself out here in the middle of the night. Not knowing what I expected now that certain events have come to light, unfolding for public consumption. It felt like I was being called to provide an answer for a life’s test I had never even known to study for.

The memories shape-shift around me. Ripple like a skipping stone on a glassy pond. I was always so proud of myself for getting three hops before the stone sank to the bottom. Perhaps I am more like the stone than I know. Skipping along the surface until the moment, I plop down into the murky mud. The seaweed waving a welcome that feels daunting. Tentacle-like hands that grasp instead of greet.

I cannot remember the first time I saw the barn, but I remember that it always reminded me of a face. Which I suppose is the same for most children. Two windows made up the eyes, an elongated nose-like door just above the sliding main door; which, when opened, made me think the barn was yawning. Now, looking at it with the moonlight filtering in, the view is suddenly sinister. No more youthful yawns, but a space where a person could get swallowed whole.

The flashes of fear come along uninvited. I shake my head, desperately searching the space for my own memories. The hay loft was where I first discovered Anne of Green Gables, my love of Gilbert only outweighed by my own childhood neighbour. And the concrete floor beneath my feet had every summer hosted the whirling bodies of the townspeople. Their movements creating intricate patterns. I could almost hear the music echoing out of the once propped open door. The dancing always spilled out into the yard, a regurgitation of too many bodies for the space. Too many bodies. I pinch my eyes shut to visions that I’ve never seen, but my brain can somehow easily imagine, as if they in fact belong to me.

The barn almost breathed with life. With much of my life. With the person who drew me to the farm like a guiding night star. Now thought to have drawn so many others.

I am pulled to the steps that lead to the loft. Did he lead them this way? In the shadows, his outstretched palm conjures itself before me. The way my fingers would intertwine with his as though the moment was still happening. The muscle of his forearm flexing to pull me behind him, leading me to the place where our bodies would press close, the air escaping my lungs as his lips finally tasted mine.

The stairs meet my feet, and I follow the past upwards. Reaching the top, my gaze scans the area and I no longer feel alone. The images from the morning paper flicker before me, like a poorly done stage play. These new ghosts of the past now haunt my present. Had their bodies followed willingly, like mine at the beginning? Was there a point where they wavered? That gut feeling that something was wrong? When had his hands gone from being gentle to...

I stumble. Or perhaps my legs give out. My knees hit the floorboards, who protest against the night air with a squeal. Panic seizes me. My fingers flex against the worn wood in an attempt to ground me from attack. A mistake, as the present is exactly the place I wish to flee from.

Why did I come here? Under the cover of darkness; slinking around like I've done something wrong. Wishing not to be caught. Had he done the same, for very different reasons? If the paper is correct, am I looking for evidence only I could find?

It is a war within myself and one that rages on within the small town I was born in. Their whispers swirling around like the dances held here long ago. It is a tug of war and I appear to be at the centre. The authorities want my help. Their families want answers. His wish I could be a sort of character witness.

But haven’t I witnessed enough?

How could it not be true?

How could one not see me in every missing face? Our likenesses beyond canny. Hauntingly so.

I lower myself fully to the floor. Feel the hay scratch my cheek. Was this what they felt last? My vision adjusts because the ‘eyes’ of the barn remain slightly ajar, allowing the moonlight in. Almost as though my trespass has woken it from its slumber.

My body feels the vibrations before any sound reaches my ears. Can one remember the physicality of a person moving through a building? Can one person be so distinctive?

I cannot bring myself to move. Is it some form of defence mechanism? Has returning to the country made me into a human form of opossum? An animal I was teased about mercilessly because for the longest time I thought it was pronounced ‘possum’ sans the ‘o’. My constant defender, now just as grown as me, takes the steps to the loft two at a time.

Had he known I would come? He always knew me better than I knew myself.

I shouldn’t have come. But a part of me wanted this. Needed this. Knowing that one look could solidify the truth in my mind. Yet, now I’ve turned the proverbial chicken. I don’t want to know. Not really. I want the present to not exist. For the best parts of me and him to live firmly in our shared history.

The landing is reached. I wonder if I look like one of the victims they claim may be his. What a sight I must pose. Wouldn’t it serve him right to see me like this, unmoving amongst the remaining bails? Am I the victim he has desired all along?

I hear the breath catch in his throat. The scruff from the lateness of the hour, rolling over his Adam's apple as he gulps, abrasive in a way that still makes my skin prickle.

I squash the urge to roll over, get to my feet and run into the arms that would never hurt the real me, only what appears to be facsimiles of me. What could I have done that would have elicited such a response? What could I have done to save those missing and presumed dead by his hands?

The steps towards me are tentative. Like an animal unsure if they are going towards friend or foe. What am I to him? Am I his undoing? His saviour? Can I be either? Can I be both simultaneously?

Pulling up beside me, he kneels down, the hay breaking under him. I know I won’t flinch if he touches me. The searing heat of his palm touches my back, waiting for its rise and fall. How could it not? Or would it be the sweetest revenge, to find the original copy prostrate on the floor.

The hair is brushed from my face, taking with it strands of hay. His index finger imprinting itself on my temple. I still do not move. And the last thing I thought would happen, does, and he moves to lie down next to me. The view blurred by tears I have held back. I blink once, twice and by the third my sight clears. His hazel eyes search mine.

I finally move, my fingers inching of their own accord. My thumb traces the outline of his lips. They're softer than I remember. My hand does not shake, and for a fraction of a second (maybe just in my imagination) I feel his lips press back.

And it surprises me that I don’t know if the man in front of me is the monster he’s supposed to be or the man I have always loved. Or both simultaneously.

The hay parts at his whisper, “Help me.”

And for the life of me, I don’t know how.