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The Vault

Alison Ogilvie-Holme

    High functioning. That’s what I hear. Mature. Responsible. Resilient. Basically, not a total fuck-up. This amazes them; the fact that I wake up each morning and go to school, do my chores... come home in time for curfew without being high.
    The counsellors at Amity House are forever talking to Dr. Lewis about it. Funny how they think I’ve suddenly gone deaf just because the office door is closed. Once I actually listened to an entire conversation through the vent on my bedroom floor. My neck ached for a week afterwards but the intel paid off when I found out who screwed with our computer password.
    The worst is when counsellors set me up as an example to other kids.
    Look at Dakota. She’s been through a lot, but she still manages to follow the rules.
    Yes, please. Single me out. I love getting my ass kicked.
    The only person I really trust is Hazel. She’s from the Sault, like me. At least before being shuffled around from place to place like a stray dog with rabies. We’ve stayed in all of the same foster homes for as long as I can remember.
    No one messes with Hazel. She seems pretty chill on the outside, but trust me, you do not want to piss her off. Hazel sent a girl to hospital last year for giving us a hard time... broke her jaw in two different places. That shut her up pretty fast, and I’m definitely not about to rat. I mean, all that smothered rage has to go somewhere, right?
    At least, the counsellors think so. After reading my case history for the first time, new workers usually freeze, like they’re not sure whether to give me a hug or grab a pocketknife. Eventually, they ask about coping skills and thoughts of self-harm. The answer is hard to explain.
    It was a bit of a game to start with. Daddy—my real dad—kept our money locked up. We didn’t have much to go around but for some reason he liked to store any extra cash in this small, tin box, way up in the attic. He named it the vault.
    Nana would throw her head back and howl, comparing him to a life-sized squirrel burying nuts for the winter. Mom started calling him bat shit crazy, and not in a warm and fuzzy “I love you” kind of way. She was always ragging on him about something; at least until my turn came around. Whenever I caught hell for crying or wetting the bed, I would just squeeze my eyes shut and imagine locking it up in the vault, like it never happened.
    After Daddy died and Mom started bringing home boyfriends, the vault became my hideout. Without thinking about it, I would just... you know, go there – somewhere safe and quiet. Far away from the flesh.
    I’m not stupid. I mean, I get that I was dissociating or whatever. I’ve heard what Dr. Lewis says about repressed trauma. But what if the vault really was my only way out? To try and erase everything, instead of replaying it over and over again in my head?
    Nobody knows the truth, except for Hazel. Some nights she kept me company, holding my hand and keeping watch until the sun finally peeked under those unicorn curtains. The ones Nana sewed for me right before her last stroke. Before I had serious shit to worry about...
    I won’t re-open the vault for Dr. Lewis, no matter what he says. He can read the file like everyone else. Besides, I’m almost done here at Amity House. My eighteenth birthday is just two months away and we never look back.

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