Isabela Part 4
Because of the threats regarding Nate, I stayed there, even though that boy didn’t deserve my protection, as he had stabbed me with a poisoned dagger. And even living in that house, I could no longer tolerate absurdities. My stepfather continued to look at me with a creepy gaze, but I wore the clothes I wanted, hoodies that covered my whole body. I would never again wear one of those Barbie dresses he forced me to wear like a uniform, feeding his sick desire.
Things had softened as much as they could. However, I still slept with a baseball bat beside my bed, as if it were a lover. I also started dragging my dresser behind my bedroom door when I went to bed or took a shower. I didn’t trust him, nor did I trust my mother.
Living hurt, and sometimes I thought about dying. Moving forward, getting up every day barely made sense. However, I still forced myself to understand that I was freer than I had been in the last five years. And so I survived.
“Are you going to accuse me of making the blog, Isabela?” Bianca’s eyes looked more droopy than ever.
The question brings me back, as I was already lost in memories.
“And who else could it have been? My bet is on you.”
“I always suspected the same thing about you! I still have my doubts. Even if Nate fills my mind with theories that it could have been your stepfather, your mother, and now even Ian has entered the suspicions,” she says, folding her legs over the chair and wiping her tears. “Look, when I saw my brother all messed up after you guys screwed up that dinner with Vinicius, I was even angrier at you. Every time I see my brother suffering, I go crazy. I could be in another state, but if I feel a pang in my chest and a shiver down my spine, you can be sure Nate is suffering or in crisis. It’s an inexplicable connection. So understand that if I had made that blog, I would have sabotaged myself. Because if he suffers, I suffer. And that boy loves you, he’s obsessed with you. He never, ever forgot you.” She is speaking fast, raising her open hands beside her head like she did when she was a teenager. Each of her words hits me, making me reflect, even though I hate her, even though her voice makes me want to vomit. “So, Isabela, you’re rich, right? Pay for a polygraph, any kind of lie detector, and I’ll prove to you that I didn’t make that blog. But I want the same thing from you. Some guarantee that you didn’t stab my brother in the back. And I swear by everything that is most sacred to me, by Nate, that I hope you’re telling the truth. Because you are the only woman capable of making my brother happy.”
I stay silent for a while, trying to swallow some water from a thermos beside the bed, placed on a black-painted nightstand covered in graffiti with a white pen.
If I keep vomiting like this, I’ll need to go to the doctor for intravenous hydration. And as I try to sip the contents of the bottle slowly, praying not to have another wave of nausea, I think about everything this woman said.
Is Nate believing me? If he’s looking for culprits for the blog, he knows it wasn’t me. I look up and breathe, thinking about the bizarre option of using a lie detector. Do I need this? To submit myself to this humiliation for them to believe me? And if I deny it, how will I know if Bianca is lying? Have I really been wrong about her all these years?
“Fine! But I’m not paying for that polygraph alone! You pay for your session, and I’ll pay for mine!” I say, raising an eyebrow at her.
Bianca laughs, showing her small teeth too much.
“What a cheapskate! That’s why rich people have money; they never open their hands for anything!” she mocks, grabbing her phone. “Later we can hire someone, like a hacker or something, to try to find out who created the blog. I printed everything, I have all the group conversations saved to this day.”
I deleted everything...
How can I keep traces of something that massacred me? Just thinking about it, reliving those memories, my body starts to burn, as if thousands of needles were piercing every tiny piece of skin.
“Okay! That’s fine with me,” I agree, feeling the nausea returning. “So how was that thing with Bill, huh? And we’re not friends, okay? I still don’t know if I can trust you.”
“I don’t want to be your friend. I just don’t intend to get in your way and Nate’s if you really love him.” Her words are calm, even gentle. “I’m sorry for calling you strange and a whore and for all the other crap I did!” She scratches her throat after saying this, fidgeting her small body in the chair.
“I’ll forgive you after the lie detector!” I warn, trying not to smile. “And if it really wasn’t you, I’ll apologize too.”
Why am I feeling relieved? I still don’t know if she’s a good person. But it’s clear to me how much I want to be accepted and loved. Did my subconscious always want Bianca not to hate me? Not to think I was strange? To respect me? Did I never really want to hate her?
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