Page 24 of Forget Me Not

She visited the Farm for the first time on a Tuesday.

It was Christmas break and Marcia had finally found a few weeks of freedom, her school shut down for over a month.

Her father had been preoccupied at work, her mother preoccupied with all the things that weren’t her, so she had managed to get away for a while.

Lying about spending the day at the library, not wanting to fall behind at school.

She was getting good at that. Lying. Every falsity that came trickling out of her mouth easier to stomach than the one that came before.

She chewed on the side of her cuticle now as they bumped down a gravel roadway, Mitchell leading her farther from home and deeper into the wild unknown.

She had no idea where they were going but instead of asking him outright, trying to pry out an answer she knew he wouldn’t reveal, she simply slid off her shoes and propped her feet up on the dash, glancing out the window while they passed each road sign.

Entering and exiting various small towns as winter’s cool fingers brushed through her hair.

Her eyes darted down to the clock, half an hour gone since they had left.

“We’re close,” Mitchell said, reading her mind, so she turned toward the window again, skin prickling as a woman outside eyed their approach. She was older, back hunched as she shuffled out to her mailbox. Twin slits for eyes as they roared past.

Her gaze drifted to the rearview, watching as the woman continued to stare in their direction until her body was nothing more than a silhouette in the dust.

The car took a left, finally, a narrow ribbon of dirt adjacent to a small stream leading them into a field just ahead.

Then she dropped her feet to the floor and leaned toward the windshield, searching for any indication of life.

There was nothing around here—no neighborhoods or apartment buildings, nowhere a person could actually live—until she noticed a ramshackle house standing off in the distance, a collection of bodies lying out in the grass.

“Is this—?” she started, trying to choose her words with care. She didn’t want to offend him, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine a person living like this.

“Home,” Mitchell said simply. “This is home.”

Marcia swallowed, her attention narrowing in on the house creeping closer…

although she quickly realized it wasn’t a house.

Instead, it looked like a barn, weathered and worn.

Spongy brown wood with holes like craters pocking the surface.

The double doors were swung open wide and she watched as a woman appeared from inside, bare feet stopping in front of the entrance as she raised up a hand to shield the sun from her eyes.

“There’s something I need to take care of,” Mitchell said as the camper made its final approach, though Marcia was still trying to take it all in.

The place was littered with junk: a small blue bicycle with a dislodged chain, an old mattress splotchy with mold.

There was a dog loping around, ribs visible through matted fur.

A couple cars clumped together beneath the bony arms of a sweetgum.

“Go ahead and join the others. I want you to think of this as your home now, too.”

She opened her mouth, the two other people lying in the meadow slowly perking up as they parked. Then she turned toward Mitchell, so many questions quivering on her lips, but he had already opened the door and was stepping outside, slamming it shut before she could respond.

She leaned back, exhaling slowly as he walked away.

Picking at that phrase, the others, like a scab that was starting to itch.

It was the same phrase he had used when they lay in his camper a few weeks ago, his fingers resting gently in the dip of her throat.

She still didn’t know what that meant, who they were, but now that she could see them, now that they were no longer some nebulous notion, she felt the words starting to squeeze at her chest. A coiling snake crushing the life from her lungs.

After all, the existence of others implied that Mitchell was a part of a group, a piece of a whole.

Something Marcia had never experienced before.

Up until that point, she was under the impression that it was just them, just the two of them, and a small part of her resented the fact that there were now others thrown into the mix…

but at the same time, she was drawn to the idea of belonging to something.

Of no longer floating through life so alone.

She twisted her neck, observing as Mitchell made his way to the cars. At first, she had thought they were empty, but now she noticed the outline of a person in one of the driver’s seats. The shadow of a man, twitchy and gaunt, his body slouched deep in the seat.

She watched as Mitchell opened the passenger door, sliding inside the occupied car. Then she turned back around and glanced out the windshield, the three other people present on the property now staring directly at her.

She sighed, forcing herself to get out of the camper before making her way across the field.

The grass was calf-high, itchy against her exposed ankles.

The entire place filled with weeds and wildflowers, vegetation in various states of bloom.

Every single step felt heavy with effort as if her body itself was screaming in protest, warning her not to get too close…

but at the same time, her mind kept replaying Mitchell’s words from before, his command that she meet the others without him.

The sound of his voice overriding everything else as the orders throbbed like a pulse, a rhythmic beating inside her mind that forced her feet to keep moving forward until they stopped next to the girl in front of the barn.

“Hi,” Marcia said, a whiff of something strong wafting in her direction: the sour smell of body odor mixing with a scent that was herbal and damp.

The girl was still squinting into the sun with that outstretched hand hovering over her brow and Marcia glanced at the other hand dangling down by her hip, a smoking roach clutched in her grip.

Then her gaze traveled back up, carefully taking in the body before her.

The girl was about Marcia’s height, maybe a little bit shorter, dishwater hair twisted in knots and a constellation of pimples across her chin like a rash.

She wore a linen dress, cream-colored and crinkled.

Not even remotely close to the right size.

“I’m Marcia,” she continued, cracking a shy smile, though the girl stayed silent, lifting the joint back to her lips. Her hands were dirty, what looked like dried blood caked into the corners of her nails. A collection of rings squeezed over each finger and eyes reminiscent of a summer storm.

The girl exhaled, finally gifting her with the smallest of smiles in return.

“Marcia,” she repeated, a ribbon of smoke rolling off the curl of her tongue. “Welcome to the Farm.”

The afternoon crawled by in a lazy haze, the first hour spent perusing the property as the girl took her on what felt like an official tour. There was hardly anything at all to show but Marcia watched as she gestured to various inanimate objects, a catch in her voice that sounded like pride.

“This is the willow,” she said, sucking the last of the cigarette down before tossing it onto the ground, a mound of dark dirt that looked newly churned.

“It’s a good place to get some shade when it’s hot.

The firepit,” she continued, gesturing next to an ashen pile of debris.

“We cook our meals over the flames each night.”

Marcia nodded politely, keeping her distance. The entire thing feeling like some strange dream.

“This is the bedroom,” the girl said as they made their way into the barn, Marcia watching as she pointed to a heap of sleeping bags in the center; another mattress with a big yellow stain.

“Of course, there’s the camper, too,” she continued, as if that were obvious.

“We take turns, but that’s where Mitch sleeps. ”

Marcia nodded like she understood, though she wasn’t sure what taking turns meant.

“So, where did he find you?” she asked next, though Marcia was still glancing around, soaking it in.

There were piles of food on the other side of the room, bags of potatoes sprouting spindly roots and a pyramid of pears dotted with flies.

The place was musty, stale, smelled faintly of rot, and she felt herself swallow a sudden swell of nausea, the sharp taste of bile climbing its way up her throat.

Still, there were things that made it feel oddly homey.

Funny little details like a pink pillowcase nailed over a window, tied like a curtain with a piece of frayed string.

A dining room table holding a vase of dead flowers, the water inside cloudy and green.

There was a tall tower of books in the corner, pages stained yellow like nicotine teeth.

“Mitch,” the girl pushed, and Marcia turned toward her, those curious eyes taking her in. “Where did he find you?”

“Oh,” she said, feeling her spine straighten like a string that had been pulled too taut.

Something about the question struck her as strange, though she wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

“We met at the theater,” she replied, realizing it was that word, find, that made her uneasy.

Like Marcia was some kind of odd collectible; something Mitchell had discovered and slipped into his pocket.

Some lost, damaged thing in need of a home. “ Romeo and Juliet .”

The girl smirked and Marcia felt herself flush like she had just been caught in a lie. It was the truth, technically, but she knew the way she said it had been misleading. Making it sound like more than what it actually was.

“I didn’t know Mitch was into movies.”

She swallowed, her throat dry as she unearthed the other thing that was making her edgy. It was the fact that this girl kept calling him Mitch, three times now, a nickname Marcia had never used herself but slipped out of this other mouth so easily it was obvious the girl said it often.

That her bond with Mitchell, with Mitch, was clearly deeper than Marcia’s own.

“What about you?” she asked, a territorial stirring rising from the deepest depths of her chest. “Where did Mitch find you?”

The girl smiled again, as if she, too, could hear how wrong the name sounded on Marcia’s own tongue.

While this other girl said it so coolly, as fluid as the smoke that coiled out of her mouth, coming from Marcia it felt clunky and awkward like a foreign language she hadn’t yet mastered.

Her desperation so sour it left a lingering taste.

“Digging through a dumpster looking for lunch.”

Marcia blinked, the unfiltered honesty catching her off guard.

“This is Annie,” the girl said next, changing the topic quick as whiplash before turning around and walking back outside.

Marcia jogged to keep up, suddenly remembering the two other people lying out there, and she watched as the second girl glanced up, smiling softly at the sound of her name.

Her legs were stretched out in front of her; long blond hair spilling over her shoulders as her bare feet bounced back and forth in the grass.

“Montana,” her host continued, gesturing now to the man beside Annie, who simply jerked his chin in their general direction.

“And… you?” Marcia asked, realizing the girl never gave her a name.

“Lillian,” she said, reaching out to grab Marcia’s hand. Then she looked down, ten frail fingers hugging tight at her wrists; the sweat from the girl’s skin like a warm, wet kiss. “But everyone here just calls me Lily.”