The Birthmark

“Oh sweetheart, I remember that day like it was just yesterday.”

My mother laughed, “I remember the pain too. Oh Ariana don’t ever get pregnant.” She tugged on my polo collar.

I smiled and teased, “Mom, I’ll be 18 tomorrow, I can’t make any promises.”

“What are you talking about Mary,” my father exclaimed, “you know once Ariana leaves the house and goes to college, you’ll be begging her to give you a grandchild!”

My mom sighed, “yes I know. I just can’t get used to the idea that my baby girl will be done with school soon.”

Ahhhh!

The television screamed.

We were watching my birth video. I couldn’t see much; the camera had been hidden under some newspapers, and the doctor’s body blocked my mother’s open legs. “Just one more,” the nurse instructed my mother.

Then I heard a high pitch wail of tears; it was me.

“Oh honey,” my mom started to tear up, “You’re so beautiful.”

I thought otherwise; my head shaped like an ice cream cone, covered in what looked like a clear jelly. “Oh goodness no,” I shook my head, “I may never eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich again mom. This is disgusting!”

“I think,” my dad chimed, “The kids in your school should watch this. Give a good scare to them. Show them the consequences of fooling around.”

“Oh Isaac,” my mother exhaled, “That’s not fair. We were once young too. In fact I was only 19 in this video.”

My father nodded, “Yes… well… we were lucky to have such a great girl. She’s not like the others.”

I tilted my head, “the others?”

“The other children of course,” my dad chuckled, “other people’s kids are just horrifying.”

I grinned, “I was raised by the best parents.”

Then a numbing silence struck the room. My parents looked at each other, “Yes, well…” my mother expressed, “it wasn’t easy at times.”

“Hey!” I interrupted, “what’s that?” I pointed at the 30 inch Cathode-ray tube television. My parents didn’t really partake in the technology movement. My dad argued that he would rather spend two-grand on a family vacation than a television set.

I noticed a strange marking on my leg in the video. “Is that a birthmark?”

“I think it is past someone’s bedtime!” My mother shouted and turned off the television.

“Mom what was that,” I asked, “I don’t have that. The only birthmark I have is on my hip.”

She bit her lower lip, “it’s…um,”

“It was a bruise,” my dad explained, “the nurse held onto your leg pretty tight. You had that bruise for a week. Trust me we took care of her.”

“Oh,” I sighed, “Ok. I’ll get to bed then.”

In the shower I started to have this feeling overcoming my body. As I lathered soap on my right leg, I examined it. I wanted to believe my parents when they told me what I had seen was a bruise. But the marking was too dark, and it wasn’t in the shape of a thumb print either…

I know what a birthmark looks like, I thought. I just couldn’t figure out why my mother had acted like someone caught her in a lie. I then started to hear my parents arguing from downstairs. My dad shouting about how showing me the video was a bad idea. That I was close to finding out the truth.

The truth?

I wondered.

Suddenly it felt like I was in someone else’s shower. I felt vulnerable. With shampoo still in my hair I turned off the water and placed a towel over my body. I threw on my robe and quietly opened the door. I could hear my parents still bickering, yet they had moved their conversation to the porch.

I tiptoed to their room. I didn’t know why I was there, but I felt like I had to find something. Their room was plain. Just a king sized bed on a silver railing. The headboard was made by my father; just a series of loops and circles made from metal. On my father’s nightstand was an old book and his reading glasses. I turned lamp on and opened the book. I thought I could find some clues about “the truth”, but no luck; just a Biblical manuscript in Hindi. My father was an exchange student from India and met my mother in college.

Wait…

I studied the book cover.

A star?

Abruptly, I heard a loud thud created by the slamming of the front door. I gasped and hit my lower back against the nightstand. My mother’s glasses fell to the floor and the lamp turned off.

The room was pitch black and I could hear footsteps coming my way.

Louder and louder they grew as I started feeling around for a place to hide. I decided to take shelter under the bed. As I crawled underneath, the door opened and I saw my mother’s bare feet step in.

The light from the hallway seeped into the open door. She was crying, and sat on the bed. I could hear her sobbing.

Her phone rang and she answered, “What do you want? No I don’t think she knows what’s going on, I told you already! She will NEVER find out... Fine, fine. I will check on her now… she’s probably asleep. You have to do it at 10 o’clock tomorrow! Yes I know… ok bye.”

My mother stepped out of the room with the door left open, “Ariana?”

My heart pounded. I didn’t want to be found, and I knew I had to run away.

I had no idea what was going on, yet I knew I was in danger.

Then… I saw it… them.

My throat began to swell up and my mouth started to dry. Pure fear struck me in an instant. Photos of me, just as a little girl. I recognized myself, except instead of belonging in a scrapbook, these pictures were in a newspaper. “Have you seen this girl?”

The words struck a blow to my chest, it’s as if they had been in neon lights in my mind. I scrambled through the rest of the papers, “Mississippi child still missing”, “What happened to Ariana Husley?”, “Parents’ fear the worst”, “Ariana Husley’s belongings found in the river”.

I heard my mother’s footsteps scramble to the room, she slammed the door behind her. It had been pitch black again. I could not see anything, and my eyes weren’t adjusting.

“Ariana?” she whispered, “its ok, mommy’s here. Just come out” From the sound of her voice I could tell she was circling the room. I was trapped, I couldn’t move. I was frozen. She stopped walking. My eyes began to focus, and I stared at her toes in front of me. Her grisly feet planted as if she were a corpse standing. I started to back away slowly to the other side of the bed. Her feet still in the same position, I quietly shifted out from under the bed.

Then, a cold rough hand grabbed hold of my hair, and I was lifted from the ground. I screamed in terror and my mother did not move. She stood there, watching me being tossed like a rag doll on the bed. I looked through my tears and I saw my father standing above me.

The room had still been dark, but the moonlight seeped through the blinds. My father’s face was unrecognizable. I heard grunting and panting from both of them. In a grisly raspy voice, my father spoke, “Ariana, stay there.”

He flicked on the lamp on his night stand, “we don’t want to hurt you.”

“What do you want?!” I cried, “who are you?! Where are my parents?!”

“We ARE your parents” my mother sobbed.

I sat up on the bed, “no, I found the clippings under the bed! I’m missing!”

“And we found you,” my father answered, “we found you floating in that river. We saved you.”

“What?” I cried.

“Your father and I found your body in the river. You went missing.”

“Then why not turn me in? Why not tell the police?”

“And give you back to those animals?” My father replied, “We saved your life.”

“No, no,” I shook my head, “this isn’t right.”

“Believe it sweetheart,” my mother held me, “your parents let you go missing. They didn’t care about you.”

“My parents loved me! It said so in those papers!”

“The media loves a good missing child story,” she explained, “we care about you so much. We’re sorry we didn’t tell you the truth.”

My father held me as well, “Yes Ariana, we love you. And we are so sorry. Come on… let’s get some rest.”

I shook my head in disbelief, “but… that video? That baby…”

“Oh,” my mom grieved, “we had a little girl. She was your age and, well,” she began to cry hysterically.

My father placed his hand on my shoulder, “she died shortly after she was born. Her name was Hannah.”

“And she was so beautiful!” My mom wiped away her tears, “when we went for a walk by the river to cope, we found you washed up in a trash bag. We thought it was fate.”

My heart started to calm down, “and what wasn’t I supposed to know? What can’t I find out?”

My mom shot a glare at my father, “your surprise party of course!”

“I think we all need to rest for tomorrow,” my father insisted, “especially you, birthday girl.”

As I tucked myself in my pink comforter, I looked around. I started to notice that there were no pictures on my walls. In fact, there were no pictures of me anywhere to be found in the house. The only pictures of me were under the bed of those… imposters. I felt as if my whole life was a lie. I refused to believe that my parents were strangers who found me in a trash bag.

In a trash bag.

Trash.

I was thrown away.

Like garbage.

My stomach churned and I stumbled to the rim of my toilet. I vomited. My stomach acid burned my throat. Tears rolled down my hot cheeks. I began to wonder what else they have been lying about…

The next day, I didn’t go to school. All I could do was read those newspapers over and over in bed. I learned that my birth mother was actually a drug dealer, and my biological father had been in jail twice.

Story had it, I was 7 months old when my mother met up with a few clients by the river. She wrapped me in a trash bag to “protect my identity”. She testified that she was only covering my face and I just floated away.

I know from an outside point of view, this seems insane. But I felt safe with my current mother and father. I looked out the window and waved my mother goodbye as she pulled from the driveway. I asked my father downstairs for a box to put the newspaper clippings in. He answered, “I think your mother got them from a trunk in the attic.” This was immediately followed by a “Wait! Ariana!”

As he shouted, I entered the attic and a horrid smell emerged.

I began to lose my breath as I heard my father running up the stairs shouting my name.

The smell became more potent as I followed its scent.

Then…

“ARIANA!”

My father screamed at the top of his lungs.

“It’s 9:59! Almost your birthday!”

His voice grew sinister as he began to chant, “shaw… shaw…”

I creeped towards a black trunk near the corner of the attic. All of a sudden, flies buzzed around my face, roaches crawled through the cracks in the wall, and maggots seeped through the trunk.

“Shaw… shaw…”

“What’s in the trunk?!”

“Shaw… shaw bah bah.. bah bah...”

I swallowed my fear, I knew I was caught in a predicament: I face my father downstairs and try to escape, or I open the trunk and finally reveal the truth about my parents’ lies.

I didn’t want to do either. My body shivered and I could still hear my father chanting beneath me.

“Shaw bah bah… shaw…”

I closed my eyes and inhaled.

I reached for the trunk and opened it…

My jaw fell from its hinge. I could not close my mouth… the sight was gruesome.

My eyes popped from their sockets. My brows became part of my hairline.

My fingers grew cold, and I nearly allowed my bladder to loosen.

“Bahhh bahhh! Shaw nah nah!”

I was staring at an infant’s skeleton.

My body felt frozen, as if an iced queen kissed my neck.

I… I couldn’t move.

Inside the trunk, the name “Hannah” was embroidered in gold.

Underneath her name… was a red star outlined in blood. Her blood.

I’ve seen that star before…

My father’s book…

“18. 18. She has matured. Shaw shaw! She can enter!”

Black.

No sun.

No light.

No sound.

No feelings.

No emotions.

I felt nothing. Not a heart beat. Not my breath. Nothing.

Then, a murmured sound… “Hannah?”

I turned around and saw… my body.

My father was standing behind my zombie-like figure, hands on my shoulders.

Hannah smirked, “Yes daddy.”

I tried to run, but as I looked down at my feet, they were festering bones...

Hannah and my father were towering above me now. I realized I was in the small coffin. Their sinister smiles imprinted my mind as they closed the box...

Black…