Hard to Forget

POV: ELLA

It’s been forever since I’ve been back in Florence. Well, except for those quick trips home for Christmas or Easter, or when my mom guilted me into Thanksgiving. I tried so hard to stay away, and it actually worked—until now.

And just to be clear, I’m not talking about Florence, Italy. I mean Florence, Alabama.

Florence is one of those towns people call “quaint.” The kind with sweet tea, church on Sundays, and neighbors who wave at you from their porches. It’s got that Southern charm everyone always brags about.

But there’s nothing left for me in Florence. Not after I ruined every good thing I had there.

Now, I’m at the South Carolina state line, waving goodbye to the mess I made in North Carolina. For real this time. No more looking back.

I’m not going back there. Not after everything I’ve been through. Camp Lejeune is just a memory in my rearview mirror now—just like Florence used to be.

Funny how the life I tried so hard to escape somehow found its way back to me.

The second I crossed into Georgia, the air changed. It smelled like home—like country air, but also like manure and cornfields and duck blinds. I could almost taste it.

I kept my eyes glued to the road, counting down the miles until I’d see that Alabama sign.

I’d been driving for five hours already, and I still had at least six more to go. I left as late as I possibly could—midnight.

I did it on purpose. Less chance of anyone noticing me slip away. So far, it worked.

Now it was almost six o’clock, and the sun was starting to take over the sky. I needed to find somewhere to crash for the night.

There was no way I’d make it another five hours without sleep. And by now, nobody could track me. I left my phone behind, along with every single thing that could be traced.

I couldn’t risk being found. Not after everything I’d survived. I wasn’t going back to that house. Not ever.

That’s when I spotted the Red Roof Inn sign, glowing just off the interstate.

My old, beat-up truck squealed as I pulled into the lot. I took a shaky breath. I’d bought this truck a few days ago for just over a thousand bucks.

I parked it on the street outside the base, and for the first time in a long time, I felt free. Like I was finally doing something right.

This was what I needed. What I should’ve done a year ago.

That night, I slept better than I had in a whole year. No worrying about getting hit, or tracked, or lied to.

I didn’t care about any of that anymore. Six hours of sleep felt like a miracle.

Last year was hell. I lost almost fifteen pounds—definitely not on purpose. I was down to about one hundred fifteen pounds, soaking wet.

I hadn’t dyed my hair in forever, so the bright blonde was fading into a dull, dirty blonde. I hid the bruises and scars under my clothes. I’d taken a leave from work last month—he made me.

He said I shouldn’t be working so much while he was home from tour. Not that I could’ve kept a job anyway, not with people noticing the bruises.

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes for a second, letting the hot summer air wash over my face. It felt so good. Like I could finally breathe.

As I got closer to Alabama, the radio started acting up. I twisted the old dial, searching for anything that wasn’t a commercial.

Finally, I landed on a station just as a new song started. I waited, listening for the beat, the voice.

It was him.

I knew it instantly. The rasp, the deep voice, the way he dragged out certain words.

I couldn’t change the station. I had to hear the whole song.

I needed to hear the announcer say his name at the end. So I listened, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like torture.

Even though it drowned me in memories I’d tried so hard to leave behind. The song faded out, and the radio host’s voice chirped through the speakers, “And that, folks, was Wesley Tate with ‘Hard to Forget!’”

That’s exactly what he’d become to me. Hard to forget.

Funny how I used to be his hard to forget, too. Now, I bet he didn’t even remember my name.

It had been years since I’d seen him. Years since we’d even spoken. I doubted he ever thought about me anymore.

I needed to stop wallowing. There’d be plenty of time for memories once I got back to Florence.

No point in digging up the past before I even crossed the state line.

And there it was. The Alabama state line sign, just coming into view.

It felt like the clouds parted just for me, sunlight spilling over the sign. My own little piece of heaven.

Only forty-five more minutes and I’d be home. I could already picture Mama and Daddy’s faces—surprised, but happy. Maybe a little confused, too.

I drove into the heart of town, passing the colorful little shops I’d almost forgotten. Everything looked so picturesque, like a postcard I’d tucked away and finally found again.

It was almost exactly how I’d left it. A few new shops, a few more people, but still the same home I remembered. The downtown faded in my rearview, and up ahead, the Old Railroad Bridge stretched across the water—Florence’s pride and joy.

They’d turned it into a walkway now, but it was still beautiful. I caught a glimpse of Pickwick Lake and the Tennessee River, the water sparkling in the afternoon sun.

The sound of gravel crunching under my tires made my heart race. The road was about two miles long, and my parents’ house waited at the very end.

Their place was a cozy, farm-style home that fit right into the Alabama countryside. I could see the outline of the house in the distance, and I took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in my chest.

A minute later, my old truck rolled up to the edge of the driveway and stopped. I pulled in, and there was Daddy, standing on the porch, calling out.

“Is that you, Ellie?” he shouted.

I didn’t answer. I just ran to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He stroked my hair, gentle as ever.

“What’s wrong, El?” he asked, voice soft.

“Nothin’. Not anymore, Daddy.” Tears burned my eyes, but I tried to blink them away.

He glanced down at my wrist, noticing the yellow bruise. “Did something happen with Jason?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I wiped at my cheeks, but the tears kept coming.

Mama appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide with worry.

“Ella, sweetheart. You can stay here as long as you need, you know that.”

“He hit you, didn’t he? That goddamn bastard!” Daddy spat on the ground, his face red as he started pacing the living room.

“I never liked him. Never!” he shouted.

I swallowed a sob. “Please. It’ll just make me sad again. I’m safe now. I’m here with you,” I said, desperate to push the memories away.

Mama reached for my bag. “Let’s get your things up to your old room. Are you hungry? I bet you’re starving after that long drive.” She started rummaging through the fridge, pulling out leftovers and piecing together a meal.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Daddy’s voice came from across the room. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Silence filled the space between us. Then he spoke again, softer this time. “I’m sorry, Ellie…I shouldn’t have asked.”

His words hit me hard. Even if he didn’t mean to, they made me feel small and guilty.

I should’ve told them. But I couldn’t. Jason watched everything I did—every move, every call.

Before that, it hadn’t seemed so bad. Or maybe I just told myself that. He was gone a lot, deployed for a month at a time, always on some mission he couldn’t talk about.

But his temper got worse. Shorter. Meaner. I knew he was cheating, but I never found proof on his phone.

Every time I asked where he’d been until six in the morning, he’d say he was with his Marine buddies. But I knew better. I always knew.

At first, it was just an open palm—a slap across my cheek. A bruise I could cover up with makeup, nothing anyone would notice. But it didn’t stop there.

One slap turned into several. Then it was a shove down the stairs or into a wall. Every time he saw the blood or the marks, he’d apologize. He’d swear it would never happen again, promise he’d get help. A few months ago, I finally decided I’d had enough.

I made a plan. I’d leave him when he went away for training.

Those three weeks felt like forever. Every day was heavy, every night worse. But I messed up that day.

Isn’t it strange? I still think I’m the one who made the mistake, when it was always him. That’s what abusers do, isn’t it? They twist things until you believe you’re the problem.

That morning, when I told him no, he lost it. He pinned me against the wall, demanding I give in.

I remember that night so clearly—too clearly. He tied my hands behind my back, pressed me against the wall, and forced himself inside me.

He’d already taken everything from me. Now he took that, too. I tried to fight—kicked, struggled, tried to break free—but it only made him more excited.

Afterward, I just curled up on the floor and cried. I couldn’t let myself think about what had happened. I wanted to run, but I knew he’d find me. I wanted to call the police, but we lived on base, and the military police would always take his side.

That’s why I had to be careful. I had to get out before he could drag me back. I was pulled out of my thoughts by my mama waving her hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

She set a plate of food on the coffee table in front of me.

“Thanks for the food, Mama.”

“No problem, sweetheart.” She tried to hide the worry in her voice.

“I’m all right,” I lied.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You must be tired. Why don’t you get some rest after dinner, honey? Your daddy will bring your bags up to your old room.”

She slapped her hands on her knees and left the room.

But I could hear her crying softly in the next room. She was trying to hide it, trying to make things easier for me.

I knew all about hiding things. Because no matter how hard you try, the things you hide always find a way back.