The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

And even here, where it doesn’t count? I put the knife down.

Then I start to laugh. I press one hand over my face, wrap one arm around my stomach, and I laugh so hard my face hurts. “I wouldn’t have done it,” I gasp. “I never would have done it.”

I turn, addressing the walls this time. “I never would have done it!”

The trappings of the memory fall away like a curtain, and I can see where we really are: back in Lotus Valley, standing in the pitch-black of Morningside Drive.

That’s when I see little white crests forming in the edges of the shadows, and I realize: that distant roar is here now. Dark, gathering water, the full force of the Flood, blocking my view on every side.

I smile. And slowly, I unfold my arm and extend my hand.

“I want to change my answer,” I say, breathless. “Will you listen?”

There’s a low rumble from deep within the earth, and a damp chill against the tips of my fingers, which flinch back against the feeling. I hold them where they are. I can’t pull away. No matter what.

“You’ve seen so much,” I say softly. “And then to meet me like you did, in that kitchen? Poor thing. You must have been so scared.”

There’s a stillness, at first. I keep my hand where it is.

“I don’t know if this will help, but . . .” I take a slow, deep breath. The air tastes like sharp points. “God, I never thought I’d be the kind of person quoting my therapist, but he told me that we don’t just talk about terrible things to purge them from ourselves. We talk about them so that the people who love us can tell us when we’re wrong. That we’re being unkind to ourselves, or unfair, or that the things that have happened to us are not our fault. Because fear turns the world a different color, and we don’t always see clearly through it.

“It wasn’t like I thought he was wrong. But I’ve always known myself so well. And then it was like there was this new person where I used to be, and I wasn’t sure I knew what she was capable of.” I take a long, slow breath. “But I hate Nick Lansbury as much as someone can hate anyone, and I was still never going to pick up that knife. The worst thing that was ever going to happen was that they were going to know I wasn’t okay with it. Or, you know, okay in general. That they were going to know what I’d become, but I . . .”

My fingers quiver against the bristling of the wind. “But I haven’t become anything. I am exactly as dangerous as I’ve always been, because I am exactly the person I’ve always been.”

The Flood’s gone still. The chop of the water, the silent white peaks of the waves have smoothed out. It’s like a breath being held.

“Do you think that maybe it’s the same for you?” I ask. “Because I don’t think this is who you’ve been for a long time. Are you really dangerous? Or did you start to believe that witnessing terrible things makes you capable of them, too?”

The water towers high above my head. I take a step toward it. “I know you’ve been fighting this for a long time,” I say. “I know you can always hear that water coming, because I’ve been hearing it, too. But I don’t think that’s real. I think that’s a memory. And I think you can let that memory come.”

The waters actually recede from my feet, just a few inches. Still trying to protect me.

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I lower the pitch of my voice. The hard edges of the words drop to a soft, gentle swish. I don’t know how much they understand. But knowing what to say, even now, is easy. Think of what you want to hear most in this world, and tell them.

The words aren’t easy to get out. But if I don’t believe this will work, neither will the Flood. So I believe it down to my toes instead.

“This is not what you are anymore,” I whisper. “And I’m going to stay with you until this is over, because I know you’re not going to hurt me. You don’t have to keep holding this back. All that pain you’ve taken in, all these years—you can let it go.”

A fine tremble runs through the water, the last vestiges of the dam. There’s still some unconscious force drawing away, holding it back.

“Shhh,” I breathe. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

I hear the snap right before it happens, like the last fiber of a fraying rope. And then I’m surrounded by damp, cold air.

I don’t see anything this time—just darkness, just water.

But the water doesn’t touch me.

What I feel instead are decades of emotions: some recognizable, others abstract, not quite human. They rush past, too quickly to discern, not long enough to grasp. It’s like listening to a sad story. It’s like holding Flora Summer in my arms on her carpeted floor, feeling her tears on my shirt. It’s like all of that in seconds, or maybe longer.

And through it all, I think I see someone next to me. A short figure with black-dyed hair and a flowing, long-gone maxi dress, holding my hand.

The water passes. My right side clears, then my left, then the sky over my head. Dawn has started to creep into the spiderweb of clouds. And when I look behind me, all I see is the sweep of something passing through town like a gust of wind.

I take a long breath. It tastes like the first hint of a hot, hazy day.

The last fading tendrils of the Flood slip out of the clouds. They slip over the edge of the horizon, leaving only the empty, slightly disheveled stillness of Morningside Drive.

It’s not quite empty, though. Small and in the distance, nearly out of sight, I see