Chapter 2 What is Heartache?

The wind roared in my ear. Then, physical impact.

I didn't hit the packed dirt. My back slammed into a massive, dense stack of dry livestock hay piled near the barn doors. 

Heavy boots thundered down the wooden stairs. Mother hit the dirt on her knees right beside the hay bales. Her hands hovered over me, trembling wildly, too terrified to actually touch my bloodied back.

"Call 911! Get the ranch doctor right now!" Mother screamed at the crowd. Her voice was completely hysterical.

The barbecue guests were panicking. People knocked over lawn chairs and shoved past the beer coolers. 

"Hurry!"

"Did she just throw herself off?"

"Oh my God, get some towels!"

The butler practically crawled over the dirt, screaming into his phone. 

I couldn't move. The blinding floodlights blurred. My heavy eyelids fluttered, and I finally surrendered to the dark.

I woke up staring at a white ceiling. The smell of rubbing alcohol told me I was in a medical room. My ribs were tightly taped up. It was a familiar friend.

I lay perfectly still. I heard voices coming from the cracked door just a few feet away. 

"Explain this, Brynn." Father's voice was low, and it sounded dangerous. "Just explain it."

I shifted my head on the pillow. Through the narrow opening, I saw Father stood outside. Mother was next to him.

"We checked the security cameras on the barn," Father said. "It caught everything from the side angle."

"You missing a step completely on your own, falling backward, and grabbing Wren's shirt to rip it!"

Brynn lunged forward and buried her face into Mother’s shoulder.

"Mommy, Daddy... I'm so sorry," Brynn wept. Her shoulders shook violently. "I didn't mean to do it. I just panicked, okay? I panicked!"

Mother hesitated, then slowly wrapped her arms around Brynn. "Why would you lie about something like that?"

"Because I'm scared!" Brynn yelled through her tears. "She’s your real blood! She's your actual daughter! I’m just some girl you took in when my dad died. Since the second she showed up, you look at her differently. I was terrified you were going to throw me out. You guys are all I have left!"

Beau stormed down the hallway and cut in before Father could say another word.

"Dad, back off her!" Beau snapped. He pulled Brynn into a tight side-hug. "She’s just insecure. Look at her. She’s terrified."

"She framed her sister, Beau," Father said. "Wren almost died."

"Oh, give me a break!" Beau shot back, his voice thick with frustration. "Brynn has lived here for almost fifteen years! It’s completely normal for her to freak out when a stranger suddenly shows up to take her place. She didn't have malicious intent. She just got scared and made a stupid mistake."

He pointed an angry thumb toward my door.

"You want to talk about who’s actually messed up?" Beau continued, his voice rising. "Look at Wren! What kind of a normal person throws themselves off a second-story balcony over a single accusation? That is psychotic."

Mother frowned. "Beau, please. She's traumatized."

"No, Mom, she's manipulative," Beau argued aggressively. "She realized we were onto her, so she pulled a crazy stunt to play the ultimate victim. She’s trying to guilt-trip us into kicking Brynn out. Her brain is broken. She’s a liability, and you know it."

Silence fell over the hallway. 

I stared at the ceiling. They were actually buying it. Beau was giving them an easy out. It was much easier to keep the perfect, healthy daughter they actually raised, and put all the blame back on the deformed stranger in the bed.

"I'll call Dr. Evans in the morning," Father finally said, running a tired hand over his face. "We’ll get her evaluated."

The next morning, the psychiatrist arrived. Dr. Evans wore a crisp gray suit and had a very calm, professional face. 

They set up a wooden chair right next to my bed. The door was clicked shut.

Dr. Evans clicked his pen. He smiled warmly at me.

"Wren," he began. "Your parents are very worried about you. I want to talk about last night. Can you tell me why you admitted to something you didn't do? And why did you jump?"

"It’s the rules," I answered simply.

Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow. "What rules?"

"Survival rules," I said, my voice completely flat. "When they accuse you, you say yes right away. Take the blame instantly. Then you punish yourself. If you hurt yourself first, they don't hit you as hard. Usually, if you bleed enough, their anger fades."

Dr. Evans stopped clicking his pen. He simply stared at me.

"Wren," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Nobody here is going to hit you. Those are your parents out there. They love you."

I blinked at him.

"Have you considered how your actions affect them?" Dr. Evans leaned in slightly, shifting into his therapy routine. "When you hurt yourself like that, don't you know that the people who truly love you will feel heartache?"

I looked straight at him.

"What is heartache?" I asked.

"Is it like when the traffickers strapped me down and smashed my kneecaps with a steel pipe?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly pleasant and conversational. "They told me I should be grateful. They said no one gives money to a healthy, whole beggar. They said breaking my legs was for my own good, to keep me fed. Was that heartache?"

Dr. Evans gripped his notepad. His knuckles were turning stark white.

"Or," I continued, unblinking, "is it what my parents are doing right now?"

I leaned forward. My stumps shifted heavily against the thin mattress. 

"They watched the security footage. They saw with their own eyes that Brynn was the one lying to them. But instead of punishing her, they decided I was the sick one. They think my brain is broken, so they brought you into my bedroom to fix me." I tilted my head. "Is that what heartache looks like?"

The clinic room went completely silent. The only sound left was the faint ticking of the wall clock.

"Doctor," I whispered. My voice was very light now. "I used to have a lot of friends. Real friends. Kids just like me. We used to take beatings for each other. We starved in the same shipping containers. We promised we would escape together."

I smiled at him. A small, practiced, polite smile.

"Now... everyone who loved me is dead."

Dr. Evans’s hand froze mid-air. All the color drained rapidly from his face, leaving him pale, and completely speechless.