Some say that late at night

he danced with the devil.

That under the stars and moon

he stripped himself bare

for the whole world to behold.

They said he was a rebel.

Trouble.

Broken.

He diluted our perfection.

Diluted my mother, the saint,

my father, the hero,

and me, with my warm heart

and halo of gold.

Perfect was something he’d never be.

Little did they know,

even with my brother,

our walls weren’t so perfect,

not even close.

They were created to hide our secrets.

To never let anyone see

what truly lay behind closed doors.

The truth about my family.

But I saw everything.

I saw what my father, the hero, did

when he thought no one was looking.

And my mother, the saint,

how she turned her head

as my brother, who danced with the devil,

suffered for his sins.

Most nights, I would close my eyes,

pretend I was sightless.

That the world was soundless.

That perfection did exist.

But my mother would find me,

make me listen and see imperfection.

The secrets we concealed.

“Open your eyes, Emery.

The world is only what we believe it is.

Shut your eyes, and you’re admitting

that our perfection doesn’t exist.

That you aren’t who we’ve taught you to be.”

Then she would wait as the walls begged to cave in

and started to drown me.

As the cries seeped into my bones,

split me open,

bled me out,

and swallowed me whole.

Weakly, I would cave.

Surrender.

Open my eyes

and pretend I was blind.

For eighteen years, I turned my head.

Played the role my mother wanted me to

every night as I lay in bed.

Until that one daring night,

when I broke the rules for the very first time.

I jumped out my window and into the night.

Jumped into the truth about my family.

Into the truth about the Golden side of town.

Now I’ve finally escaped,

moved out of that perfect home.

Left my family’s secrets behind.

Left my brother all alone.

In the late hours,

as I write in my new room,

in my new life,

I stare up at the moon

and think of my brother,

my mother,

and my father

back at home.

I can almost convince myself that what my mother said was true.

That what’s on the outside is all that matters.

That perfection does exist.

I can almost believe that everything I saw

wasn’t real.

That we really were the perfect family.

That my father was a hero.

And my mother was the most faultless saint.

But the scars inside me convey another story.

They convey the truth of what really happened

in that house and in that town.

What really happened in the late hours

when people thought no one was around.

The scars remind me of who I am.

That I’m not the person people like I am.

That I’m different.

That I have darkness.

Hear voices.

That, like my brother

and mother

and father,

I’m also a sinner.

I’m just more discreet.

By the time I’m finished, my hand is aching, and my heart is slamming in my chest. The secrets I’ve spilled on the page are secrets I vowed to never tell, secrets I could be punished for. Secrets that would out me for what I really am.

Panicking, I leap from the bed, tear the pages from the spiral spine, and rip them into tiny pieces. Then I throw open the window, toss them into the night, and watch them blow away in the breeze.

Inhale.

Exhale.

As I’m shutting the window, I spot a figure in the bushes below. The person stares up at me as the torn pieces of paper flutter through the air like snowflakes.

Emery, what have you done!

Terror blasts through me. What if they read what’s on the fragments? Or worse, what if it’s my mother or father watching me? As crazy as the idea sounds, I know them well enough to understand the lengths they would go to in order to protect our family name. Watching my apartment is something I could see them doing.

God, what have I done?

I slam the window shut and shove the notebook as far underneath the mattress as I can.

“Fuck. What am I supposed to do? I just dumped my family secrets right on top of a stranger.” I tug my fingers through my hair and climb back on the bed. Then I lean toward the window and peek down at the ground again.

He’s picking up the papers and tucking them into his pocket, every single one of them.

Get those papers back!

I spring from the bed and rush out of my bedroom to the front door. I need to go out there and get my journal pages back, need to get back my secrets.

I start to rotate the knob but pause. My gaze drifts to the sliding glass door across the living room.

It’s past curfew.

I rapidly shake the thought from my head.

You’re not home anymore, Emery. This was one of the reasons to get out of Ralingford—to escape the rules.

Summoning a breath, I swing open the door and inch outside. The outdoor lights illuminate a path down the stairway. I close the door behind me and trot down the stairs, but realize halfway down the first flight that I forgot to put on shoes and a jacket. I’m only wearing a tank top and boxer shorts, and even though it’s early summer, the Wyoming night air is chilly. I keep moving downstairs, though, needing to get the papers.