RE: Trailer Trash, 6 pt 13 (Patreon)

   “They completely fucking lobotomized Erica,” Brittney revealed in a low voice. “She’s fucking brain dead now. A retard.”

   Ashlee Taylor stared vacantly out the window of her aunt’s Toyota Camry and watched as the dull October dead trees and nothing but dead trees scenery of US Route 31W rolled by. She didn’t want to listen to them fight anymore. Every topic her remaining family brought up simply twisted her guts into new fits of anxiety, but blocking them out or pretending just wasn’t really an option anymore.

   “Erica isn’t retarded,” Aunt Kimberly said in a tired voice, “and they didn’t lobotomize her. Your Nan doesn’t want you swearing, so if you don’t start watching what you—”

   “They lobotomized her,” Brittney shrugged. “She’s a retard now. I saw it for myself. Lobotomized.”

   Lobotomized, like... they removed her brain? Ashlee felt herself pale in horror as yet another wave of drowning guilt began to flood in. Lobotomized like, YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN lobotomized?

   “Your sister wasn’t lobotomized,” Aunt Kimberly insisted. “They have her starting on lithium treatments to start stabilizing her moods a little bit. She’s supposed to be a little loopy at first. It’s normal. She’s not lobotomized, she’s just a little loopy.”

   Their aunt was once again driving them to Ireland, which turned out to be an ugly army hospital a fifty-minute drive outside of Springton rather than gorgeous green European countryside Ashlee had first imagined. It was a trip they made every week now—sometimes with Brittney in tow, sometimes without—visiting a psychiatrist to help untangle the complex web of problems that made up the Taylor family situation. So far, it was just long, tedious drives, followed by waiting, and then incredibly awkward sessions as people tried to prod Ashlee into talking about anything and everything that was wrong.

   She hated it. She wanted to be left alone. Ashlee definitely didn’t want things to go back to the way they were—no way in hell—but, the way things were right now weren’t any improvement. They were just strange and uncomfortable and scary.

   “Fucking lobotomized,” Brittney insisted. “She got mind-wiped, it was like trying to talk to a little retarded child. I asked her if she was feeling okay, and she’s like yah I’m okaaay. I was like, they told me you were crying a few days ago—so what was the issue? She gets all fucking confused and embarrassed. So, I ask around, and it turns out she was having trouble figuring out how to put her pants on right one morning. Like a fucking toddler. Not even joking.”

   “They’re still adjusting her medications, she’s going to be fine,” Aunt Kimberly said. “Bipolar disorder isn’t something that magically goes away in just a few weeks. It’s going to take some time. She’s going to get better.”

   “...Get better at what?” Brittney demanded with an incredulous expression. “This isn’t Drop Dead Fred. There was nothing wrong with her in the first place. This is all bullshit.”

   “Watch your language, Brittney,” Aunt Kimberly warned. “Your sister was diagnosed with a disorder. It was making her do things that she wouldn’t normally do, keeping her from thinking right. The lithium is going to help, she just needs to be on it for a while and she’s going to be loopy.”

   Bipolar disorder was their fancy new name for Erica’s uncontrollable personality and constant need to lash out at everything around her. Pills were apparently the answer.

   Without any warning and completely out of the blue, an attorney, a social worker, a woman from the school board, and a police officer showed up on their doorstep one day. Mrs. Taylor had immediately launched into a suspiciously defensive explanation for Ashlee’s truancy, and as her mother grew increasingly more flustered and agitated, Ashlee realized that something was seriously wrong. The social worker, an irritated-looking middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a chain-smoker’s voice, had asked to see Ashlee alone in the other room.

   Then, she asked Ashlee if she had any bruises.

   Ashlee felt proud and embarrassed and hopeful and terrified as she displayed her naked back to the woman in the other room, all the while her mother’s shouting on the other side of the room grew louder and louder. The bruising lately was bad, bad enough that she’d again had difficulty sleeping because of it, and now finally, finally someone had somehow noticed and would maybe do something about things. It was exciting to dare to dream of the prospect of change.

   Change came immediately.

   The social worker left just a few scant minutes later, taking Ashlee with her. She was brought away with such sudden whirlwind expediency that Ashlee felt completely unprepared for it—looking back, it all felt like something out of a distant, impossible dream. The last thing she remembered seeing was her mother collapsing in a hysterical panic on their front lawn, screaming and shrieking and clawing at the police officer. Ashlee had stared dumbfounded through the car window at the once-familiar woman as her shape receded into the distance behind them.

   Ashlee was separated from her immediate family, and after a long talk and a rather mortifying medical evaluation, she spent two nights in a ‘halfway house,’—whatever that was—and finally was sent to stay with her distant Aunt Kimberly. Ever since then, bombshell after enormous bombshell news seemed to drop one after another. Erica completely lost it, and attempted to murder a girl. Police and social service were both investigating their family. Dad was getting locked up forever, mom was filing for divorce. Brittney got shuttled off to live with Nana, and Erica got shipped off to a loony bin for juveniles and then apparently lobotomized. 

   For attemping to murder my friend, Ashlee remembered in a daze. Tabby. The girl I blamed for everything I did. I did all of this.

   All of the sudden changes were more than just disorienting; they were terrifying. Every other day, it seemed like a therapist or counselor or caseworker was interviewing her with discomforting questions, and nobody seemed particularly satisfied with the answers she gave them. Most of the big red flags weren’t even related to Ashlee herself—apparently some of her father’s methods for dealing with Erica were capital letters NOT OKAY. Not at all normal, and teetering all the way past corporal punishment and into sexual abuse—child molestation.

   All of these new adults also seemed equally mystified as to why Ashlee had been pulled out of the school system to be homeschooled. They now told her that she had not actually been homeschooled, because she wasn’t being given any curriculum by her parents or anything to study. Registration and packets of coursework were eventually discovered at the house, but Ashlee had never been aware of them. Ashlee knew why this was, but none of these people seemed to accept ‘I was really bad at school and they were tired of putting up with it’ as an acceptable answer. Her mother had never bothered—Ashlee never did schoolwork, and she was too difficult to deal with. It was almost comical to her how aghast and horrified everyone was by that.

   Suddenly, her mother’s knowledge of the bruises itself became a crime—she was now complicit. Ashlee had always struggled how terribly unfair life seemed, but for the situation to be so suddenly and violently corrected was still completely jarring and overwhelming. She wasn’t sure she hated her mother. Not completely, at least.

   “Yah, okaaay,” Brittney mocked. “Whatever. Erica’s a total retard, now. I think it’s like a revenge thing. An eye-for-an-eye, for her giving Tubby Tabby brain damage or whatever.”

   “It’s not revenge, stop it,” Aunt Kimberly shook her head. “That’s not how things work, this has nothing to do with that. Your sister was out of control, and now she’s getting help.”

   “Yeah,” Brittney scoffed, shooting Ashlee a meaningful look. “Help, huh.” 

   “She was completely out of control,” Aunt Kimberly said again, this time in a tone that brooked no further argument. “Can we just stop? Let’s just drop it, okay?”

   “Right, yeah. Better leave all the bitching for time with the therapists, that’s what they get paid for,” Brittney rolled her eyes. “You know, they’re gonna make you take pills too, Ash. For your ADD. Make sure they don’t give you the retard pills.”

   Icy fear blossomed in Ashlee’s gut again, because she had indeed overheard them talking about possible medications. They were discussing putting her on something called Ritalin, to hopefully help her focus on things like school work again. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want ANY OF THIS. Why is it like this. Why did everything go this way. Why is all of this happening to me?!

   In her mind, Erica maybe did deserve some of what was happening. Not to be lobotomized, of course—that was beyond the pale. But, Ashlee had always wished Erica would face some comeuppance, some sort of consequences for her actions. The fact that her sister was dangerous and out of control was something Ashlee had known forever, since she was little. It was only recently that everyone else was seeming shocked by this ‘sudden revelation.’ Brittney was mean too, of course, and sometimes Ashlee thought that she was the more cruel sister… but Erica could be terrifying. Unpredictable, unhinged. Crazy.

   Ashlee wasn’t allowed to describe her sister as crazy to the psychiatrist or anyone at Ireland, even if her sister was obviously crazy. Instead, it was their dad’s fault for molesting Brittney and Erica. It was the bipolar disorder to blame, rather than Erica simply being a psychopath. It was an unfortunate blend of situations and circumstances that caused her sister to unexpectedly commit a serious crime. Everyone seemed so keen on figuring things out and making things right, but Ashlee didn’t think any manner or perspective of comparing all of these wrongs was ever going to make a right.

   It’s all just… FUCKED, Ashlee slumped, rested her cheek against the rumbling window of the car. Fucked up for good. It can’t be sorted out or fixed or set straight. It’s fucked. Totally fucked. And all of this is because of me. 

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/// Running out of time before my July 1st deadline, so I'm jumping right into testing out our first Ashlee POV. Feels pretty weak right now as I try to unpack some of these ideas into better means of expression, so some or even a lot of this might be subject to change. Ashlee's going to be one of the toughest to get right story antagonists I've ever written for.