Dear Ava

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

With a huge breath, I push myself up more. God, I hurt everywhere. I touch my face, checking for injuries, but there’s no swelling or blood. My arms are fine, goose bumps rising in the chilly air. I rub down my chest, squinting in the darkness. My shirt is shoved up to my throat, exposing my plain white bra, issued to me by the nuns at Sisters of Charity. The cups have been maneuvered down, and I adjust it with careful, slow movements, putting my breasts back inside. I don’t let myself think about how they came to be like that. My legs are jelly but still there, and I huff out a laugh as if expecting fatal injuries. No Zipper death yet. Ha. Wait… I let out a primal sound, as if my body knows, only it’s taking my brain a minute to catch up. My skirt is bunched up around my hips, my pelvic area bare. No plain white underwear from the nuns. Dimly, I process the leaves and twigs from the woods digging into my bottom. My hands flail uselessly over my skin as if the scrap of material might magically appear. Oh, Ava, oh Ava, you know what this is—how could you be this naïve… Craning my neck, I lean forward and take in small, purple-looking bruises on my inner thighs. I touch myself, there, and groan at the pain from the swollen tissue. My heart picks up more, flying inside my chest. Blackness dances in front of my face. “No, no, no…” I say then vomit off to the side, again. Finally, the alcohol is coming up. More memories—are they real?—slam into my mind. Me heading off to the li...