Merge

Merge

  Renata F. Barcelos

  Copyright © 2013 Renata F. Barcelos

  https://renatafbarcelos.wordpress.com

  Merge is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are all products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, incidents or locales, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 9781301640775

  Cover art and design: Ágata Maria C. Barcelos

  Editor: Martha Bryce

  - Thank you, Chasity Brewer -

 

  Also by Renata F. Barcelos:

  Mean: A Psychological Thriller Novelette

  My Sore Hush-a-Bye

  CAMILLE

  It’s been five years since my life started again. That’s what I call it; that moment in 2012 when I decided I wouldn’t be a victim anymore. That I would be, and I could be, more than Camille, the girl who was taken, the girl who’d lived with a monster for eight years.

  When I went to college, I was still shaken; still recovering, but I had help. My mother, my friend Lori, and my therapist, who became so important to me, Dr. Wales. They all helped.

  My estranged family in New Orleans made their efforts too. They wrote from time to time, but never came to visit, respecting my necessity for space, for solitude. I wrote back, and I think they’ll never know how much I enjoyed that bit of normalcy that they offered me in each of their letters…

  Many exceptions were made for me to begin my life again. I didn't have all the extracurricular activities required to be accepted into the Iowa University Social Work program. I never had enough time during my last year—which was in fact my first year—of high school to keep pace with the other students. Dr. Wales, however, wrote amazing reports stating that all I had endured was more than enough to qualify me to enter the program. Almost all my teachers did the same. I never asked them to do that...they simply came to me with carefully folded papers in their envelopes and gave them to me. It was overwhelming, I must admit...

  Of course, the fact that my grades were perfect might have helped. I don’t want to sound overconfident, but it’s the truth, I’m a great student, I learn easily, I have a good memory, and I simply love acquiring new knowledge.

  The University Entrance Application Committee agreed with my faculty recommendations, and so I had the opportunity to go to a great college. My mother had saved money for eight years, waiting and hoping for me to return to her. She dreamed of paying for my college education every day (with every cent she saved). She told me how she used to visualize me in my cap and gown, walking forward to receive my college diploma. She told me many, many times how that image helped her to have the strength to keep looking for me all those years.

  And it was an amazing day, the one when it finally happened. When they called my name, when I listened to Camille Marie Jones, stood up and walked to that podium…oh, my! It was just like in a dream. I actually sensed things around me happening in slow motion.

  I guess the best part was that I didn’t think about him. Not even one single time that day. His image was absolutely out of my mind. All I thought about was my future, the people I would be able to help, and then about the Master’s degree program I would be starting the next semester.

  Of course it wasn’t always easy. My path, I mean. Like the first job interview I went to, when I was a college sophomore. It was for an internship at a hospital, to work with their social worker part time. I thought it would be a great opportunity to learn more, to experience real cases instead of just reading about them. I was really excited that morning, and with my mother’s help, I dressed appropriately.

  I rehearsed in front of the mirror, I was prepared. I had excellent college records, a recommendation letter from Dr. Spencer, one of my professors—who worked in the psychology department at the hospital, and talked to me about the opening—and I had put on my best smile.

  Then, right at the beginning of the interview, one of the staff members who was there to interview me asked, “How’re you doing? I mean…after everything you’ve been through...” I saw the other two—a woman and an older man—look at each other. They hadn’t recognized me, I guess. The young man who had asked seemed to realize that what he had asked wasn’t very professional, but there was no going back. He told them about me. The movie, the book. Everything.

  I wanted to run, find a good piece of fresh earth, dig a hole and put my head in there. I was really embarrassed. I know I had agreed with the making of the movie and I wrote the book—they were both huge successes. In fact, the actress who played me is now a minor star in Hollywood. The book made it to the New York Times Best Seller list. I don’t believe my writing skills were responsible for that success, though. I believe I write well, but the story was what people wanted. Everyone was craving to know how it was for me to live eight years in that house. How he was with me, how my life was back then.

  They wanted all the gory details. And I gave them to them.

  Almost all of them.

  Some things remain unspoken, some things I still keep to myself. Actually, I’m not proud of the book. I like having written something, I like being a published writer, but I’d prefer if it hadn’t been a memoir of that time. I’d love it if all of it had been fiction. But it was really my life there—years of my life described on those pages. People read about everything I went through in that house. Not a completely comfortable feeling, I have to admit…

  And then, when those people at the hospital started looking at me differently because they suddenly realized that I was THE Camille Marie Jones, the famous abducted girl…it was awful.

  I didn’t get that job, of course. How on earth would they give a position that required discretion to a minor celebrity like me?

  I didn’t need the job. We had enough money, we still do. The movie and the book guaranteed us a pretty comfortable life. In fact, I convinced Mom to quit her job and stay at home. That might seem like a good thing for a daughter to do for her mother, but I must confess it was actually pretty selfish. You see, I want my Mom around me all the time. I was denied her comfort, her presence, for eight years, so I want her to be available to me 24/7 now. That’s horrible to say, I know, but it’s the truth.

  Plus, it was a very tiring job that she had, working the night shift as a welder. She didn’t want to quit, though, but I eventually convinced her, by saying that I would need her help to study. We still live in the same apartment. The one my late father bought for us. I like it there, and we don’t want to start spending too much and maybe have financial problems in the future. So we live a comfortable, but modest life.

  Like I said, I didn’t need the job, but I wanted so much to work and be helpful… I told it all to Dr. Wales then, and she told me not to worry, something would show up. And it did. I ended up working part-time as an assistant to my professor at the University, and research became a new passion for me.

  Eventually I did find a position as an intern in another, smaller hospital. I loved it there, and only left because they couldn’t afford to hire me after my graduation. I still volunteer there three times a week, and give lectures there and at many other places about child abuse.

  I’m still looking for a permanent full time position, but since I’m finishing my Master degree’s program, I can use the free time now.

  I’m so much better today that I’m even driving! Yes, all by myself. I got my license one year ago, and people say I’m a good driver. My mother lent me her Beetle to come here today. I’m thinking about buying a car, but I’m not sure yet, so I use hers in the meantime.

  I even met a boy…okay, that sounded juvenile, but I let myself be juvenile sometimes. I wasn’t able to be it at the right time, so I believe, and Dr. Wales agrees,
that I should allow myself to be that way when I feel like it.

  I still see Dr. Wales as my therapist, but not that often now. Once a month, usually. She thought I could quit therapy, that I’m well enough, but I still need her. I think I need to be there at least once a month, talking about the dark matters that still invade my soul from time to time, so they don’t show up too much.

  For my Master’s degree thesis I’m writing about people like me, who suffered severe child abuse, and what became of them. I think the way people react to ordeals like mine is determined by the way they see the world before the abuse. And I think it’s important to understand what child abuse can do not only to the abused, but to society. When the abused become the abusers, the pattern is repeated and more people are damaged. My thesis is called: Criminal Effects of Child Abuse.

  I have already interviewed ten people. Mom didn’t like the idea of me going to penitentiaries at first, talking to criminals, but eventually she realized how important it is. It will become a book, my publisher is already interested. So it’s important for me to carefully choose who will be interviewed.

  That’s why I’ve been trying to interview her for so long. She refused me three times before. I wrote several letters to Cassandra Connelly, only to receive short messages back telling me to…well…I don’t use that word, but to go ‘F’ myself.

  I’ve heard terrible things about her. She’s been in jail for six years now, sentenced to life without parole. Everyone I’ve talked to about her tells me she’s bitter, aggressive, offensive…a lost cause.

  I have no idea why she finally agreed to meet with me today. But I can’t miss this opportunity, so I’m not asking why. I just came, as soon as I received the call from her. She called me yesterday, at home—I gave her my number on the letters—and told me, with some pretty rough words, to be there the next day. So here I am today.

  Donald—the boy I mentioned earlier—wanted to come with me. Mom wanted to come, too. Everyone wanted to come; they always want to protect me like I’m made of porcelain. I like it most of the time, but I have got to start being more independent, stronger. I feel really strongly that I have to toughen up some. So, I decided to do all the interviews on my own. They are always in prisons, surrounded by guards, so what can happen? Besides, it wasn’t my first time going to a prison…at least this time it isn’t that personal.

  In this particular case they were a bit more concerned than normal, because it’s Cassandra Connelly. Her case was national news. Not that I knew it back then, because I was still isolated by my captor, but her case was really sensational. The way she hunted her biological mother—a psychiatrist—down, pretended to be a patient and went through nine therapy sessions with her before killing her …talk about criminal effects of child abuse.

  She’s the perfect example for my thesis, of everything we could avoid by taking better care of our children. I heard—we all heard—how brilliant she is. An amazing IQ, wasted when she chose the crime. According to her explanation, it was all because what happened to her during her formative years was too much to simply forget.

  I want to talk to her; I want to hear her story. I think she might be important to my thesis.

  CASSANDRA