The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

issue of sexual assault and the rape culture so prevalent around our world is not one person’s issue, one person’s truth, or one person’s fight. It is an issue that affects us all, an unspeakable truth we must all accept.

In this, Beaux was right. This life is a vicious cycle of pain, but that’s where his thought process ended. Here is where mine begins. We all feel pain. We all hurt. We’re all dealt unfair cards. But it’s how we respond to that pain, that trauma that determines who we are. I’m not proud of all the choices I’ve made in response to trauma I’ve experienced. But I can accept responsibility for the choices I’m not proud of. I can forgive myself. And I can choose differently in the future. In doing this, I take back control of my life. I shed the shackles of the victim and embrace the armor of the survivor. My armor is welded with truth.

I sit with my head in my hands, waiting for Julian to wake. Thankfully, the bullet went straight through him. Still, he had to have emergency surgery to repair the internal damage. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s expected to recover.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Thankfully, a nurse allowed me to have one of her extra pairs of scrubs. I pull it out, half expecting it to be Mason calling from somewhere over the Atlantic. Instead, it’s—

“Dad?” I ask aloud. I hesitate, but nevertheless, I answer. “Hello.”

“Emma,” he says. “It’s good to hear your voice. I—I was worried.”

I don’t respond.

“I’m sure you know by now that I’ve turned myself in and . . . I’ll be informing on the brotherhood,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I just want you to know, I did it for you,” he tells me. “I did it so you don’t have to. I know I haven’t been much of a father to you, especially with the whole Beaux situation. And this doesn’t make up for that, but I hope . . . I hope it’s a start, a small show of my love for you,” he says. “Because I do love you, Emma. And I want you to have the life you deserve, and you don’t need this controversy jeopardizing it.”

“Dad.”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I’m glad you turned yourself in and I’m glad your testimony will corroborate mine.”

“Emma,” he starts.

“No,” I say. “No, I need you to listen. You once told me that I was the problem. But the thing is, you are. You’re my dad and I hate that this is our reality, but . . . it is, Dad. And I can’t change it any more than you can,” I tell him. “Now, I believe—I believe people can grow and change, and I believe in forgiveness. But before any of that happens, you have to accept responsibility.”

“But, Emma, how else do you want me to do that? I’ve literally given up everything to make this right for you,” he tells me.

“I need you to stop calling it a controversy. A controversy is, by definition, a disagreement. Sexual assault is not something to debate or disagree on. It’s wrong. In any way, shape, or form, it’s wrong,” I tell him. “And I don’t need you to try to give me an easy way out or take the fall for me.”

I drop my phone to my hip and lean against the cool glass separating me from Julian. The steady beat of his heart monitor is the only thing keeping me sane at this point. Finally, I lift the phone back up to my ear.

“I will live a life filled with love and happiness and acceptance and whatever else I choose, Dad,” I say. “And it’s because I won’t live in pain, that I will be able to live in love. So, while you spend the next however many years alone, with nothing but your thoughts, remember this—there is no greater prison than your own mind. And those walls and bars may keep you from hurting us, but they won’t keep the pain of your actions from eating away at you. Your silence feeds the pain. It gives it power over you,” I say. “So, don’t do this for me. Do it because you’re ready to accept responsibility. Do it because you truly want to change. It’s the only way, Dad. It’s the only way.”

With that, I end the call. I don’t tell my father I love him. Part of me wishes I would have. I put my phone in my pocket and return to Julian’s bedside. As I sit, his heart monitor begins to beat louder and quicker.

“Julian,” I say.

His eyelashes flutter and his fingers twitch.

“Julian? Nurse!” I yell, running to the door.

The heart monitor slows and steadies.

“Nurse!” I yell once more.

“How was your day?” Julian asks then. His voice is hoarse and barely audible.

I turn and his pale lips draw into a smile. The color starts to return to his cheeks.

“It’s better now,” I say.

Chapter 32

One Year Later

My mom preheats the oven as I unpack the last of the boxes. It’s been a year since I’ve seen her, a year since Julian and I have been in one place.

When my dad turned himself and his information on the brotherhood over to the police, the brothers scattered. Most were never seen of or heard from again. I assume they changed their names and fled on private jets to places without extradition. The few that were caught, based on my father’s testimony and the video footage I secured from the New Orleans Club Gent location, lawyered-up and waited.

Marissa was certain they would have a plan, a failsafe in case of exposure. And she was right. We just didn’t realize how right she was until it was too late.

When my dad turned himself in, he handed over his computer. When the police went in to access the files he had on the brotherhood, they were gone. Apparently, the folder wasn’t a permanent folder on my dad’s hard drive. It was a folder housing an access portal to a digital drive controlled