Excerpt from this book

Sean was very angry at my fuss. "Just Charles," he said. "His standards are not that high. After all, he is with you. "

I brought the glass. When I put a cup in front of Sean, he poked me in the ribs with his finger. "Don't touch me!" I screamed. Then the room was turned upside down. He knocked me to the ground, grabbed my feet and dragged me to the living room, out of my mother's sight.

Sean pushed me to the ground, sat on my stomach and put his knee against my arm. His weight suffocates me. He strangled my trachea with his forearm. I was so angry that I wanted to gasp and shout, but my airway was blocked.

"You act like a child, forcing me to treat you like a child."

Sean spoke so loudly that he was almost shouting. He said to me, but not to me, but to his mother: I am a misbehaving child, and he is correcting the child's mistakes. The tracheal pressure is reduced, and the lungs have a wonderful feeling of fullness. He knows I can't scream.

"Stop!" Mother shouted from the kitchen, although I'm not sure if she meant Sean or me.

"It's impolite to make a hullabaloo about," Sean said to the kitchen again. "You just stay here until you apologize." I told him loudly that I was wrong. After a while, I stood up.

I took out napkins from the tissue box, folded them one by one, and put one on each set. When I put my napkin on Sean's plate, he poked me in the ribs with his finger. I didn't say anything.

//

Charles arrived early, and dad hasn't come back from the junkyard yet. He sat down at the table and Sean stared at him unblinkingly. I didn't want them to be alone, but my mother needed my help to cook, so I went to the stove, but I kept making excuses to get back to the table. Once when I returned to the dining table, I heard Sean and Charles talking about his gun; Another time, I heard Sean talk about all the ways he knew to kill people. I laughed twice, hoping that Charles thought they were just a joke. When I returned to the dining table for the third time, Sean pulled me onto his lap and sat down. I laughed too.

This pretentious trick didn't last long, even until dinner time. I walked past Sean with a big porcelain plate and steamed stuffed bun, and he stabbed me again, making me breathless. The plate in my hand fell to the ground and broke into pieces.

"Why did you do that?" I shouted.

It happened so suddenly that I don't know how he got me to the floor, but I was lying on my back again and was pinned down by him. He asked me to apologize for breaking the plate. In order not to let Charles hear me, I apologized in a low voice. Sean didn't hear me and was angered. He grabbed my hair, approached my scalp again as a lever, jerked me up and dragged me to the bathroom. It all happened so suddenly that Charles had no time to react. When I was dragged by my head in the corridor, the last thing I saw was Charles jumping up, his eyes wide open and his face pale.

Wrists crossed, arms twisted behind your back. My head was stuffed into the toilet and my nose was hanging over the water. Sean yelled at me, but I didn't hear anything. I was listening to footsteps in the corridor, which made me crazy. Charles can't see me like this. I can't let him see all my disguises-my cosmetics, my new clothes, my ceramic tableware-that's my true face.

I twitched, arched, and struggled to get rid of my wrist from Sean. I caught him off guard; I was stronger than he thought, or just more reckless, and he failed to catch me. I jumped to the door. I just walked through the doorframe and into the corridor. Suddenly, my head leaned back and Sean grabbed my hair. He pulled me towards him, so we fell back into the bathtub.

The next scene I remember is that Charles picked me up, and I smiled and let out a sharp and crazy cry. I think if I can laugh out loud, maybe the situation can be saved, maybe I can convince Charles that all this is just a joke. Tears came from my eyes-my big toe was broken-but I kept giggling. Sean stood at the door with an embarrassed face.

"Are you all right?" Charles has been talking.

"Of course! Sean is so, so, so interesting. " When I shifted my weight to my feet, a pain swept through my body. When I said the last word, my voice choked. Charles tried to take me away, but I pushed him away, limped along, gritted my teeth and slapped my brother jokingly.

Charles didn't stay for dinner. He escaped into his jeep, and I haven't heard from him for hours. Later, he asked me to meet him in church. He won't come to Barker Peak again. We sat in his jeep, in the dark and empty parking lot. He is crying.

"What you see is not what you think." (expressing surprise, shock, etc.)

//

If someone asks me what is most important to me in the world, I will answer Charles. But he's not. I will prove it to him. What matters to me is not love or friendship, but my ability to deceive myself: I believe I am strong. Charles knows I am not, so I will never forgive him.

I became capricious, critical and hostile. I designed a weird and changeable evaluation standard to measure his love for me. Once he doesn't meet the requirements, I get grumpy. I lost control of my emotions and vented all my savage anger and terrible resentment against my father or Sean on this confused bystander who just came to help me. When we quarreled, I screamed and never wanted to see him again. I made such a fuss many times, and finally one night, I called him as usual to tell him that I changed my mind, and he refused.

The last time we met was in the field outside the highway. Behind us is the towering Barker Peak. He said he loved me, but it was beyond his ability. He can't save me. Only I can save me.

I don't know what he is talking about.

//

The campus in winter is covered with thick snow. I stayed indoors, recited algebraic formulas, and tried to live as before-imagine that my college life was completely separated from my life in Barker Peak. The wall separating the two was indestructible, but Charles was one of the loopholes.

The gastric ulcer recurred and I felt burning pain all night. Once, Robin woke me up. She said I kept yelling when I slept. I touched my face. It's damp. She held me tightly in her arms and made me feel wrapped.

The next morning, Robin asked me to go to the doctor with her-to see the ulcer and take an X-ray of my foot, because my big toe has turned black. I said I don't need a doctor. The ulcer will heal itself. Someone treated their toes.

Robin raised his eyebrows. "Who? Who treated it? "

I shrugged. She thought it was my mother, so I convinced her. The truth is, the morning after Thanksgiving, I asked Sean to see if my big toe was broken. He knelt on the kitchen floor and I put my feet on his knees. This posture makes him look smaller. He checked his toes for a while, then looked up at me. I saw something in his blue eyes.

I thought he would apologize to me, but just as I was expecting him to speak, he grabbed the tip of my toe and pulled it hard. I feel my feet are going to explode, and a sharp pain spreads all over my legs. While I was still holding back the pain, Sean stood up, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm sorry, little sister, if you didn't pay attention, it wouldn't hurt so much."

A week after Robin was going to take me to the doctor, I was woken up by her again. She picked me up and hugged me tightly, as if her body could hold me in case I collapsed.

"I think you need to meet the bishop." The next morning she said.

"I'm fine." I said, repeating the cliche of someone who is obviously not very good, "just sleep."

Soon, I found a pamphlet on my desk about college psychological counseling service. I hardly looked at it, so I threw it in the dustbin. I'm not going to see a counselor. Seeing a counselor is asking for help and believing that you are invincible. This is an elegant scam, a spiritual tactic. The toe is not broken because it is not so easy to break. Only X-rays can prove whether it is broken, so it was X-rays that broke my toe.

This superstition was also involved in my algebra final exam. In my heart, it has gained a mysterious power. I concentrate on my studies crazily. I believe that if I can get the best score in this exam and get an impossible full mark, even if my toe is broken, I can prove that I am the best without Charles' help. Invincible.

On the morning of the exam, I limped to the test center and sat in the ventilated hall. The test paper is right in front of me. The questions are smooth and soft, easy for me to control, and I will answer them one by one. I handed in my answer sheet, then stood in the cold corridor and stared at the big screen, which would show my score. My eyes blinked again and again when the score appeared. A hundred points. Perfect score.

I feel intoxicated and numb, as if I were drunk. I want to shout to the world: this is the evidence, and nothing can affect me.

//

At Christmas, Barker Peak looks as usual-the top of it is covered with snow and evergreen trees-and my eyes, more and more accustomed to bricks and concrete, can hardly open because of its majestic and clear swing.

When I drove into the mountain, Richard was driving a forklift to open a shop and carry purlins for my father in the nearby town of Franklin. Richard is 22 years old and one of the smartest people I know, but he doesn't have a high school diploma. Being driven by him, I suddenly realized that he might have to drive a forklift all his life.

Just a few minutes after I got home, Taylor called. "I just want to ask," he said, "if Richard is preparing for the college entrance examination."

"Is he going to take the exam?"

"I don't know," Taylor said. "Maybe. My father and I have been doing his job. "

"Dad?"

Taylor smiled. "Yes, Dad wants Richard to go to college."

I thought Taylor was joking until we sat down to eat an hour later. As soon as we started eating, my father, with his mouth full of potatoes, said, "Richard, if you use this time to study, I'll give you a paid vacation next week."

I am waiting for an explanation. There will be an explanation soon. "Richard is a genius," my father said to me with a wink after a while. "He is five times smarter than Einstein. He can refute all atheism. He wants to overthrow the whole damn system. "

Dad went on talking with ecstasy and didn't notice his influence on the audience. Sean collapsed on the bench with his back against the wall and his face tilted to the floor. His appearance is reminiscent of a stone statue, which looks so heavy and lacks mobility. Richard is the son of a miracle, a gift from God, and a genius who can refute Einstein. Richard will change the world. Sean won't. Falling off the tray made him lose too much sense. One of Dad's sons can drive a forklift all his life, but it won't be Richard.

Richard looks more miserable than Sean. His shoulders drooped and his neck shrank, as if his father's praise had overwhelmed him. After dad went to bed, Richard told me that he took the ACT mock exam. The score was so low that he didn't want to tell me the score.

"On the surface, I seem to be Einstein," Richard said with his head in his hands. What should I do? Dad said I would ruin that thing. I'm not sure if I can pass the exam. "

Every night. At dinner, dad will list the wrong scientific theories that genius son will refute; After dinner, I will talk to Richard about universities, courses, books and professors. What I know will stimulate his inner desire to learn. I'm worried that my father's expectations are too high. Richard is afraid of disappointing him. He may not even take the college entrance examination at all.

//

The shops in Franklin Town are going to build roofs, so two days after Christmas, I managed to stuff my still bent black toes into steel-toed boots, and then spent the morning screwing galvanized iron sheets on the roof. In the evening, Sean put down the screw gun and the extension arm of the loader. "Have a rest, little sister." He shouted on the ground, "Let's go into town."

I jumped on the tray and Sean lowered the boom to the ground. "You drive." Say that finish, he pulled open the chair and closed his eyes. I drove to Stokes.

I still remember all the strange details when we drove into the parking lot-the smell of gasoline floated out of our leather gloves; The dirt on my fingertips feels like sandpaper. Sean sat in the passenger seat and grinned at me. Through the traffic in the city, I found a red jeep. It belongs to Charles. We crossed the main parking lot and turned into the open asphalt road on the north side of the store, where the employees stopped. I pulled down the sun visor and looked at myself. I noticed that my hair was messed up by the wind on the roof, and my pores were filled with grease on the iron sheet and became thick and yellow. My clothes are also covered with dust.

Sean saw the red jeep. He watched me lick my thumb and scrub the dirt on my face, and became excited. "Let's go!" He said.

"I'll wait in the car."

"You go in." Sean said.

Sean can smell shame. He knew that Charles had never seen me like this-last summer, I ran home every day, washed away every flaw and dirt on my body, and covered my wounds and calluses with new clothes and cosmetics. Sean has seen me come out of the bathroom countless times, looking brand-new, and washed the garbage from the junkyard into the floor drain.

"You go in." Sean said it again. He bypassed the car and opened the door for me. His behavior is very conservative and gentlemanly.

"I don't want to go in." I said.

"Don't you want your boyfriend to see you so radiant?" He laughed and poked me with his finger. He looked at me strangely as if to say, this is you. You always pretend that you are someone else, someone better than you. But this is you.

He started laughing loudly, as if something interesting had happened, but nothing happened. Still smiling, he grabbed my arm and lifted it as if to carry me on his back. I didn't want to be seen by Charles, so I ended the game. I said bluntly, "Don't touch me."

What happened next, my memory is a blur. I only remember some fragments-everything is spinning, my fist is hitting me, and there is a strange and fierce look in the eyes of a man I don't know. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and felt my strong arms twisting my legs. Something moved around my ankle and made a click or click. I lost control and was pulled out of the car.

I was lying on the cold road, and pebbles rubbed my skin. My jeans slipped to my hips. When Sean tugged at my leg, I felt my pants drop inch by inch. My shirt jumped up. I looked at myself, my body lying flat on the asphalt, my bra and faded underwear. I tried to cover myself, but Sean put my hand on his head. I lay quietly, feeling the cold seeping into my body. I heard myself begging him to let me go, but it didn't sound like my own, like another girl sobbing.

I was pulled up and stood up. I grabbed the clothes, then bent down, and my wrist bent back to the limit. When the bone began to bend, my nose clung to the road. I tried to regain my balance and pushed my legs back hard, but my ankles also bent when I was stressed. I screamed. Someone turned to look at us. People craned their necks to see what had happened. I started laughing-giggling crazily and hysterically. Although I tried to pretend, my voice still sounded a little like screaming.

"You go in." Sean said. I think the bone on my wrist is cracked.

I walked with him in the bright light. I smiled and walked down aisle after aisle, picking up everything he wanted to buy. I laughed at everything he said and tried to convince anyone who might be in the parking lot that it was just a joke. I walk with a sprained ankle, but I can hardly feel the pain.

We haven't seen Charles.

There was silence on the way back to the construction site. It's only a five-mile drive, but it feels like fifty miles. Arriving at the construction site, I limped to the workshop. Dad and Richard are inside. I used to limp because of my bad toes, so now my limping is not so obvious. Nevertheless, Richard saw that my face was full of oil and tears, and he knew something was wrong; Dad didn't see anything.

I picked up the screw gun and screwed the screw with my left hand, but I couldn't exert myself evenly. I couldn't keep my balance just by supporting my body with one foot. The screw bounced off the painted iron sheet, leaving a long arc mark, like a curled ribbon. Dad sent me home after I broke two cans.

//

That night, my wrist was wrapped in thick gauze, and I scribbled a diary. I asked myself, why didn't he stop when I begged him? I wrote: It's like being beaten by a zombie. It seems that he can't hear me.

Sean knocked on the door. I put my diary under my pillow. He came in with drooping shoulders and whispered. He said it was just for fun. He didn't know it would hurt me until he saw me holding my arm at the construction site. He examined my wrist and ankle. He brought me an ice cube wrapped in a dish towel and said that the next time they make trouble, if there is anything wrong, I will definitely tell him. After he left, I continued to keep a diary. It's really a joke. Are you kidding? I wrote it. Doesn't he know that he is hurting me? I don't know. I really don't know.

I began to reflect on myself and think about whether I expressed myself clearly: what did I scream in a low voice? I decided to believe that if I calmed him down in another way, he would stop. I'll write this down until I convince myself. Not long, because I want to believe. I'm glad to think it's my fault, because it means that things are still under my control.

I kept a diary and recited this passage in bed, as if it were a poem I decided to remember by heart. I almost remembered it when I was suddenly interrupted by an idea. A picture came to mind-I was lying on the ground with my arm on my head. Look down at your glistening belly, and then look up at your brother. His expression is unforgettable: it's not anger or rage. There is no anger, only quiet happiness. Then I realized that-although I don't want to admit it-his happiness was due to his humiliation. Humiliating me was neither an accident nor a side effect. This is his purpose.

This incomplete understanding caught me and my mind was occupied by it for a few minutes. I sat up in bed, took out my diary again, and did something I had never done before: write down what happened. I no longer use vague and obscure language in my diary as before, and I no longer hide my suggestions and opinions. I wrote down what I remember: once, he forced me to get off the bus, put my hand on my head and pressed it, and my shirt jumped up. I begged him to let me tidy my clothes, but he didn't seem to hear me. He just stared at it like a big jerk. Fortunately, I am still young. If it were bigger, I would tear it to pieces.

"I don't know what you did with your wrist," my father said to me the next morning, "but you are useless in the team like this. You might as well go back to Utah. "

Driving back to Brigham Young University is like hypnosis. As soon as I got there, my memory of the day before disappeared.

When you check your email, all your memories come back. There is an apology letter from Sean. But he came to my room and apologized. I have never seen Sean apologize twice.

I took out my diary and wrote another one. Contrary to the last one, in this one, I modified my memory. This is a misunderstanding, I wrote. If I tell him to stop, he will stop.

But no matter how I choose to remember, this event will change everything. Looking back now, I am surprised by this, not by what actually happened, but by what happened in my writing. There is still a spark in that girl's fragile body and the invincible emptiness she made up for herself.

The second diary will not cover up the words of the first one. Both diaries will be kept, and my memory is juxtaposed with his. For consistency, I didn't make any changes or tear out a page. This is a bold method.

Admitting uncertainty means being forced to admit your weakness and incompetence, but it also means that you believe in yourself. This is a weakness, but there is a strength in this weakness: I firmly believe that I live in my own thoughts, not others'. I often wonder if the most powerful words I wrote that night came not from anger but from doubt: I don't know. I just don't know

I never allow myself the privilege of uncertainty, but refuse to make way for those who claim to be sure. I have lived in other people's stories all my life. Their voices are powerful, autocratic and absolute. I never realized that my voice could be as powerful as theirs.