The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

quick scan. The author explains his ranking system for junk.
I enlarge the photo more, able to see that some of the letters have been shaded in, ever so lightly, with what appears to be pencil. I grab my sketch pad and copy the letters, deciphering the message right away.
Paylee22: Believe me now?
NightTerra: It can’t be what you’re thinking.
Paylee22: It’s exactly what I’m thinking. He isn’t done with me yet.
Paylee22: The question is when will things be continued? In a day? A month?
NightTerra: Have you told anyone about this?
Paylee22: Not yet.
NightTerra: Are you going to tell anyone? Because I really think you should.
Paylee22: Well, I just told you.
NightTerra: Yes, but you don’t even know me, really—at least not in real life.
Paylee22: Are you kidding?!
Paylee22:!!!
Paylee22: I feel closer to you than most of the people in my real life.
NightTerra: I feel the same.
Paylee22: So, then…???
NightTerra: I need to ask you something.
Paylee22: You can ask me anything.
NightTerra: Are you really from Chicago?
Paylee22:??? What?!
NightTerra: You told me you were from Chicago, but when I went searching for your case I couldn’t find details that matched what you’ve said.
Paylee22: Where did you search? Online? As if investigators put all those details out there for anyone to find.
Paylee22: Why were you searching for my case anyway?
NightTerra: I was just curious.
NightTerra: Does that bother you?
NightTerra: I searched under your first name, plus the fact that you were locked up in a shed, in the middle of a cornfield, in a suburb of Chicago …
Paylee22: I was put in a shed, but it wasn’t in a cornfield.
Paylee22: It was in a remote area, though, in the woods. That’s all I want to say about that.
NightTerra: What happened to burrowing through a hole?
Paylee22: I did burrow through a hole.
NightTerra: In the Chicago area?
NightTerra: Are you really 24?
Paylee22: Ok, to be completely honest … I haven’t wanted to reveal everything, esp. online.
Paylee22: And, yes, you’re right. It wasn’t in the Midwest. But does where really matter?
Paylee22: I’ve been through a lot, so you can’t really blame me for being guarded about what I put out there, esp. when it comes to specific details.
NightTerra: I’ve been through a lot too, but I’ve told you the truth from the very beginning.
Paylee22: You may want to reconsider how open you’re being, esp. online. The internet isn’t exactly a trustworthy place. I’ve had to learn that the hard way.
Paylee22: And, btw, I’m 22, not 24. The stuff about the shed is true. I just changed the location because I don’t want people knowing where I am.
Paylee22: Can you understand that at all? I have to be careful about who to trust and what I make public.
NightTerra: Even in our private chats?
Paylee22: The private chats are a little bit safer, but still … You never know.
Paylee22: I hope you understand.
Paylee22: I’m just trying to protect myself.
Paylee22: Helllloooooo???
Paylee22:???
Paylee22: Are you still there?
Paylee22: I can tell you’re upset.
Paylee22: Hello again???
NightTerra: Let’s chat about this later.
Paylee22: Promise???
Paylee22: I’m really sorry, Terra. I should’ve told you sooner. I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you. You’re like a sister to me.
NightTerra: I’ll talk to you soon.
I exit the chat and close the lid of my laptop, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the gut. Am I hurt that Peyton lied to me? Jealous she follows my parents’ rules of survival* so much better than I do? Or angry for defying my own rule—the one about not sharing my truth, not letting people in?
Cut.
Cut.
Cut: the list of survival rules. How did these scissors even get in my hand? I continue to use them, cutting out a paper heart, as if serrated scissors (or any of my defenses) could ever possibly save me from the blazing inferno that’s swallowed me whole.

THEN
28
I still couldn’t find the sparerib bone, as hard as I looked …
Where was it?
The spotlight was on, but it was still dark—so dim. And there were so many rocks now—those I’d managed to prod out.
I raked my fingers over the ground to search. The book and blanket were there; the troll doll and sheet of burned paper were too. So, what did it matter? I knew the bone existed. I’d eaten the sparerib meat.
Hadn’t I?
How many days had I been off my meds? What were the side effects of missing so many dosages? Delusions? Hallucinations? What was the difference between the two again?
Eventually, when I could no longer see straight, I pulled my socks over my fingers like gloves and dug a four-inch crevice into the wall—enough to fit the width of my foot. I tested it to be sure, wedged my foot right in.
I kept working, making more crevices, creating a ladder of sorts. How high could I go? If I used the rungs as leverage …
The spotlight blinked, snagging my attention. I looked up. It was daylight now; there was a patch of gray.
The light blinked again—three more times—before shutting off altogether.
I froze in response.
Was he up there? Would he pull up on the chain? And close the lid? Did he know what I was doing?
A whistling sounded: the tune to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
I clenched my teeth—so hard one chipped. A jolting pain shot through my gums. I went to spit the piece out, accidentally swallowing it down. It got caught in my throat, choking me. My chest convulsed.
I shoved my fingers into my mouth, reaching toward my throat, trying to force myself to throw up. But it wasn’t working. And meanwhile, my body was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. My face felt chilled.
I scrambled for the book, tore half a page out and crammed it into my mouth. The muscles at the back of my throat strained as I worked to swallow the paper down—to get the piece to move, taking handful after handful of water from the makeshift basin I’d made. I splashed the water into my mouth until there was no more left and I was just clawing at dampened dirt.
My tooth ached where it’d broken—a throbbing pain that radiated to the crown of my head.