The Contradiction of Solitude

Reclaiming the Sand Series

Reclaiming the Sand

Chasing the Tide

Twisted Love Series

Lead Me Not

Follow Me Back

Find You in the Dark Series

Find You in the Dark

Light in the Shadows

Cloud Walking (A Find You in the Dark novella)

Warmth in Ice (A Find You in the Dark novella)

Bad Rep Series

Bad Rep

Perfect Regret

Seductive Chaos

For all the Noras

Follow the clues and find out more about The Missing by visiting

www.findingnora.blogspot.co.uk

The Song

Every morning was the same.

I’d curl into a fetal position on my side and try not to think about how the rocks were cutting into my cheek. Or how the dirt was so deep under my nails that the beds were now black.

I didn’t think about how my long, blonde hair was matted and filthy. Or how I stank from not having a shower in so long.

I tried not to gag as the smell of my waste permeated the room, hanging in the air, coating my skin.

These things would have bothered me, once upon a time. Now, they barely registered.

Because all I could think about was right now.

In the dark.

In the lonely, empty room.

My steady, beating heart.

The air whooshing in and out of my lungs.

And the song.

It began as a whistle. High pitched. The most horrible sound I had ever heard. I covered my ears. When that didn’t work, I’d stuff my fingers down deep.

I could still hear it.

The whistle.

I hated it.

It went on and on and on.

And then it would change into something resembling a hum.

Notes up and down. High and low. No words. Just a melody that was both familiar and horrible. It was loud. Too loud for the silence I had grown accustomed to.

Discordant. Out of tune.

Like a piece of music that was meant to be pretty but had gotten twisted up and spit back out.

Like something out of a horror movie.

Then it would stop. And the singing would begin.

And that was worst of all.

Because then I could hear the words. I knew them even if I didn’t know the voice that sang them. I recognized them. I just didn’t know how.

They made me sad. And angry.

Almost crazy . . .

But more horrible than that, I felt love. Deep in my bones. Wrenched from my bleeding heart. It crushed me up into tiny, jagged pieces.

Love.

I felt it.

But I didn’t understand it.

And the words wouldn’t stop. Sung by a voice I desperately wanted to know.

I screamed until my throat was raw and bleeding.

I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore.

But the song went on.

And on.

And on.

Reminding me of the past.

Withholding the future.

No one will miss the little girl lost . . .

Day 1

The Present

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I was roused out of consciousness.

My head was throbbing, and I was pretty sure that I had bit through my bottom lip. I could taste blood in my mouth. Bitter. Like sucking on a penny.

My throat was dry. I couldn’t swallow no matter how I tried. I had never been so thirsty in my entire life.

I groaned and rolled onto my side, curling my legs into my chest. I was in pain. Serious pain. I ached everywhere. There wasn’t a part of my body that didn’t hurt.

I imagined this was what running into a brick wall at full speed felt like.

I opened my eyes and could make nothing out in the blurred darkness. Light filtered in through a dirty window, but all I could see were shadows.

I touched my face and realized my glasses were gone.

I felt instant, overwhelming panic.

My glasses were gone!

I couldn’t see without them!

I squinted and peered around until my eyes acclimated to the diminished light. But without my glasses, I could make out no discernable features. I knew that I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. I couldn’t figure out exactly where I was.

I slowly sat up and scooted backwards until my back connected with a wall, the solid concrete floor hard underneath me. I let out a tiny scream and quickly covered my mouth—terrified that I’d be heard.

I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. My head was pounding, making it hard to think.

Where am I?

I shook my head and then groaned at the pain that blossomed and spread out like spiders’ webs. I ran my fingers up the side of my neck and winced at the feel of tender skin.

I opened my eyes as wide as possible, desperate to see. Needing it.

Nothing! I can’t see anything!

Where are my glasses?

Crawling on all fours, I swept my hands along the floor hoping they had just fallen from my face.

“Ow!” I gasped, lifting my finger to my mouth. I sucked on the skin. The taste of my blood was becoming a familiar flavor on my tongue.

I gave up my futile search and slowly, not so steadily, got to my feet. I turned in a circle, trying to get a sense of the room I was in.

Where am I?

I couldn’t see. But I could hear.

I could smell.

And I could touch.

I needed to rely on my other senses to get an idea of my surroundings.

I strained my ears and the answering silence was in many ways more terrifying than not being able to see.

Total and absolute quiet.

A void of sound that stretched on and on and on.

But it hadn’t always been still. I seemed to remember a noise. I tried to wrestle it from the depths of an exhausted subconscious. Something on the edges of memory. I tried to remember.

It was gone . . .

Only silence.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, covering my face with my hands, gulping air as fast as I could. My chest heaved, my stomach churned.

I was alone.

Totally and completely alone.

I curled my fingers into claws and dug them into my cheeks, not caring when my nails cut through skin.

I was alone.

It was familiar. It was devastating. Solitude had the power to level me entirely.

Get it together, Nora! This isn’t helping anything!

Shuddering, deep breaths. Placate. Calm.

Okay, there’s no noise. But what can I smell?

I breathed in deep through my nose, holding it in. The musty, foul scent of mildew and rot clung to the back of my throat. I coughed, feeling sick. It smelled like decay. Dying things.

Forgotten things.

There was something uncomfortably familiar about the smell and silence. The stench of neglect tickled my memory and I fought like hell to reach out and grab the elusive strings, but I couldn’t quite grasp them. It was like the subtle twinges of déjà vu; absolutely frustrating.

I turned in a circle again, twisting my knee in the process. My leg buckled and I fell back to the ground. I gasped as I made contact with the cold, hard floor and rubbed the injury. It felt bruised and throbbed from the impact and my weight baring down on top of it.

I was having a hard time breathing. Dust caught and clung to my hair and eyelashes. Every inch of my skin felt tight and bruised like I had been in some sort of fight and come out the very obvious loser.

Think, Nora! How did this happen?

I opened my mind and thought back to the last twenty-four hours. I tried to think about the days that led up to this point.

And I was met by an endless sea of confusion.

Soft brown hair blowing in the wind.

Angry voices screaming as I ran . . .

Rage.

Hate.

Longing.

Discombobulated images, disconnected feelings. None of it made sense. I felt as though I had been cut up into tiny, little bits. The aching physical pain was nothing compared to this.

The misery in my heart.

Again I got to my feet, bracing my knee as best as I could. My weak leg shook under the strain, but I was finally able to stand upright without toppling. I shuffled towards the wall and flattened my palm against the wooden slates. Old wood. Splintered and broken in places, it felt as though it had been there for a long time. A strange smell wafted from it. I leaned in close and sniffed. Mold and something else tickled my nose.

Gasoline? And burnt wood?

I frowned and smelled the wood again. This time I could only get a whiff of decomposition and age. I disregarded the earlier smells as olfactory hallucinations. It was the only thing that made sense in this insanity.

Feeling along the wall, I made my way around the outer parameter. The room didn’t feel overly large. But it was, for the most part, empty. Too empty. Like a crypt.

I bent over, shaking and dizzy. I was going to be sick.

I swallowed, my parched mouth and throat burning at the effort. With trembling limbs, I leaned against the wall.

There was nothing to give me any sort of indication as to where I was. Only a twinge of familiarity that, at this point, I believed to be all in my head. Did I really recognize this non-descript room? How could I when I could barely see a foot in front of me?

I had no clues. No ideas. Only a memory full of holes with no substance I was a battered body and a reeling mind.

I covered my mouth with my hand and bit back the scream that crept up my throat like vomit.

But I couldn’t just stand there like an idiot and not do anything. I felt the need to do something. Anything!

“H-hello?” I called out, my voice scratchy and low. I stumbled towards the middle of the moon, tripping over my shoelaces. My bad knee threatened to give out again.

I barely registered the tears running down my face. I didn’t want to think about how weak they made me. How much I hated the wetness growing sticky on my cheeks.

“Nora! Come back!”

I startled at the unbidden memory. A deep, frantic voice. Scary. Demanding

I shivered in the oppressive heat. My foot made contact with an object I hadn’t noticed before. I kicked it over and it rolled across the floor.

“What the—?” I dropped to my knees and patted around on the ground, hissing at the pain in my leg.

My hand wrapped around cool plastic. I lifted it up in front of my face and saw that it was a full bottle of water.

I didn’t bother to stave the tears. With a choked sob, I uncapped the top and quickly downed as much as my burning, uncomfortable throat could tolerate. I had never tasted anything so amazing in my entire life.

Water sloshed around the side of my mouth, dampening the collar of my T-shirt. I didn’t care. In that bleak, horrible moment, it was my only salvation.

An inconsequential thing that meant absolutely everything.

When I finished, I dropped it on the floor and then proceeded to berate myself endlessly.

It’s what I did best.

Why did I drink it all? Who knows when I’ll get more!

And that very realistic thought opened me to the panic I had been carefully keeping at bay.

I’m going to starve.

I’m going to dehydrate.

I’m going to die . . .

“I’m going to die,” I rasped, my teeth chattering and my body clenching in pain and hysteria.

“Help me!” I wailed and flinched at the sound of my shrill voice in the deadened silence.

Nothing.

Always nothing.

Always alone.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I was used to being left. Being unimportant.

Discarded.

Ignored . . .

I gripped the side of my head and pressed my fingers to my temples. The pressure and discomfort helped to clear my mind.

I just wished I could see. My eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but everything was fuzzy. Indistinct. I had been almost legally blind for years now. It was frustrating at the best of times.

At the worst, sitting in this stifling room with no visible escape, it was petrifying.

“Hello?” I repeated, this time a little bit louder. I slowly got to my feet again and made my way toward what appeared to be a door.

I pushed up the sleeves of my shirt trying to get some relief from the still and stuffy air. It was so hot. Like a furnace. It felt as though the walls were closing in on me. Sweat dripped down between my breasts and beaded along the top of my lip. The hair was damp at my temples. I ripped the stocking cap I had been wearing off my head and threw it across the room where it fell somewhere in the shadows.

I felt like such an idiot for dressing the way that I did. Who wears a winter hat in the summer anyway?

I scratched at what seemed to be dried blood on my cheek. The skin stung, and I could feel uneven cuts.

What happened?

That seemed the more important question.

More important than the where.

Or the who.

Or even the why.

The what bounced around inside my head, demanding to be answered.

I finally reached the door and felt around for a handle. The door seemed solid and smooth. I carefully felt along the seams and hinges, flattening my palms so that I touched every single inch.

I finally located the handle. It was curved and I thought I could make out a large, metal plate that it was attached to. Using all of my strength I pulled, jarring my shoulder.

It didn’t budge. I pulled again, this time using both hands. It was locked tight. The only way to open it was from the outside.

I was trapped.

Like a dog in a cage. A hot, airless cage.

I couldn’t get out, and it was obvious that I wasn’t supposed to.

I banged my fists against the wood. “Hello? Is anyone there? Where am I?” I called out, recognizing my increasing hysteria.

“Hello?” I called again. “Can anyone hear me?” I all but shrieked.

Nothing.

Silence.

Of course.

I dropped my forehead to the door and banged my head several times against the hard surface. “No one’s there, Nora,” I muttered. “No one is going to let you out.”

And then I laughed. Manically. Strained and tight. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Totally inappropriate but completely unstoppable. The laughter bubbled out of me, and I didn’t bother to try to stop it.

Then the laughter died off and the fear replaced it. The bone deep dread that took root and wouldn’t budge.

“Answer me!” I screamed, caving to the terror. “Please!” I begged. “What have I done? Why am I here? Just tell me!”

I banged my head against the wall again. Over and over. “Who are you?” I mouthed.

The shadows were filled with boogeymen and monsters I couldn’t see.

“Let me out!” I gasped, clutching my throat. Wrapping my hands around the thin column of my neck and squeezing. Just enough to ground and center. The panic attack hit hard.

“I want to go home!” I sobbed, doubling over.

I never thought I’d experience a time when I yearned for home. That I could think about the cold rooms with any sort of affection.

But in that moment I wanted nothing more than to walk through the front door and hear my mother’s clipped, disappointed voice telling me to go to my room so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

I reminisced wistfully about my bedroom that had, in the last few years, become my prison.

“I want to go home,” I whispered.

So much.

I thought about my house.

My mother.

Her hard, hard eyes and downturned lips.

I remembered my face in the broken mirror. A disfigured image in cracked glass.

A thousand, minute recollections clouded my mind.

But I couldn’t remember what had happened before.

“I h-have to get out of h-here,” I stuttered. Desperate words wrenched from a desperate woman.

I beat at the door as hard as I could with my hands and feet, pulling on an energy that I hadn’t known I possessed. “Let me out!” I yelled over and over again.

In the rational part of my mind, I knew that it was useless.

I knew that no one would ever hear me.

Logically, I knew that my pleas didn’t matter.

I could stand there and scream and scream until I was exhausted and hoarse, and it wouldn’t make any difference at all.

But I couldn’t stop. Once I had let the panic loose, it was impossible to bottle back up again.

I kept shouting.

I kept slamming my hands into the hard, hard wood until the skin split, and I felt the blood drip down my wrists.

I kicked and kicked until my feet hurt and my legs trembled.

I pulled on the handle with every ounce of strength that I had left. I’d break the door down if I had to. I’d claw through the wood with my bare hands.

But then my body gave out. Exhaustion was my undoing. My brain shut down, and I couldn’t deal with any of it. I collapsed into a ball on the dirty, dirty floor.

Wrecked. Scared. Sick and tormented.

Lost.

“What happened?” I whispered, raking fingernails over my stinging cheeks, piercing flesh, scouring. Scarring. Covered with marks both temporary and permanent.

“What happened to me?” I demanded a forgetful mind.

I remembered who I was.

Nora Gilbert.

I remembered my life.

Unhappy.

I even remembered where I had been.

Waverly Park.

I tried to remember who I loved.

My brain recoiled. My heart withdrew.

Then I saw his face.

“Nora! You don’t understand! Please!”

I shivered in the hot, stifling room. Sweat and fear mixing together on my skin. Joy that came from a remembered face. A brutally, beloved face. And eyes that always saw what I wished they wouldn’t.

Dead eyes.

I began to shake uncontrollably.

“What happened to me?” I rasped, my voice gone. Ineffective. It didn’t matter in this place. In this hell.

The what plagued me.

And his face.

Dead, green eyes.

Smiling, angry mouth.

Grasping fingers pulling me closer. Hateful, horrible words slamming against my skull.

I remembered him.

As if I could forget.

Don’t forget, Nora. Never, ever forget.

But what about me?

What happened to poor Nora Gilbert?

I hadn’t run fast enough when the monsters chased me.

I had thought I was so smart. One step ahead.

When really I had always been two steps behind.

Not so smart after all.

Poor, poor Nora Gilbert.

The Past

Six Months Earlier

I avoided mirrors.

I made a point not to look at my reflection.

But today was different.

Today I looked.

I wiped the steam from the surface and slid my wire-framed glasses up my nose. Wrapped in a towel, my hair still dripping from the shower, I looked.

And looked.

And hated everything that I saw.

I ran a finger over the angry, raised skin above my lip. I felt sick the longer I stared. They had all lied. It didn’t change anything. I was still ugly. I was still a freak.

It changed nothing!

In a way, I had grown used to the split in my lip exposing my teeth and gum. Two halves that would never join together. Separate pieces of one face.

My cleft palate had been a part of me. A hated part, but a part nonetheless.

I had grown used to the averted eyes and cruel taunts.

This scarred skin was meant to make me feel better about myself. It was well-intentioned dishonesty.

I didn’t feel better.

I didn’t feel normal.

I felt incomplete.

I barely made it to the toilet before the contents of my stomach came up. I shuddered and heaved and then collapsed onto the floor.

There was an impatient knock and I barely had time to cover myself with the towel again before she was standing there in the open doorway. Cool beauty and stern disapproval.

“What are you doing, Nora? You’re making a mess! Look at the water on the floor!”

My mother’s voice was shrill and annoyed.

“I’ll clean it up, I promise,” I told her weakly. I couldn’t rejoice in the way my voice no longer lisped or slurred. I couldn’t focus on this small, yet important victory. It didn’t matter. Particularly to Mother.

“Get up off the floor this instant!” she demanded. So cold. So unfeeling.

I knew better than to ignore her. Mother wasn’t making a request. Her words were painted with thinly veiled threats.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and got to my feet ever so slowly. Wrung out and exhausted, I was unable to meet her eyes. I knew what I’d see.

Disgust.

Revulsion.

Blatant Abhorrence.

I ran my fingers along the scar again. It was supposed to make things better.

Lies.

All lies!

It didn’t change the way she looked at me. There was no love. There was none of the parental affection I had longed to find in my mother’s eyes.

Nothing had changed.

She still hated me.

I would always be the child she wished she had aborted.

I was the miscarriage her body denied her.

I was nothing.

It didn’t matter that doctors had pulled the skin of my lip together. It didn’t matter that the ugly girl was supposed to be all fixed.

In Mother’s eyes, I was still horrible.

“Stop touching it! The skin is still healing!” Mother hissed, smacking my hand away from my face. Her nonchalant abuse made me flinch.

“It looks so awful,” I whispered, knowing I shouldn’t say it out loud. Knowing I should never, ever give her any of the deep, dark secrets of my heart.

Because she was always ready and waiting to crush me. To bleed me dry.

“No, Nora. You looked awful before. You are decidedly less awful now. Ugly. But not awful.”

Bile rose in the back of my throat again. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand and squeezed, hoping the sharp pain would make me feel better.

It didn’t.

Awful.

Ugly.

“Get dressed. You have class. And I don’t have time to wait around for you.” Mother slammed the door without another word.

With shaking hands, I braced myself against the sink and forced my eyes to return to the mirror.

Look, Nora. Look at who you are . . .

The woman staring back was hideous. A woman no one wanted to look at. An ugly woman.

A woman who should never have been born.

A woman no one would ever miss . . .

“You’ll have to walk home today,” Mother said, pulling up in front of Blackfield Community College. I kept my head bowed, my long, blonde hair falling in my face. I hoped to hide behind it. To disappear.

After getting dressed, I had tried to cover up the scars. I secretly raided Mother’s makeup drawer and used her concealer. Today I hadn’t lingered the way I normally would have over expensive lipsticks and eye shadow that I would never wear.

I blotted the detestable flesh with cream and tried to blend it in. I rubbed and rubbed hoping that it would make the evidence of my shame disappear. It didn’t work. If anything it only drew more attention to the site of my former deformity.

“That’s fine,” I mumbled, staring at my hands.

“Sit up! And get that hair out of your eyes!” Mother shouted, her voice piercing my eardrums.

I tried to do as she insisted, but I couldn’t show my face. Never my face . . .

Particularly to her.

“I didn’t pay good money to have you fixed just so you could cover yourself up!”

“It didn’t fix anything. I’m still the same as I always was,” I whispered, hoping she didn’t hear me. When would I learn to keep my thoughts to myself? Particularly thoughts that had the power to injure me. But the words wouldn’t stay inside where they belonged.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mother.” I felt her hands in my hair. Fingernails gouging my scalp as she yanked and pulled, tying it back away from my face. She bunched my hair into a sloppy bun at the nap of my neck.

I was bare. On display.

Awful.

“I don’t know what your problem is, Nora. It’s better than what I used to see when I was forced to look at you.” She did nothing to hide her shudder of revulsion. “Don’t forget what you were like before.” She said it with so much venom, so much hatred, that I knew she’d never forget. I had no doubt that my face, my horrible, hideous face, haunted her nightmares.

“At least I can bear to look at you now.”

Her words were knives. Sharp and deadly. Straight to my gut. Buried deep where the wounds wouldn’t show.

But I didn’t flinch. I stopped showing a reaction many years ago.

I got out of the car, my bag heavy on my shoulders, my chin tucked into my chest. I hurried away from my mother and her cruelly honest words.

The wind on my face made me flinch. I hated the feel of air on my exposed skin. I slipped around the side of the closest building and loosened my hair from the elastic band. I ripped and pulled, only feeling better when my face was once again hidden behind the curtain of pale strands.

Once I was comfortable, I made my way to class.

No one spoke to me.

I spoke to no one.

I didn’t make eye contact. I knew better. No one noticed me anyway.

No one but him.

“Nora!”

My insides lurched and heaved. I was both frightened and delighted. Conflicted, complex emotions ate away at me.

No one ever saw me.

But he saw me each and every time. I couldn’t conceal things from him. He wouldn’t let me.

I stopped and waited for Bradley Somers to catch up. He jogged across the grass, and I wished I could smile at him. Just once. A deep seeded hope defeated and obliterated.

Then I remembered that I could smile.

Now . . .

I hesitantly stretched my lips into an expression I had never used before. Skin pulled taut over my teeth. Upwards. Upwards.

It hurt to smile.

So I stopped trying. I covered my lips with my fingers. Hiding the skin. Hiding the scar.

Bradley stopped once he was by my side. His torn jeans revealed bloodied knees, and I noticed when he pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes his knuckles were scrapped and raw.

A new cut on his face looked infected and oozing. He wasn’t taking care of himself. He never did.

Bradley was my friend.

My only friend.

He was so much more than that.

It was a relationship born out of loneliness between two people who couldn’t be more different. We took from each other what we needed. We left nothing behind for anyone else.

He drank me dry. I ate him whole.

We were dysfunctional. We were dangerous to each other.

Bradley scared me. He worried me. He was at times cruel and mean. I was silent and unyielding. But in my dark, dark world, he was all I had. In his faux perfection, I was the only real thing he could see.

And he’d never let me go. I would never walk away. That wasn’t an option for two souls like Bradley and me.

Our hold on each other was painful. Neither of us happy.

But we were united in our wretchedness.

“I came by your house last week. After the surgery,” he told me, trying to look into my face. His need to see me had always been disconcerting. I positioned myself away from him.

“I know. Mother told me.” We walked across manicured grass. Not in the sunlight. But in the shadows. It’s where we were most comfortable.

Bradley and me.

Cold and lonely.

Together.

“You could have called. I’ve been worried about you.” He sounded concerned. But there was something else mired in his anxiety. A thread of accusation.

Steady, Nora.

Steady.

Keep things calm . . .

“I’ve been tired, Bradley. I’ve been sleeping a lot.” It was the truth. I needed to sleep. It was the only place I didn’t completely lose myself.

“Can I see?” he asked, his voice softer. A gentleness he reserved for times like this. When it was only us.

Just for me.

He bent down, moving aside my hair. He was close. Too close.

No!

Bradley, with strong fingers on my chin, lifted my face into the light. I shivered, clammy and ill.

He stared at me. At my lip. At the scar. At skin that was once split in two in a permanent, gruesome grimace.

I was supposed to be fixed.

I knew that Bradley could see how false that idea was.

His green eyes hardened and his handsome face darkened.

He was so, so handsome.

Beautiful even.

With dark, unkempt hair and eyes that often flashed with rage. His face was just right with a straight nose and full lips. Lovely and horrible like hemlock. I wanted to touch him but knew better.

Even with the cuts above his eyes and the infected sores at the corner of his mouth from the tobacco juice that dripped continuously from his lip, he was still good looking in a rough and tumble sort of way. He drew you in and then broke your spirit. It was his true talent.

Once upon a time I had wanted nothing more than to look at him. Because he didn’t mind my staring. He seemed to enjoy my attention.

But things had changed.

Our relationship had become decidedly more complicated.

He dropped my chin as though I had burned him.

He said nothing.

“I’ll walk you to class.” He took my bag, but I pulled back.

“You don’t need to.” We were used to this song and dance.

Bradley shook his head, ignoring my protests. Forcibly he took the bag from my shoulder, even as I tried to hold on to it. I didn’t know why I felt the need to fight him on this.

But I did.

It was the only fight I could muster towards anything.

Something so unimportant.

We were locked in an inconsequential battle that I could never hope to win.

Bradley gave my bag a tug, and I felt my fingers loosen and let go, relinquishing it to him. He held it tightly in his grasp, not giving an inch. He never would. That wasn’t who Bradley Somers was. He wasn’t a man who gave in or lost control.

Ever.

He protected me.

He was my savior when I hadn’t asked for one.

I shivered.

“Are you in pain?” he asked roughly, sounding so, so angry. It was an anger I could understand.

It was for me.

It was for him.

It was for so many things.

Bradley was my friend.

He forced on me his harsh, uncompromising friendship. I took it greedily as any starving woman would.

Bradley loved me.

The ugly, horrible, disgusting parts of me that disturbed everyone else.

Bradley was indiscriminate in his love.

Foolish in his affection.

Overpowering in his regard.

And I was grateful for his idiocy.

Sometimes I wondered whether he wanted to possess me.

Perhaps he wanted to own my soul.

I gingerly touched the still healing scar above my lip, fingers retreating as soon as they made contact. I felt nauseated. Dizzy. Overwhelmed. Hating what I knew was there. Hating what had been erased.

I nodded.

“A little. I took some pain relievers before I left the house.”

Bradley gripped my bag, and I wondered for a moment whether he was going to throw it. “Why did you let her do this to you? Why, Nora?” he seethed. Softly. So quietly.

“You know why,” I answered him. I felt tired. And it didn’t have anything to do with the pain meds. I was exhausted with the truth.

Bradley grabbed my upper arm and tugged me towards a copse of dead trees just on the edge of campus. I shivered and shook. Cold and frigid from the inside out.

I was scared to look up into his face. Scared of the fury I knew would be there. Unsure if it were directed at me.

Or elsewhere.

“I can’t take it, Nora. I can’t stand by and let her do this to you anymore. Not now.”

Bradley dropped my bag onto the frozen ground and took a hold of both my arms, holding me firm and unmoving in his grasp. He pulled me closer. I didn’t have a choice.

With Bradley, choice was always taken from me.

I felt entirely too helpless.

I hated him for that.

I loved him for it just as much.

“Why does this have anything to do with you, Brad?” I asked softly, staring at our sneakers, toe to toe, almost touching. Bradley’s feet were so much larger than mine. He could stomp on my toes and break bones if he wanted to. Just as his huge hands could snap my arms in half if he had a mind to.

“Don’t call me that, Nora! Never call me that!” he hissed, leaning down so that I could feel his hot, harsh breath on my cheek. I glanced up at him through my lashes. I could see the Skoal he had tucked into his bottom lip. A small dribble of saliva beaded at the corner of his mouth, eating away.

He leaned away briefly and spit on the ground. I tried not to make a face, but my revulsion was obvious.

“I thought you quit,” I said, sounding critical.

Bradley let go of me long enough to wipe his mouth with a tissue he kept tucked in his pocket. “I’m trying, Nora. I told you I would. Don’t you believe me? Isn’t my word ever enough for you?”

I was used to Bradley and his constantly fluctuating moods. Up and down. Like a roller coaster. He could make you smile and laugh, and in the next breath, make you cry and scream.

He could be amazing.

He could be the most terrifying thing in the world.

There was no predicting which way his wind would blow. I had learned to batten down the hatches and wait for the storm to pass.

“You’re hurting me, Bradley,” I murmured, calling him the only name that he ever wanted to hear.

Brad was the name his father called him. It was a name he detested. I only used it at certain times. When I demanded the control he took from me so naturally.

He relaxed and looked contrite. Ashamed. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded, his green eyes sad.

I backed up a step and he dropped his hands. My skin throbbed from his fingers, and I knew there would be bruises later.

“I know you are.” I gave him the smile he had always wanted. The one I had never been able to give him. But now I tried.

For Bradley, it meant everything.

My cracked, broken heart thumped wildly and just like that my friend, my Bradley, erased the pain.

There was a twisted beauty in what we were to each other.

He lifted his hand and almost, not quite, touched my lip. “I just hate how she’s trying to change you. I wish you wouldn’t let her.”

“She knows what’s best, she always does,” I argued. It was a lie. But it was easy to tell.

He adored my disfigured, ruined face. But he adored it more before.

When I had told him that my mother had scheduled an appointment for me to see a plastic surgeon in order to discuss reconstructive surgery to correct my cleft palate, he had demanded that I fight her. He had wanted me to tell her that I wouldn’t go.

“You don’t need to fix anything, Nora!” Bradley had stated emphatically. As though it were obvious.

I didn’t tell him that I would do anything if it meant a chance to feel normal. I would sell my soul so that I could look in the mirror and see something beautiful. I had thought that maybe, with the surgery, I’d have my chance.

I should have known that hope was a fickle thing. It bloomed so easily only to shatter into pieces once reality had its way.

Bradley would never understand the desperate desire to love your reflection. He was lovely in all the right ways. Perfect on the outside. Even as he festered and reeked inside.

We were symmetrical. I wore my horrors on my skin. Bradley’s were in unfathomable places that were harder to find.

I couldn’t remember how our friendship started.

But I remembered the moment it became absolutely essential.

The night my unwavering, unreasonable affection for the boy down the street began.

Beautiful face pressed against glass. Green eyes blazing in the dark. My constant. My companion. Anger and sadness creating a bridge between us.

He had lived three houses down from me for over a year. His parents were honest, upstanding members of the community. They were paragons. Well liked. His mother was a teacher, and his father owned a landscaping business. He had three older sisters who loved and adored him.

They were a family that appeared to have everything, but in truth, had absolutely nothing.

Bradley had layers. Complicated, conflicting layers that no one suspected. Definitely not his oblivious parents. Certainly not his self-involved sisters.

They were layers that only I had ever been blessed to see. Layers that he hid from everyone but the girl who would never share his secrets.

A girl who rarely talked, even when spoken to.

Me.

Ugly, ghastly Nora Gilbert.

He had been in my life for so long that there was no questioning it.

Some questions didn’t require answers.

I didn’t want them anyway. I didn’t want to guess at the reasons behind our unreasonable friendship.

Ugly Nora and beautiful Bradley.

Beautiful, angry Bradley.

His thumb brushed the scar and he pulled away. Shaken and disturbed. His repugnance upset me. I was unused to it.

“Your mother is a nasty, hateful bitch,” he spat out, eyes flashing.

I pursed my mouth, hating the twinge I felt in the skin and muscle. “Don’t say that,” I scolded, even though I agreed in the not so deep heart of me.

Bradley’s mouth turned down. I knew he hated it when I rebuked him. It bothered him.

Bradley sighed. “I don’t know why you defend her. After everything—”

“I don’t defend her. I understand her,” I explained, cutting him off.

Bradley’s cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily. He felt things so profoundly. So intensely.

He crushed me.

“I have to get to class,” I said softly. I kept my head down, face angled away from my oldest, and only, friend.

Bradley didn’t say another word as he stooped to pick up my bag. And he didn’t grab me or touch me again.

He wouldn’t look at me.

He wouldn’t talk to me.

For a moment I was safe from his impenetrable eyes.

It was the only time I was thankful to be invisible.

Day 2

The Present

The curse has come upon me

I started counting. All the time.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Ticking off time in my head. Steady. Constant. It kept me sane.

Or did it?

I questioned my sanity. I questioned my lucidity. I had begun to question absolutely everything.

The questions began to stack up, mounting a wall inside me. I couldn’t climb over them. I couldn’t break through them. I was stuck in this dark, hot room waiting for someone to tell me why I was there. Waiting for my captor to come for me.

I was in a constant state of anxious wariness. My muscles taut, my heart beating in triple time.

Sometimes I fell asleep. It was safer there. Behind closed lids, within unconscious dreams. It was easier to live with illusions.

Alone in the dark. Dirt beneath me. Hot, putrid air filled my nostrils. Blurred shadows danced before mostly sightless eyes.

Sleep.

And count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I teetered somewhere between hysteria and agonizing calm. And in those peaceful moments, I tried to think about what exactly was going on.

In my fractured mind I knew that I was being held in this room and there was no way out. Someone had put me here. They were keeping me locked up for reasons I didn’t understand. Did I really want to understand?

Were some secrets better kept?

I thought of green eyes and smirking mouths. Angry words and spiteful smiles. I also thought of comforting touches that had only just been discovered. A face I had come to trust . . .

Who would bring me here?

Too many names.

Too many options.

Was I that despised? Ugly, deformed Nora Gilbert.

Perhaps I had never been invisible. Maybe I had always been noticed.

Hated and reviled.

Ugly, horrible Nora Gilbert.

So, so ugly.

With a cry, I dragged broken nails down my bloodied face. Digging deep. Puncturing flesh.

I was a prisoner.

I couldn’t escape.

Yet I was still alive.

That was possibly the most confusing thing of all.

I was breathing. My heart still beat.

I was alive.

But for how long?

More questions piling up. Brick by brick they walled me in.

Yesterday had been the worst. The first day.

The beginning.

Crawling over dirt and debris, looking for a way out. Searching for hope in the dusty corners.

Hope was a fickle thing.

I knew that the room was mostly empty.

Empty but for the bottles of water and a large bag of potato chips I had found. I had been puzzled by the discovery. The chips were my favorite brand. The small sign of mercy disturbed me.

Despite my extreme misgivings, my incredible hunger drowned out any internal debate. I had grabbed the chip bag and eaten half the contents before I thought better of it.

When my mind and body were no longer dominated by the primal instinct to devour and chew, I realized that I had to ration what I had. I didn’t know when I’d have anything to eat again or whether I’d be provided with further supplies.

I had taken a drink of water and set the food aside trying to ignore the discomfort I felt.

There was one window on the far wall. The glass was caked with dirt and grime. I had tried to see outside but couldn’t make out anything without my glasses.

And there was the door.

Light filtered around the cracks and offered a tantalizing glimpse of freedom beyond. I had pulled at the handle until my hands were raw and throbbing. I wrenched until my shoulders ached and my back burned. It never budged. I knew it wouldn’t. But I couldn’t stop trying.

So I pulled and pulled until I couldn’t pull anymore.

At some point I had fallen to the concrete floor, curled on my side, my face pillowed by my hand. I fell into a coma-like sleep.

It was the deep sleep of someone too terrified to stay awake.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I rolled over, annoyed at the noise. Drifting in and out of dreams.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I didn’t want to wake up. So I fought to stay asleep. Oddly enough the beeping noise became soothing, allowing me to drift off again.

I jolted awake. Confused and disoriented. Something pulled me out of nonsensical dreams.

The whistling.

Everything else was forgotten instantly.

At first I thought I was hallucinating. That my addled brain had created fanciful delusions.

I sat up, stretched out my legs, and opened my eyes wide, trying to see through the grainy darkness. It was early. No light to be seen. But I could smell the morning.

The whistling had stopped, and I began to think I had imagined it.

My bladder was close to bursting, and I knew that I couldn’t hold it any longer. Not knowing what else I could do, I quickly took care of business in the far corner. When I was finished I tried to look out the window, squinting as if that would somehow make my vision clearer.

It didn’t.

My stomach growled, and I located the half eaten bag of chips. I ate a handful and rinsed my mouth out with water.

I was calmer, but the panic was still there, just waiting for me to acknowledge it. I thought about embracing it. To lose myself in the insanity it promised. Anything had to be easier than the reality I was faced with.

But I couldn’t. I had to be smart. I couldn’t afford to lose my faculties to inner chaos. I had to find a way out of the room.

I had to remember what happened that last night. I thought endlessly about who would do this to me.

The possible answer to that particular question left me sick and terrified.

The truth was there were too many possibilities.

My head was full of foggy memories that made no sense.

I left a note for my mother. I hoped to sneak out before she realized I was gone. Butterflies tickled my belly and I grinned so high I felt it everywhere. In my fingers and toes. And most importantly, in my heart.

Tonight would change everything.

“Where was I going?” I asked out loud.

I touched my cheeks, still feeling the grin that had felt etched onto my face.

All I could see was her face. So pretty. Smiling and excited. Always happy to see me.

Strangely I found myself smiling in the dark. My skin cracked, covered in drying tears and day old blood. I smiled for no reason and for every reason.

“I’m going to tell you everything,” I whispered into the night air. Breathing confidences to the sky that I had hoped would find their way to her ears.

The whistling started again and I stopped smiling. I stopped thinking about pretty faces and hot, secret nights.

The whistle was all I could focus on. It was soft at first, then louder.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

No answer.

There were never any answers!

Only a song with a hauntingly familiar melody.

I know this song. Why can’t I remember?

The whistling gave way to humming, which then morphed into whispered words.

“I can hear you, god damn it!” I yelled, my shrill voice bouncing off the walls. Reverberating around in the pit of my empty stomach and my terrified soul.

No answer.

Only the song.

I strained my ears, listening to the voice. I could hear the lyrics, but somehow I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

I began to cry. And once I started I couldn’t stop.

My tears were all that I had left that were just mine.

I was dirty and hungry and sore. I was scared out of my mind and suffocating.

But the song went on.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I wailed. I had to ask the questions. They needed to be said out loud.

I wondered if my mother was looking for me. I wondered if Bradley was searching.

I wondered if she thought about me. Even once. A passing thought shadowing her mind.

I wondered if anyone really cared at all.

Because deep in my heart I knew that I had lost them all.

Every single one of them. The people I had loved to my destruction. The people I had consumed until there was nothing left.

And I was invisible once again.

The lost girl.

The forgotten girl.

The one no one would ever, ever miss.

The song stopped.

Then started again.

The dark has eyes . . .

Goosebumps ran across my skin.

“Just stop! Please!” I moaned, covering my ears. The singing stopped. I slowly lowered my hands and then it started again.

The shadows have teeth.

Always doubt

The truth underneath . . .

The words made me feel sick inside. The gnawing hunger was replaced with a stabbing nausea.

“Why are you doing this?” I demanded, and again the song stopped.

My words faded into nothing and then, as if on cue, the singing started again. Raspy. Low. Barely audible.

Lies are like raindrops

No two are the same . . .

I screamed, the singing stopped. But in the silence, it would begin again.

Who was doing this? I started to freak out. I was being held by a psychopath! This person was going to kill me. And no one would ever know. No one would come looking for me.

Because I had lost everyone.

Bind you,

Deny you,

Wrapped up in chains.

But I had never had anyone. To think otherwise would be to delude myself.

I had been living a fantasy for months.

Locked up in this room with the horrible song reminding me of all the deceit reinforced a truth I had always known.

I would always be alone.

I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Always, always alone.

I screamed louder. Longer. Anything to stop the horrible song. I banged my fists against the door. Pounding my flesh on hard, unforgiving wood. It didn’t matter.

The song went on.

Invisible.

Unseen

Deceit at all cost.

No one will miss

The little girl lost . . .

I screamed until my throat seized and my lungs burned.

My voice cracked and broke, ruined and dying. I fell to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and waited.

In the silence. In the gloom.

I waited.

I dug my nails into the hard stone floor. Clawing. Digging. Broken edges. Bleeding wounds.

No one will miss

The little girl lost . . .

No one was looking for me.

No one cared.

I had lost everyone.

I saw his vicious grin in my mind. Bared teeth and frightening green eyes. Territorial possession that had been just for me.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Until it all changed.

Smiles perished and all I felt was the rage.

“No one wants you, Nora. No one will ever want you.”

The song floated around me in the darkness, piercing my ears, and drilling a hole into my brain. Burrowing into my heart.

“Who are you?” I whispered. No voice. It had left me, just like everyone else. I had nothing.

I spoke, the singing stopped. And this time the silence carried on.

No one answered me and I didn’t expect them to.

Whoever was keeping me here had secrets. They had reasons that I couldn’t possibly understand.

Why would anyone go to the trouble of taking me only to lock me away? How long were they planning to keep me here?

The drumming of my heart mimicked the ticking of a clock. Seconds blending into each other.

Time and fear were all that I had.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four . . .

The Past

Six Months Earlier

I entered the house quietly. I knew that Mom was home, but I didn’t want her to know I was there. Not yet.

I enjoyed the few moments before I was discovered in comfortable silence. It was the most peaceful I could ever feel.

I stood just inside the doorway and dropped my bag soundlessly to the floor. I removed my shoes and lined them along the wall. I leaned against the door and covered my face with my hands. Hiding. Tucked away.

I smiled behind my fingers.

I could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. It startled me. I was unused to the sound of joy in my house. It sounded awful. Wrong. Like it didn’t belong.

I slowly made my way towards the dreadful noise. Stopping just outside the kitchen, I stood in the shadows just behind the door. Unnoticed. Invisible.

My mother stood next to the counter pouring coffee into cups. A beautiful young woman with long dark hair stood beside her, smiling in a way I had never been capable of.

They were laughing. Happy. Honest. Pure.

Together.

I watched my mother’s entranced face and pre-emptively mourned the loss of her pleasure.

My mother was lovely to look at. She appeared years younger than fifty-eight. It was a beauty that came from a stringent routine that never altered. She meticulously dyed her hair its current shade of blonde, going so far as to pluck grey hairs from her head. Every night she slathered her skin with anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers. Her fingernails were always manicured, and she insisted on having a salt scrub once a week to rid herself of dead skin. She made sure to never stay out in the sun for too long. She was obsessive in caring for herself.

When I was a child, I’d hide in her closet and peek through the crack between the door and the wall as she tended to her skin and hair. I loved the sight of my beautiful mother, staring at her reflection with love and adoration. Staring at the woman in the mirror in a way she would never look at me.

I had been happy, hidden in the dark behind her clothes. I could pretend that when my mother smiled, it was for me. I’d bask in the imaginary affection and for a moment, I’d feel warm inside.

But then, one day, I made a noise. I coughed or sneezed, I couldn’t remember which. My mother discovered me wrapped up in her heavy, present darkness.

“You horrible, horrible girl! How dare you spy on me! What is wrong with you?” she had screamed in my face, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me from my spot.

She had dragged me from my room and all but threw me into the hallway. I noticed that during the entire exchange she never once looked at me. Not once.

“Don’t ever come into my room again!” Mother had yelled, slamming the door in my mutilated face. I remembered hearing the sound of the lock and knew that my stolen delight had been taken from me and that I’d never get it back.

But the memory of my mother’s face as she stared at herself in the mirror kept me company.

Which was good because after that significant day she had started to lock me away, and during the sad, lonely nights it made me want to smile.

So, watching the two women together, I recognized the adoring look on my mother’s face. It was an elusive expression I had only ever witnessed when she looked at her own reflection.

Now it was given freely to the pretty, pretty woman in our kitchen as they drank coffee from cups I had never touched. Sitting in chairs I never sat in.

They laughed together. They talked in excited whispers. My mother reached out and ran a hand down the side of the pretty, pretty woman’s face. A maternal gesture that left me aching.

I hung back, not revealing myself. Shriveling as I watched my mother’s affection bestowed upon someone else.

The daughter I knew that she wished she had.

Then the beautiful woman with the long, dark hair, creamy white skin, and rosebud lips caught sight of me in the shadows. Her smile faded and her bright blue eyes went cold. So cold. Like ice that pierced my veins, spilling my blood.

I remembered the feel of those cold, hateful eyes. I remembered how they turned murderous when she looked my way. As she stared at me with a hate I had never understood.

“Nora,” Rosie said. Blue eyes. So cold. So much hate.

My mother stopped laughing. Her happiness drifted away, snatched from her by the presence of an unwanted daughter. The two women stared at me with the same stony, detestable gaze. My mother and the girl, who had for while, been my sister.

“Why are you just standing there, Nora? Don’t be rude. Come in and say hello to Rosie.” She chastised me like a child. And I felt like a naughty little girl with her head hung low and her shoulders stooped. Without a word, I shuffled into the kitchen.

I was familiar with the scene that was about to play out in my kitchen. It was only one of thousands from the years since Rosie Allen had first found her way into my life.

I had loved her once. In the beginning when she had shown up with her social worker. The pretty girl from the abusive home who, just by being normal, had wormed her way into my mother’s coal black heart.

I hadn’t known that my new foster sister’s beautiful face hid an inner cruelty. Particularly towards poor, poor Nora Gilbert.

“Your hair’s in your face again. I told you to keep it back.” My mother’s clipped tone chipped away at what little was left of my esteem. I tucked my hair behind my ears to appease her.

My mother grabbed ahold of my chin and pulled my face around so that I was facing Rosie. “Doesn’t it look so much better? She finally has a face you can look at,” my mother stated. It. I was an it.

Not a person.

Not her daughter.

Barely an entity.

Definitely not an individual with emotions.

Rosie’s plump lips pursed, and I hated how effortlessly attractive she was. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Her long, shiny hair that fell exactly how she wanted it to. She nodded at my mother’s words, agreeing with her.

“So much better, Lesley. It’s amazing. You were right to insist on the operation,” Rosie simpered, her perfect voice pitched low. She smiled at my mother with so much warmth it made me ill. But her blue eyes were ice cold. Just for me.

I jerked my chin away from my mother’s grip. An act of defiance that surprised us both. I backed away just a step and neither of the women knew the effort the small act cost me.

“Rosie came by to bring us some fresh vegetables from the farm. Isn’t that nice of her? She always thinks of me. Of both of us. She has never forgotten how much I love fresh tomatoes off the vine.” My mother dropped a hand to Rosie’s shoulder. A casual regard that meant everything to Rosie and nothing to a woman like my mother. An insignificant gesture that hurt me more than I’d ever let on.

“I remember how you would always cut up fresh tomatoes and sprinkle Parmesan cheese on the top. And when I told you that I had never eaten a tomato before, you pulled up a chair beside you and let me eat some off your plate. Ever since then I eat them all the time,” Rosie beamed at my mother, and I felt a knot lodge itself in my throat.

I didn’t have such sweet memories of my mother. Not one. They were obviously reserved for other people and other experiences.

The two women basked in their shared secrets and familiar stories. They knew things about each other. They were intimate in a way reserved for mothers and daughters.

Their relationship was everything I’d never have with the person who had given me life but had made sure I never truly lived.

Mother patted Rosie’s cheek before turning back to me, her smile dimming and her eyes turning frigid. “Rosie is here to take you to your follow-up doctor’s appointment.”

I stiffened. “Why would she take me?” I asked, sounding hard and furious. Again, I surprised us both with my candor.

“Because I have things to do around the house and Rosie offered. Be appreciative.” Rosie was watching me closely. I had always detested her inspection.

“I can drive myself,” I pointed out, resisting the urge to cover my face with my hair or hands. I wanted to hide. Away from my mother’s harsh stare and Rosie’s mocking eyes.

“You’re not driving my car. Rosie will take you. End of discussion.” My mother filled Rosie’s coffee mug. She never offered any to me. It wasn’t even a thought.

The beautiful Rosie was being uncharacteristically quiet. I knew that she’d make up for it when we were alone.

“We should get going then. Your appointment is across town,” Rosie said, giving me an insincere smile. A smile made of bitterness and false promises.

“I have to go to my room. I’ll be back,” I said quickly, dashing from the kitchen and all but sprinting up the stairs. I threw open my door and hurried inside. Only when the door was closed was I able to breathe.

“This is Rosie. She’s going to live with us. Isn’t she pretty, Nora? Such a pretty, pretty girl.” I stared through the strands of my hair as my mother took the petite girl’s hand and led her into the house. Dad wasn’t home yet so it was just us. Mother. Ugly Nora. And the very pretty Rosie.

I wanted to smile at the new girl. Because she seemed scared and sad. All the things that I felt inside.

“This is . . . Nora.” I hated the way my mother hesitated before saying my name. Like it was a bad word.

Rosie looked at me, with my hair in my face, covering the ugly parts of me. The parts Mother didn’t want anyone to see. But I knew that Rosie saw me anyway. I was sure that I would never be able to hide from Rosie. She saw everything.

Rosie never acknowledged me. She gripped my mother’s hand and looked right past me. As if I weren’t there.

Invisible.

Unseen.

I should have been used to it. But it still hurt.

I couldn’t stay too long in my room otherwise my mother would come looking for me. I grabbed my notebook and stuffed it into my purse before making my way back down the stairs.

I could hear Rosie and Mother laughing again, and I waited by the front door, not wanting to intrude.

Because I was always the stranger. The interloper. The unwanted.

Particularly in my own house.

I stood just outside the living room, peeking around the corner so that I could see them but they couldn’t see me.

I had been home from school for over an hour, but my mother hadn’t come to ask me about my day. I had been excited too. Because my teacher had read my story to the class. She said it was imaginative with interesting characters.

I couldn’t wait to read it to Mother and Dad. Dad didn’t get home until late so I had planned to share it with Mother first. And maybe Rosie if she was home.

Rosie was a year older than I was and when she had moved in I had hoped that meant I’d have a new friend at school. Instead she ignored me. Some days she’d laugh at me with the friends she had made.

So I learned to avoid her.

Rosie wasn’t nice. Even though she was pretty and had a laugh that sounded like bells, she was horrible on the inside.

But Mother never saw it. It didn’t matter what I said, she couldn’t believe “pretty little Rosie” could be the nasty girl I told her about.

Dad didn’t say much either. He just told me to stay out of Rosie’s way. As if that would stop her.

Mother loved Rosie. She was the daughter that Mother always wanted. She wasn’t grossed out by her face. She didn’t look away when Rosie entered the room.

I watched Rosie cuddle into my mother’s side as they laughed together over some silly program on television. Mother’s arm draped around Rosie’s shoulders. My heart seized at the sight of Mother softly stroking the girl’s hair.

And then she leaned in and gently kissed the top of her foster daughter’s head.

My heart broke that day.

It never mended.

My mother and Rosie finally came to meet me. I watched as Rosie hugged my mother. My mother smoothed her long, dark hair and patted her back. Easy. Comfortable. Love.

I twisted into itty, bitty knots.

I followed Rosie out to her car, which was a beat up yellow Volvo. She waved to my mother one final time before getting into the driver’s seat.

I climbed into the passenger side and quickly buckled my seatbelt. I was instantly encased in Rosie’s spiteful hatred. It clung to my skin and slithered its way down my throat. I tasted it in my mouth and could hear it ringing in my ears.

A picture ID hung from a lanyard around the rearview mirror. I glanced at the picture of Rosie, not smiling, her eyes hard. And her name in clear, black letters irritated me.

Rosie Gilbert.

We all knew that wasn’t her name.

She had come to us all those years ago as Rosie Allen. But it seemed my mother’s love wasn’t enough. She had to take something that actually belonged to me.

“Lesley is amazing,” Rosie gushed with an edge to her voice. “She makes the best coffee, don’t you think? I always love our talks.” Sharp. Lethal. Her words were meant to maim.

My mother never made me coffee. She and I never talked. We didn’t have an easy relationship of laughter and gossip.

Rosie knew that. She delighted in it.

My former foster sister glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, a smirk ever present on her lips. Her pretty, full lips.

“It didn’t change anything, you know,” she mused. Cruel and triumphant, she was ready to strike.

I turned my face towards the window. I tried to be subtle as I pushed my hair towards my face. An age-old reaction to her disgust and rage.

“Hi,” I said softly, standing in the doorway. Mother had given Rosie the spare bedroom. It was painted pink and filled with everything a young girl could ever want. Stuffed animals were piled on top of the bed; posters of unicorns and fairies covered the walls. Something sparkled in the window and I noticed several prisms hung from the curtain rod.

Her room was everything I had ever wanted mine to be. But my mother had said I couldn’t tape things to the walls otherwise it would strip the paint. And when I had asked for a stuffed dog I had seen at the store last month, Mother told me I was already spoiled enough.

I tried to ignore the hatred that burned in my gut at the sight of that same dog on Rosie’s pillow.

Mother loved her new daughter. Dad was never home enough to have much of an opinion. Even when I tried to talk to him about how mean Rosie was, he never spoke to Mother about it.

He had learned his words fell on deaf ears.

Because what Mother wanted, Mother got.

And right now that was Rosie Allen.

Rosie glanced up from the magazine she was reading, never acknowledging me. Without a word, she went back to reading.

I wasn’t sure what possessed me, but I took a step inside. I was never allowed in her room. That rule had been made on the very first night and mother had firmly told me to give my new sister her space.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” Rosie said, sounding bored. I gaped at her. She cursed all the time, but it was still shocking to hear such nasty words from her.

“I just wanted to see if you wanted to watch TV—”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Why in the hell would I want to do anything with you?” she scoffed.

I squared my shoulders. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

Rosie laughed. “I don’t need you to be nice to me. Get your nasty face out of here.”

Immediately I dropped my chin so that my hair formed a curtain between me and the not-so-nice girl who I had hoped would be my friend.

“But we’re sisters,” I murmured.

Suddenly there were hands ripping at my hair. Pulling it until my scalp burned. I didn’t yell or tell her to stop. I stood still and let her hurt me.

Rosie’s mouth twisted and her blue eyes narrowed. “You’re ugly. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You are not my sister. You are nothing to me. You are nothing to Lesley. You are nothing to anyone!”

Her words hurt. So much. More than the hair pulling. Then Rosie smiled and I wanted to smile too. Because she was beautiful even when she was cruel.

“But I’m pretty. Your mother said so. I’m pretty and you’re ugly and she loves me more.”

I wished I could cry. But what would be the point? Rosie only said the truth.

Rosie turned into the parking lot outside of my doctor’s office, her words still hanging in the air. When she pulled into a spot and shut off the car, she looked at me and I saw that same expression on her face that had been there all those years before.

Gleeful viciousness.

“You’re still ugly. And no amount of surgery will ever change that.”

I let her words pour over me, sinking in. I curled my fingers around the seat, feeling my nails bend backwards, cracking and breaking.

“I know,” I said softly, agreeing with her because there was nothing else I could say. Nothing to change the truth.

Rosie rotated the thin, silver band on her right ring finger over and over again. The ring was etched in continuous, looping designs. Infinity. Forever.

My mother had given her the ring when she had lived with us. My nine-year-old heart had broken into a thousand sharp pieces the day I saw it on Rosie’s finger. I had gone to my room and made my own ring out of paper and had worn it until it tore and had to be thrown away. My sad, pathetic paper ring. It hadn’t been silver. It hadn’t been engraved with intricate symbols.

It had been a fake. Easily torn and lost. Worthless.

Turning. Twisting. Rosie’s fingers were never still. I could tell that she was agitated, though I wasn’t sure why. She was doing what she loved. Tearing me down.

“Get out,” Rosie barked when I didn’t say anything else.

I stared at the woman beside me and wished there was just a part of her that cared about me. Because there had been a time that I had truly cared about her.

She had been my sister for a short while, and even though she loathed me, I had embraced her as part of my family.

Until I ran out of love to give. Until things changed so that two girls who could have been friends became the worst kind of enemies.

“Your last name isn’t Gilbert,” I pointed out, nodding my head towards the ID badge hanging from the mirror.

Rosie’s face flushed red and she snatched the lanyard and hid it in her lap. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who felt the need to keep things a secret.

“Get out of my fucking car, Nora.” There was a clear threat in her voice. A threat I had heard a hundred times before.

And it still had the power to terrify me.

I scrambled out of the car and hurried into my doctor’s office. Away from the woman who wanted things that would never be hers.

I hated her.

She hated me.

We were more alike than either of us cared to admit.

Day 3

The Present

I wandered lonely as a cloud

My shock had worn off.

I was now officially angry.

And very, very freaked out.

I peeled off my shirt and stood in the middle of the room in just my bra and jeans. I ate my potato chips, one at a time, and drank the water sparingly.

I wished I could pour it over my sticky, dirty skin, but I couldn’t waste it. I didn’t know if I’d be given anymore.

I had just relieved myself in the corner and had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t gag on the stench that was starting to overtake the room.

I had woken up to the song. That dreadful, horrid song. But this time I didn’t scream. I let the person sing. I let them tell their painfully familiar story. And when it was over and the person tormenting me had retreated, I began to plan.

I had to get out of there.

I tried to think back to those last few moments. I needed to remember something, anything that would give me the clues I needed.

But my memory was patchy. There were holes that hadn’t been there before. Pieces of recollection that seemed disjointed and not connected to anything real.

Walking down a dark street. Wind on my face, blowing my hair back. And I didn’t care. I tipped my face to the sky and felt like howling. But not in fear. In something that felt a lot like happiness.

My heart slammed in my chest. In fear. In excitement. Trepidation that was delicious and new.

I couldn’t wait . . .

I ran my hands through my stringy hair and gave it a tug at the scalp. “Think, Nora!” I growled. My stomach rumbled, and the hunger gnawed at my insides, making me dizzy.

I held my hands out in front of me and walked slowly across the room until my palms came into contact with the hard, uneven wood. It was daytime. Sun streamed through the window, allowing just enough light to deepen the shadows. My blurred vision was incapable of giving me anything clear.

I stood in front of the window, trying desperately to see outside. I could make out fuzzy images that could be either trees or buildings. Tentatively I knocked on the glass. Then waited. I strained to hear but heard nothing.

Again I knocked on the glass, louder this time. I stopped and waited. Would someone hear me? Was there anyone out there?

I listened.

Nothing.

Only endless, patient silence.

I hit the glass with the heel of my hand. Hard and loud. I smacked it with all my might. Then I began to pound with my fists. I tried to see through the dirty smudges. I prayed I’d see movement indicating that someone had heard me. That someone was out there and would rescue me.

I kept pounding and smacking my hand against the glass.

Someone!

Anyone!

Help!

I banged on the window until my skin split and my bones rattled.

“No one sees you, Nora, because no one cares enough to look.”

I should give up, but I couldn’t let go of the chance that I would be heard.

“I’m here,” I whispered, when finally, I dropped my hand in exhaustion and pressed my forehead against the glass.

“I’m here,” I murmured, my throat dry and my stomach rolling.

I ran my fingers along the sill, not flinching as slivers of wood embedded themselves under my skin. I went over the cracks and edges of the window, looking for a way to open it.

Using my fingernails, I chipped away at the paint. Knowing I was mere feet away from freedom but couldn’t get there was absolute torture. I could almost see it. I could almost feel the fresh air. But I just. Couldn’t. Reach it.

“Please,” I moaned, frantically sweeping my fingers along the crevices. “Please!” I keened, scrapping, ripping. Paint fell in flakes onto the dirty floor.

“Someone help me!” I cried and was almost relieved to feel the wet tears on my cheeks. Their salty trails washed away some of the blood and grime. They were cleansing.

A release.

The only kind I could have.

I let myself cry, and I continued to pry at the window, desperate for the air. Frantic for the sun.

“Please!”

Silence. Empty, loaded silence.

“Please, let me go!”

My fingers brushed against something hard and cold in the corner of the ledge. I could see the glint of metal in the hazy sunlight, and my heart thumped, thumped in my chest.

I tried to pick it up, but my grasp was weak. Instead I swept it to the edge and let it fall. It hit the ground with a clang. My breath caught in my throat. The tears dried up.

I knelt down and scooped the small object into my palm. I held it close to my face so that I could see it.

Constant looping designs etched in silver . . .

The setting sun gave me just enough light to see. I walked along the sidewalk with anticipation fluttering wildly in my gut.

I smiled.

I giggled.

I laughed and laughed.

I pushed my hair off my face and refused to hide. Not anymore.

I wanted to show her me. All of me.

Tonight would be the beginning . . .

I ran my fingers over the thin, silver band on my thumb. Too large for my other fingers because it hadn’t been made for me.

My tongue glided over my teeth as I felt the engraved symbols on the delicate piece of jewelry.

It was mine.

It was so much nicer than my paper ring. It felt right on my hand.

I almost had everything . . .

I slipped the ring onto my thumb, where I knew it belonged.

Rosie’s ring.

My ring.

How did it get here, stuck in the cracks of the window?

I turned back to the glass and pressed my palms against the smooth surface.

“I’m here,” I whispered to no one.

Because no one could hear me.

The Past

Five Months Earlier

The house was silent.

The sun had set hours ago, and I should have been asleep but rest evaded me.

The only sound was that of my breathing. Ragged. Painful. In and out.

Sometimes I went to bed hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. I’d think to myself that perhaps, when I woke up in the morning, I could be just another twenty-year-old girl with normal twenty-year-old problems. Maybe I could agonize over my hair and giggle with friends on the phone about a boy I liked.

I’d get this excited flutter in my belly that felt almost like possibility.

I loved those nights.

Nights when I could dream and be someone else.

Tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

I had come home from college, happy to see that my mother’s car was gone. She worked three days a week at a daycare center.

She had been working there since I was a little girl. I had been upset, being still young enough to miss my mother, even though I had no reason to.

It didn’t take long for me to be thankful for the hours when she was away.

Mother loved her job for reasons that hurt the young girl I had been and would always be. She’d come home later and tell me about Chelsea with her lovely red hair and adorable face. Or she’d talk about Douglas with his cherub cheeks and infectious smile.

Pretty children.

Perfect children.

She loved each and every one of them.

She made sure that I knew that.

But for those few hours before she came home, I could wander through the house and make as much noise as I wanted to. I’d turn on the TV and watch General Hospital at full volume just because I could. I’d eat bar-b-que potato chips and drink milk from the carton.

Simple things that wouldn’t matter to most people. But for me they were moments of bliss that I treasured.

I had been smiling when I walked inside.

“Get your hair out of your face, Nora!”

I had jumped and dropped my bag on the floor. My mother was standing in the living room, straightening books on the shelf.

“Mother. I didn’t know you were here. Your car wasn’t out front,” I said, pushing my hair back. Wanting to curl into a ball and fade away.

“Rosie’s borrowing it. Her Volvo is being inspected.” Clipped. Harsh. She spoke with no love. No joy. “It’s Thursday. You need to get changed. I laid your clothes out on your bed.” She never looked at me. Her back was all I could see of her.

It was Thursday.

I shivered.

“But Rosie’s borrowing the car,” I pointed out. Then wished I hadn’t said anything. I knew better than to question Mother. I knew better than to talk too much lest she focus on the things I wished she wouldn’t. I invited her criticism and ire when I spoke.

I needed to remain invisible.

Unseen.

“She’s going to drive us to the church. She wanted to come this week. Isn’t that nice? She’s such a God fearing young woman. Beautiful on the inside as well as the outside. We’re lucky to have her in our lives.”

Lucky.

So very, very lucky.

I turned to go upstairs and stopped. Mother was watching me with a strange look in her eyes. It wasn’t her normal anger. She looked thoughtful. Pensive.

“There should have been more. This house should have been full of voices and tiny laughter. It’s what we wanted.”

I held my breath. It was almost as if she forgot I was there. Her eyes were far away and lost. Something about her expression almost made me feel bad for her. She seemed . . . sad.

I thought, for a brief moment, about reaching out to her. My fingers twitched, and I wanted to touch Mother. I wanted to hug her and to have her hug me back. I imagined what it would feel like to have her hold me after all this time.

But then her eyes cleared and her face hardened. Her lips curled in derision as she looked away from me. “But you made sure that didn’t happen, didn’t you, Nora? You ruined it all.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I didn’t dare ask. I wanted to. Because I knew that whatever her words meant, they were the roots of her hatred.

Though I was terrified to know the truth. I was scared of her honesty. Yet I felt an irrational guilt that this miserable life that we both endured was entirely my fault.

I stared at my hands clasped in front of me, hating the fine tremors that I could never seem to control. “I’ll go change,” I said quietly. Retreating. Far away from her hateful words and even more hateful gaze.

I all but ran up the stairs and closed myself in my room.

It was Thursday.

I hated Thursdays.

I looked out my bedroom window at the thick branches of the elm tree just beyond the glass and wished I were rebellious. I wished I were impulsive. If I were then I’d lift the sash and climb out onto the window ledge. I’d hook my leg around the closest branch and hoist my body onto the sturdy trunk.

Then I’d climb all the way down to the ground. And once my feet were on the grass, I’d run.

I’d run far away and never look back.

But I wasn’t rebellious. I wasn’t impulsive. I was Nora Gilbert.

Ugly, dutiful Nora Gilbert.

And right now I had to get dressed in the outfit my mother had chosen for me to wear.

A few minutes later, I met my mother in the hallway wearing a long blue skirt and white blouse. I wanted to tell her that I had been capable of picking out my own clothes since I was five, but I didn’t dare. I knew better than to argue. I knew better than to pick unnecessary arguments. My feelings about anything were inconsequential. I had stopped trying to make myself heard a long time ago.

“I hope I’m not late,” Rosie said, letting herself inside. As though she lived here. As if she belonged.

“Of course not! You’re right on time,” Mother beamed. “Come on, Nora. Don’t forget the scarf,” she reminded me.

With my head down, I tried to ignore the sound of Rosie and Mother’s pleasantries. I picked the scrap of fabric up from the table just beside the door. I wrapped the yellow patterned scarf around my hand, so tight it cut off the blood flow to my fingers. I enjoyed the numbness.

I followed the two women out to the car. Neither spoke to me the entire way to the church. I was fine with that. I hadn’t wanted to talk anyway. I was too busy dreading what lay ahead of me.

Rosie pulled into the parking lot of the small, whitewashed building and cut the engine. I didn’t get out right away. I knew I would be reprimanded, but I couldn’t make myself open the door.

Mother banged her hand on the window, startling me. Her face was thunderous, and I hurried out of the car before she could forcibly remove me.

Rosie stood off to the side, her eyes sparkling.

We went into the church, bile rising in the back of my throat.

“It looks just as I remember it,” Rosie cooed, looking around the small space. During the few short months she had lived with us, she had been the dutiful child, attending services every Sunday with my family. Mother loved to see her dressed up in frilly clothes, her hair curled and lovely. Rosie was given the special spot between Mother and Dad. I sat on Dad’s other side trying not to care that I was an outsider in my own family.

After Rosie went back into the system, Mother hadn’t gone to church for months. I had been happy for the reprieve. I never liked the rapturous sermons and messages of fear and obedience preached from the pulpit.

But when we returned, Mother was lit from within by a new purpose. A renewed vengeance. And I had been the focus.

I looked up at the giant stained-glass window that took up most of the far wall. It was the only beautiful thing about the place. Looking at it, I could almost ignore the horrible twist I felt in my stomach every time we came.

It was a small, country church with a congregation of only fifty members. And Reverend Miller reigned over his sheep with the fiery vehemence of the fervently fanatic.

Mother patted Rosie’s shoulder and walked past her, down the aisle towards the door to the side of the pulpit. I was expected to follow. And I did.

I left the sanctuary, closing the door behind me.

I wasn’t there to pray.

I was there to be healed.

Mother too had her illusions.

Mother had latched onto faith healing in those dark days after Rosie left and father died. She had become convinced that God would turn me into the daughter she wanted me to be.

When that had failed, she had turned to medicine. Despite just having the reconstructive surgery, Mother still insisted I attend the healing session. Because it was obvious that in her eyes, and in the eyes of every single person who looked at me, I still wasn’t good enough.

We entered a large office just beyond the sanctuary. A tall, balding man sat behind a desk, hands folded, head bent low.

He looked non-threatening at first, but when he opened his mouth he could bring anyone to their knees. He plagued on people’s worries, their fears. He molded and manipulated them to meet his own agenda. I hated him.

Mother loved him in a manner that was almost idolatrous. Though she would never acknowledge that particular sin. Or any other.

We waited until the reverend was finished with his prayer. We would never interrupt him by making a noise. I had accidentally stepped on a creaking floorboard once and was rewarded with a nasty pinch on my underarm. The bruise had lasted for almost two weeks.

Finally Reverend Miller looked up, giving us his non-verbal consent to enter the room. We walked to our usual spots. Mother and Rosie sat on the sofa, and I took a place on the floor beneath a large wooden cross on the wall. I tucked my legs beneath me and smoothed my skirt. I felt sick and shaky.

Reverend Miller smiled and greeted us. I barely heard him. My head was full with other things.

“Remove your shirt, Nora,” Reverend Miller instructed. I was only ten years old, but I knew what was he asking me to do wasn’t right. Mother stood off to the side, her hands folded in prayer, her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent supplication.

I hesitated and Reverend Miller noticed. He smiled and it seemed so kind, so understanding that I instantly relaxed. “You can turn around so I just see your back,” he offered softly, and I sagged in relief.

Not questioning, I removed my shirt and held it over my developing chest. I turned so that I was facing the wall. I was tense. Unsure of what was about to happen.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice. Do you understand, Nora?” Reverend Miller asked.

I didn’t want to anger Mother by saying that I had no idea what he was talking about. So I nodded.

And then he hit me.

I opened my mouth in a scream, but no sound came out. Then he hit me again. Over and over with a thin, wooden cane he kept in the corner of the room. I had noticed it before but hadn’t paid it any mind.

I noticed now.

The pain was indescribable. The agony was intense. I cried and cried while Mother prayed and prayed.

Prayed for me to be beautiful as I was left broken and bleeding . . .

I didn’t acknowledge Reverend Miller when he approached me. I didn’t say a word when he told me to get to my feet.

I didn’t move as he wrapped the pale, yellow scarf around my face. Covering me up. Hiding me away.

I swallowed the loathing and the fear as Reverend Miller pressed cold, clammy fingers to my lip. I could feel him all too clearly through the material of the scarf.

“Dear Heavenly Father, take this child into your arms. Bless her with your love. Show compassion to her struggling mother, who tries to find a way to love such an abomination. Heal this child and this family. Purge the evil from Nora Gilbert and wash away her sin. Cleanse her soul so that it is reflected on her skin.”

His voice rose and rose, and I shrunk away from his fingers, but his hands held firm. I couldn’t move. Not until he was finished.

Then my mother’s voice joined the Reverend’s. Rosie soon followed.

“Cleanse the abomination. Purge the sin. Wash away the heinous blight. Lead her along the path of righteousness and embrace her in your glory! Help her mother love a child of wickedness. Help Nora turn away her dark nature.”

Then the scarf was gone and my shirt was removed. I turned to face the wall, ready for what was to come.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Reverend Miller intoned darkly.

“You must be purged of your sin. To purge the sin, you must feel the pain of Christ’s sacrifice,” Mother and Rosie repeated.

I felt the bite of the cane. I felt the blood dripping down my skin. But I didn’t cry anymore. I didn’t scream.

I just waited for it to be over.

The pain wouldn’t cure me. I was past healing.

Mother was a fool.

I stared up at the ceiling, trying to blank my mind. When I had gotten home I had gone to my room and lay across my bed on my stomach. My routine was ingrained. After a few minutes I carefully wiped antibiotic cream on the open wounds, the ones I could reach. Then I wet a towel and clumsily draped it across my back, lying down again.

I stayed that way the rest of the evening and into the night. After a few hours I was able to get changed into my pjs and waited until Mother had gone to bed before I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother hadn’t bothered to bring me anything. She never did.

Afterwards, I returned to my room and got into bed, making sure to lie on my side.

I didn’t want to think about Reverend Miller. I didn’t want to think about his hands touching my face. I didn’t want to think about the hot lick of pain shooting up my back every time I moved. And I definitely didn’t want to think about my mother’s fevered fanaticism as she prayed to her God to make her daughter pretty. Medical science had failed her. All she had left was her Lord.

“My life would be so much better if you were gone.”

I didn’t want to think about my mother putting her arm around Rosie’s shoulders and walking out with her to the car as I hobbled behind them, barely able to move. And of course neither commented on the red spots that had bled through my shirt.

“Nora.”

I startled at the intrusion, having been consumed by pain and horrible thoughts. I sat up in bed, the covers falling to my waist. I fumbled around on my bedside table until I found my glasses. I put them on and quickly switched on the lamp.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, quickly covering my exposed skin with the covers.

Bradley stood beside my bed, new cuts on his face and fire in his eyes. He’d been fighting again. I didn’t mention the dried blood or the split lip. I ignored it just as he ignored my deficiencies.

“It’s Thursday,” he said and I nodded. He always came. It was something I could expect.

I didn’t say anything else. I moved over, making room for him in my bed. Bradley kicked off his shoes and quietly, so quietly, laid down on top of the blankets.

He felt too large for my bed. For my room. For my space. He took in all the air, and I found it hard to breathe.

He dominated.

He possessed.

He held me prisoner in his unyielding attention.

Without saying another word, he lifted my shirt, and I could feel him lightly touch the wounds on my back. The fresh ones and those that had healed long ago. I heard his sharp intake of breath.

“It looks worse than it is,” I lied, already trying to placate his fury.

I hated seeing how much Bradley was affected by my mother’s actions.

Bradley balled his hands into fists, and I flinched slightly. I tugged my shirt back down and moved away. Away from him and his all-encompassing anger.

“You need to leave this house. You need to get out!”

I shook my head. It was a familiar argument.

I wasn’t rebellious. I wasn’t impulsive.

Even though I was an adult and technically could make my own decisions, I felt chained to this house. To this life. No matter how much I hated it.

I was bound to a mother who would never love me for reasons that she never shared.

I was, and always would be, trapped.

I would never, ever leave.

Bradley knew that.

It infuriated him.

He didn’t understand.

Bradley grabbed ahold of my wrist and squeezed. I could feel his fingers pressing through skin, pushing against bone. More bruises to match the ones on my back.

He could never see how much his love hurt me. How much he took from me simply by being my friend.

“Why won’t you come with me? I could take you away from your mother. I could take you away from this place. Forever.” Bradley loosened his fingers and began to slowly, lazily trace circles on the soft skin along the underside of my arm. Looping.

Endless.

Infinity.

“I can’t leave. You know that,” I said softly, my eyes fluttering closed as his fingers circled my skin. Continuous. Forever.

“Then I’ll kill her.” Bradley’s suggestion was made with bland nonchalance. But with a conviction I would never doubt. It was so natural. Talking of death and murder.

I laughed. It seemed the appropriate response to such an inappropriate comment.

“But what would you do with the body?” I asked him. It was a funny conversation. One that we had had many times before.

Bradley rolled onto his side and propped his head up with his hand. He pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled my face so that I was looking at him. He always wanted to see my face.

It made me uncomfortable. But it also made me feel, for just a minute, almost beautiful.

“I’d chop her up into bits and put her in trash bags. Then I’d drive out Lantz Mill Road, to the old poultry plant. No one goes out there. Not since the Ramsay twins drowned in the old swimming hole two years ago.” His voice rose slightly in his excitement. His green eyes shimmered in the gloom.

I bit down on my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling. “Then what?” I asked breathlessly.

“Then I’d weight the bags with the old cinder blocks that are piled up under that giant maple tree.” He grinned and it was infectious. Full of joy and despair. “Then I’d throw the bitch into the river. She’d sink. She’d stay there. Far away from you.”

Without thinking, I tried to roll onto my back and winced. Pain radiated through my skin and muscles, all the way down my legs.

Carefully Bradley pulled me onto my side so that I faced him and then wrapped his hand around me wrist again. His grip was firm. He wouldn’t let me go anywhere.

Never.

I was trapped in his grasp.

“I’d do that for you, Nora. I’d do anything for you.”

He meant it. I never doubted his intentions.

She turned the lock. The click was loud. Louder than my tears.

I wasn’t surprised to be locked away. It had become usual to expect it. But I could never control the sadness. I wished I could accept my fate with casual indifference.

But I loved Mother. I loved her more than anything. Even if she would never love me. I hated to be away from her. I had taken to drawing pictures of her face so I had them to keep me company on nights like this. On nights when she couldn’t stand to look at me.

During times when Dad was away and we were all alone.

But I had her face drawn in my juvenile hand. And that had to be enough. I didn’t know how long I’d be here, but I knew that I was expected to remain silent until she came to get me.

It could be hours.

Or sometimes days.

I’m glad I ate a sandwich.

I sat down on my bed and hugged my stuffed purple cat to my chest. Its soft fur absorbed my grief. My pain.

There was a light tapping at my window. I looked up and met the green eyes on the other side of the glass.

My savior.

My rescuer.

He was the only witness to my heartbreak. He always knew when the dark was too much.

Even if sometimes, he was the dark.

“We shouldn’t talk like this, Bradley. It’s wrong,” I reminded him.

My Bradley frowned, and I saw the anger again. He sat up and swung his legs around, his feet connecting with the wooden floor. Loud. Too loud. Mother could hear him. I shuddered at the thought.

I put my finger up over my lips. “Shh!”

Bradley began to pace around my room. Restless energy radiated off him, making me dizzy. “Let her find me here! We’re not doing anything wrong!”

I pressed my finger over my lips. Harder this time. “Shh!”

Bradley picked up a framed picture on my desk and stared at my ghosts. “You only have me, Nora. You know that!” He was right of course.

I nodded, though he didn’t see me.

Bradley grasped the picture in his hands, knuckles white. “We have each other. That’s all that matters.”

I didn’t say the words he wanted quickly enough. He threw the faded photograph across the room. Glass shattered. Ruined.

“Why did you do that?” I demanded. It was my turn to be angry. And scared. The two emotions melded together into a nauseating lump in my belly. I was sure Mother would have heard him.

“Because he didn’t protect you. He didn’t love you. Not the way you deserve. Don’t you get that, Nora?”

“He loved me,” I argued, still listening for footsteps I knew would come.

“He did!” I whispered. I fought him. When it came to my father, I wouldn’t allow anyone to disparage him.

He had died when I was only nine. That year had been the worst of my life. I couldn’t think about that time. I couldn’t remember much, as though my mind were protecting me from things it couldn’t handle.

Bradley picked up a piece of glass and slowly, with his eyes never leaving mine, slit the skin of his palm. Cutting deep. Blood welled to the surface. He stood with his hand open, blood dripping through fingers and onto the rug. I wondered if it would stain.

He let go of the glass, the shard clattering to the floor.

“You’re so blind, Nora! You never see the monsters right in front of you.”

I saw the monsters. More clearly than Bradley ever gave me credit for. I saw the snarly, hateful parts inside of people. They scared me. They intrigued me. But I saw everything.

There was something very wrong with Bradley Somers. He thought in puzzle pieces and manipulations.

He dreamed in darkness and blood dripping onto the carpet.

He was only happy in the deepest misery. He found joy in the terrible. He was hard to be around. But I couldn’t imagine him any other way.

The green eyes shed tears. Mine dripped onto my dress.

He pressed a hand to the window, but he never came in. He sat, perched on the tree branch, until the night grew cold and the stars died.

He stayed and no one ever looked for him.

It wouldn’t have mattered.

Because he was here, with me, in my prison. My fellow captive. Always together.

I didn’t get out of bed. I was frightened by the look in his eyes. He was uncontrollable.

A wild, unpredictable storm. There was no taming Bradley and his twisted, convoluted feelings.

I finally heard footsteps in the hallway and knew that Mother had heard the commotion.

“You need to leave,” I warned.

“Come with me,” he urged, not with tenderness, but with wrath. He held his bloody hand out for me to take.

I was tempted. So tempted. But I couldn’t tell him that. Then he would become relentless.

“You need to leave,” I repeated.

Bradley grunted in frustration, his lips curling into a sneer. Then purposefully he wiped his bloody hand on the sweater on the back of my chair. I knew what he was doing. He was leaving a part of himself behind.

“You’re such an idiot, Nora. You never know when to run.”

He left the way he had come.

Silently.

Day 3

The Present

At twenty I tried to die

I could smell the fire. The remnants of smoke filled my nostrils. It tickled the back of my dry throat and made me cough.

“Get out, Nora!”

I covered my mouth and nose, trying not to breathe in the acrid smoke. I couldn’t see. I had lost my glasses at some point.

I could hear the crackling of flames as they licked up the wooden slates. Devouring. Consuming. It was coming for me next.

“Get out now!”

And then I ran so fast and so far I couldn’t stop. But I still saw her. Blue eyes wide in shock and filled with guilt.

Hers?

Mine?

“Run!” I screamed, but she didn’t listen. She stood there watching the fire, matches scattered across the ground.

Reality faded in and out, and there were times that I wasn’t sure if I was still in the room that had become my prison. I’d close my eyes, and I could smell fresh air and sunshine. I could hear running water and laughter. I felt soft caresses on my skin, the light touch of lips against my cheek.

Strong hands held me and wouldn’t let me go.

Maybe I wasn’t in the small confining room at all. Perhaps I was somewhere else . . .

The burning smell became more pronounced, and I tried to clear my throat.

“Why are you here?” I screamed, but she didn’t answer me. I swore I saw tears on her face. And that scared me more than anything.

I stretched out my legs and knocked over one of the bottles of water, and I was pulled back into my very real present.

I had grown accustomed to my diminished sight and was finding it easier to rely on my other senses for information. For example, I knew that it was midday by the heat level in the room. I also could see enough light coming through the window to determine where the sun was in the sky.

I stood up and stretched my arms over my head. I had taken off my shirt and jeans yesterday, opting for comfort over modesty. No one was around to see my semi-naked state anyway.

I opened up a new bottle of water and drank just enough to soothe my parched throat. I only had one more unopened bottle so I didn’t swallow the entire contents the way I wanted to.

I polished off the rest of the potato chips, not wanting to think about the fact that I had now run out of food.

The stench from my waste was making me nauseated, and I tried to breathe through my mouth. I noticed that my knee felt better and the aches in my muscles and joints were less pronounced.

I was healing physically, but mentally, I was unraveling.

The minutes became hours and all I could do was think. To remember. To obsess over the tiny, insignificant details of a sad and lonely life.

Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I pulled at my hair and scratched at my skin. I was losing what little faculties I had left.

I wanted to be difficult and unreasonable. I wanted to make things as hard as possible for the coward that had locked me in here.

I kicked at the walls and slammed my fists against the window. I taunted and ridiculed my faceless captor.

But when the song began, I shut up and listened.

“I finished the song,” I said shyly, terrified to share this confidence. But I knew she’d never judge me. Not ever.

She looked up at me with deep, dark eyes and regarded me with interest. “You did?”

I nodded. “Well, I wrote the words years ago, but here, you can put them to music.”

She smiled and I flushed red. I never blushed, but when she looked at me I felt as though I were on fire.

“How about I play and you sing? I prefer your voice anyway.”

Fire. Burning. Smoke. I clutched my head in my hands.

It was my turn to hold the matches.

It was my chance to watch it burn . . .

I leaned against the wall and tried to get my breathing under control. My head was reeling with images that flashed across my brain like a movie. Were they memories or strange imaginings invented by a shattered mind?

Why did I smell smoke? I turned around and pressed my face to the wall, inhaling deep. The only thing I could smell was dust and mildew.

I was officially losing my mind, which seemed understandable given my current situation.

But I was used to imprisonment. I was used to being locked away. My childhood had been spent behind shut doors and within darkened rooms. This new prison was nothing new. It was just a dirtier, hotter jail cell.

I paced back and forth across the room, thinking, always thinking. Devising plans and then discarding them. Identifying the guilty and then second-guessing myself.

I thought of Bradley and Mother. I wondered if either had noticed I was gone. I wondered whether they were looking for me.

Did anyone know that I was missing?

Did anyone realize how lost I was?

Nora Gilbert gone and forgotten.

There were things I wished I could forget but couldn’t.

But why couldn’t I remember the things I needed to?

I walked around the room, running my fingertips along the wood and the smell hit me again. This time I knew I couldn’t be imagining it.

I leaned in close and ran my nose along the splintered wood, smelling. Inhaling.

Old smoke.

I jerked back in surprise. I ran my fingertips along the charred wood. It was particularly dark at the bottom and ran upwards along the length of the slat.

There had been a fire here. A significant one by the looks of the damage. How had I not noticed this before? In my seemingly careful inspection of my cell, how was it possible that this was the first time I had seen the burnt wood?

I bit the inside of my cheek, peeling away the skin with my teeth.

Fire. Burning. Smoke everywhere. Searching for a way out. Finding none. Trapped. Burning. Smoke and chaos. No way out. No way out.

No way out!

I blinked and rubbed at my eyes.

But I wasn’t here.

I was somewhere else.

“Is this why you’re never home?” I asked, slowly walking into the room. I had been confused when Dad had driven me out to the old Sandler farm. He had parked his pick-up truck around the back of the barn and told me to follow him.

Dad had been home less and less lately. I missed him. He was a lot nicer than Mother. When he was home he sometimes ran interference. Even if it was just to change the subject and get her focused on something else. Mother wasn’t so horrible when Dad was home.

But he was gone a lot now, often times leaving before I woke up and not coming home until I was in bed. I had asked Mother where he was all the time, but she had ignored me.

Which was better than the yelling.

Or being locked in my room.

Dad smiled and it looked sad. “I have to work, Nora. This is my job,” he explained, walking to a workbench in the middle of the room. I had no idea what my dad did to make money. But now I could see.

I ran my hands along the smooth leather on the table. “This is really pretty,” I said quietly, lisping and slurred. I hated how my voice sounded because of the split in my palate. I was teased for it both at school and at home. Mother would tell me to not talk if I couldn’t do it properly.

It was better to be silent anyway.

But Dad listened. Sometimes. So I felt okay talking to him.

“I just finished this one yesterday for a man in Shenandoah County. He has a horse farm out there and asked for a custom saddle for his daughter.”

I could hear the pride in Dad’s voice. I was happy he was sharing it with me.

The saddle was really nice. The nicest thing I had ever seen. I wondered what it would be like to sit on it. Like most young girls I dreamed of having my own horse. Though I would never say it out loud. My dreams were best kept inside where they couldn’t be ruined by Mother’s harsh words. But Mother wasn’t here. So maybe it was safe to reveal a secret of my locked away heart.

“Maybe I could use one of your saddles sometime. Maybe I could ride a horse,” I said softly.

Dad didn’t say anything. He straightened the tools on the bench, lining them up just so. I waited for him to answer, but he never did.

“We have to pick Rosie up from ballet. We should get going.”

It was always about Rosie.

In an unusual fit of rage, I picked up a crafting knife and threw it on the floor. Dad frowned. “Why would you do that, Nora?” he demanded, and I knew that he was angry.

I wanted to tell him that I was sick of our family revolving around a girl who wasn’t even related to us. I wanted to explain how mean she was to me. How sneaky and deceptive she could be.

But I didn’t say any of that. What would it matter?

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, hiding my face.

Dad didn’t say anything else. He put the tool back on the bench and ushered me out of his workroom.

I wished I could hug him.

I wished he’d put his arm around me and treat me like a daughter.

Like a person.

Wishing was something I did best.

Memories of my father were few and far between. It had been years since he had died and what little interaction we once had began to fade with time. Just one more thing I had lost.

His death had seemed almost like an afterthought. Mother informed me one day after school that Dad had died and would never come home.

I had tried to ask her questions, but she wouldn’t have it.

“Will we plan his funeral? Where will he be buried?” I asked with tears running down my face.

Mother’s face had hardened. “He’ll be cremated, and I’ll spread his ashes somewhere far, far away. But there won’t be a funeral. We can’t afford it. Now that he’s gone we don’t have money for frivolous things.”

Frivolous things? Saying goodbye to my father was frivolous?

“You’re horrible!” I had yelled. It was the only time I had ever raised my voice to Mother. It would be the last as well . . .

Her face had turned molten red just before she slapped me across the face. Even as much as it hurt, I delighted in the contact. It was one of the few times she forced herself to touch me.

“We’re better off without him!” she screamed.

Better off? How could she say that?

I didn’t ask. I wasn’t given time to grieve.

She locked me away.

I would spend the rest of my life a prisoner.

“A prisoner,” I breathed to no one.

Whoever was keeping me here wasn’t listening to anything I had to say.

I ran my fingers through my hair. Dried blood, grit, and grime coated my hands.

“I’m never getting out of here,” I said out loud. It was a scary truth but a truth all the same.

Spiraling ever downward, I barely registered the thump just on the other side of the wall.

I dropped my hands to my side and stood completely still. Not moving. Not breathing.

Only listening.

Thump.

Louder than a gunshot in the prolonged silence.

“Was that real?” I whispered. I couldn’t trust anything anymore. Particularly my senses. And certainly not my perceptions.

Reality was a slippery slope dropping off into illusions.

Was the noise an illusion?

Thump, thump.

I held in the gasp as I pressed my ear against the charred black wall.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Only listening.

Nothing.

I let out a sob. It had to be real!

I stayed where I was. I refused to move. I kept listening and listening. But I didn’t hear the thump again.

My ears began to play tricks on me. I heard noises I knew weren’t there.

Thumps became tapping. Tapping became footsteps.

Footsteps eventually became voices.

“You’re alone, Nora. All alone.”

“Ugly, ugly Nora Gilbert.”

“You’re best kept locked away where no one can see you.”

I knew they weren’t real, but in the solitude, the words became concrete. Bradley spoke in harsh whispers. Dad’s gravely voice became a cacophony of sound.

Mother hissed and growled her hatred.

And her voice became the loudest of all. But her words didn’t ring with the element of delusions. They were real, plucked from memories.

“You can’t force love, Nora! You can’t demand affection! You’re squeezing me to death, and I just want you to let me go!”

I covered my ears with my hands and started rocking on my feet.

“Shut up!” I screamed.

“Stop being stupid, Nora! No one cares what you think about anything.”

Rosie’s taunts rang like a death knell.

“No more! Please!”

I fell to the floor, curling in on myself.

“Please,” I moaned.

Thump.

Then silence.

Thump, thump.

No more.

For just a moment I felt comfort.

It was fleeting and disappeared into the quiet.

The Past

Five Months Ago

I didn’t feel like going to school. Mother had dropped me off per usual, but instead of making my way to class, I headed off campus and kept walking.

I had no real destination in mind. I just knew that sitting in English Lit was the last place I wanted to be.

Sometimes I liked to avoid real life.

Bradley would be looking for me. I knew he’d worry when I didn’t show up. But I didn’t care.

Some days I needed something just for me.

I kept walking and walking and eventually found myself at the south entrance to Waverly Park. I stopped just under the canopy of dead trees on the border of the green field.

I hadn’t been to the park since I was a child and only ever with my dad. Mother didn’t like parks. And she certainly didn’t like taking me to the park. She hated to spend time fielding off comments and questions about my disfigured face. She chose isolation and confinement as a means to avoid it at all cost.

I took a tentative step forward, filled with a strange sense of guilt. As though I would be caught doing something I shouldn’t.

I tucked my school bag to my chest, I made myself continue on, breaking out through the trees and then crossing the green expanse of manicured field towards the picnic tables.

Spring was coming and it was the first warm day since the fall. It had been a long, harsh winter, and I was happy to see it gone.

Despite the pleasurable feeling of having the sun warm my skin, I kept my face down.

Hide. Hide away . . .

I sat down at an empty table and tried to still my overexcited heart. I felt a little nauseated and thought about leaving and heading back to school.

I didn’t want to think about what Mother would say if she knew I was here. I shuddered.

I had skipped class. I was playing hooky. I was enjoying a nice day outside instead of being closed up at home or at school. It felt liberating to do something so spontaneous.

Unnatural but fulfilling.

I pulled out a notebook I always kept tucked discreetly in my bag. It was my secret. I filled the pages with ramblings that would make no sense to anyone but me. It was my safe place.

I uncapped a pen and poised the tip above the blank paper. I took a moment to enjoy the noise.

I could hear children laughing on the jungle gym. The loud rumble of the garbage truck as it drove down the street.

Here, I was surrounded by people. My heart felt full, and I found myself smiling.

“It’s a pretty awesome day, right?”

I startled at the unexpected sound of a voice. I looked up, making sure that my hair covered most of my face, and saw the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my short life.

She appeared to be around my age with long, dark hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore bright pink and white-stripped leggings and a long white T-shirt that fell off one of her shoulders. She also wore a black beret that balanced precariously on top of her head. She was obviously one of those women who were effortlessly fashionable.

But it wasn’t her clothes that made me stare. It was her incredibly dark eyes. Her face. The tiny dimple in the center of her chin.

And the way she carried herself with a confidence that I would never, ever possess.

Looking at this gorgeous girl only served to remind me of how ugly I was.

I quickly averted my gaze, not responding to her comment. I began to scribble along the margins of the paper in front of me. Careless doodles created by nervous fingers.

The beautiful woman stood there another few seconds, and I felt my face flush under her scrutiny. My heart thudded at a rapid rate, my mouth went dry, and my palms began to sweat. And I felt a tingling deep down in the darkest, most secret parts of me. I squirmed in my seat, very uncomfortable.

“Okay. Well, enjoy the day,” the girl said after a beat and walked away. I was sad. I was bereft. I wanted her to come back. I wished I were one of those people with the witty comments and funny one-liners. I wished that I wasn’t so self-conscious and desperate to stay hidden.

I wished I could be, just once, like that pretty woman with the perfect skin and a lovely smile.

She sat down two tables away and opened a guitar case that I hadn’t realized she was carrying. I tried to be surreptitious as I watched her, peeking through strands of thin, blonde hair.

She was lost in her own world, and I wondered what sort of place it was. I wanted to visit it with her.

Her fingers were long and slim, perfect for strumming a guitar. She pushed up the sleeves of her T-shirt and held a bright purple guitar pick between her teeth while she tuned the instrument.

I tried not to be obvious as I stared. But I honestly couldn’t help it. There was something about this woman that made it impossible to look away. She made my insides quiver and my heart race. I didn’t understand it. It made me uneasy. But it was also exhilarating. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this way about a complete stranger before.

She smiled slightly as she took the pick from between her teeth and lightly ran it along the strings. Then she began to strum a melody.

She started to whistle. It was rather high pitched and seemed at odds with the lovely music she was playing.

I sat up and almost subconsciously pushed my hair away from my face. I wanted to look at her without obstruction.

She continued to whistle, and I made a face. She looked up at me and grinned. Without missing a beat, the whistling became a hum that went on and on. Up and down, notes floating in and out of my ears.

“I don’t have any lyrics yet. So I just hum. Kinda lame.” She pressed her palm flat over the strings, tapping her fingers against the wood. “I’m good at playing the music but not so good at writing the words. I guess I’ll never make it as a musician, huh?”

The sun had become almost hot, and I found myself smiling at the stranger. This beautiful, confident woman who looked at my face and didn’t flinch at the sight of my scars. I noticed the way her eyes flicked over my mouth but they didn’t linger. Her expression never wavered. It was as though she didn’t care about the marks on my face. She wasn’t bothered by the very thing that had defined my life for as long as I could remember.

I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin.

Then I gave her words. Words that I had never shared with anyone. Words that I had kept stashed away in my notebook since I had first written them many years before.

On that first lonely night behind locked doors.

Before I had green eyes to keep me company.

The words had changed throughout the years. They had begun as the juvenile ramblings of a terrified little girl and had become the haunting lament of someone wasting away.

I had never shared them with anyone.

Not even Bradley.

But I gave them to her.

A beautiful stranger who looked at me like a person.

The dark has eyes.

The shadows have teeth.

Always doubt

The truth underneath . . .

I didn’t sing them so much as whisper them. I couldn’t say them loud. They were just for her. Just for me.

For the two of us.

The girl stopped playing for a moment and looked at me intently. I instinctually ducked my face behind the folds of my hair. I felt like an idiot. What had I been thinking to share them with her? I didn’t know her!

I started to quickly pack up my things. I needed to get out of there quickly. I didn’t want to go home, but there was nowhere else I could be. I needed to disappear.

Just as I was closing my book bag her voice stopped me. “That was beautiful. Really intense. Did you write that?” She sounded . . . impressed?

I gripped the strap of my bag until my knuckles went white. I thought about running away despite her question. I was scared. Confused.

But rooted to the spot.

I nodded.

The girl began to strum the melody again and then she sang my words, and I felt something stirring in my painful, hidden away heart.

The dark has eyes . . .

The shadows have teeth . . .

Then strangely, my voice mixed with hers.

Always doubt

The truth underneath . . .

She stopped singing, and I carried on. I had never sung out loud in my life. I didn’t listen to music because Mother hated the noise. I had never dared to defy her. I hoped I didn’t sound bad.

Lies are like raindrops

No two are the same . . .

Bind you

Deny you

Wrapped up in chains.

The girl was watching me, her eyes never leaving me. She stopped playing again and trembled. Was I that terrible?

“Dude, that was amazing! I just got goose bumps. Look!” She held out her arm, and I walked a little closer to her and looked at her smooth, pretty skin pimpled in tiny bumps.

“You’re hella talented. What’s your name?” she asked, laying the guitar face up in her lap.

“Nora Gilbert,” I said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes.

She held out her hand that I noticed was covered in silver rings. One on each finger. I found myself staring at her hand and the tiny symbol on the underside of her wrist. A red infinity symbol just over a dark blue vein.

I tentatively shook her hand, my grip weak.

“Nice to meet you, Nora. I’m Maren Digby. I just moved to Blackfield with my dad a couple of weeks ago and enrolled at the community college. Is it always this boring around here?”

I found myself smiling again. She had an easy way about her that neither demanded nor expected anything.

“It is. If you’re not a hunter or don’t like to go camping, you’re out of luck.”

Maren laughed and it was a nice sound. I laughed too. I never laughed. But I wanted to do so with her. So that we were doing something together. The two of us.

“Shit. Well, I’m screwed. I guess I’ll be hanging out with you a lot then.” She winked at me, and my cheeks flushed.

“Nora!”

I startled and backed up a step. Maren looked over my shoulder and frowned. “Who’s the pissed off hottie?” she asked.

I didn’t need to turn around. I knew who it was.

Bradley.

Seconds later, I felt his hand wrap around my upper arm, and my stomach knotted up. He was angry. So angry. I needed to prepare myself for his mood.

Maren watched us, worry evident on her face.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Bradley fumed, pulling me around so that I would have to look at him. I felt my own anger rise up to meet his. I was embarrassed by the scene he was making in front of Maren. I was used to his tantrums, but this was the first time I became enraged by them.

“Did you skip class?” he demanded, his green eyes flashing.

I nodded, trying to contain my irritation. Soothe, Nora. “I couldn’t sit in a classroom. It’s too nice out,” I explained, hoping he’d leave, though I should have known he wouldn’t go anywhere without me.

“Man, you realize you have an audience, right?” Maren waved her hand to indicate her presence. “I see you going all abusive asshole on Nora, and it’s not cool. At all.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed and his face turned molten. “How do you even know Nora?” he spat out, infuriated.

Maren’s frown deepened and she opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “We just met. Bradley, this is Maren Digby. Maren, this is Bradley Somers, my friend.”

I don’t know why I felt it important to stress the title of our relationship to Maren, but it was. I didn’t want her to think we were together. I didn’t want there to be any question about Bradley’s role in my life, particularly with his current behavior.

Bradley dropped his hand as though I had burned him. He met Maren’s eyes. They engaged in a silent communication that I wasn’t privy to, nor did I want to be. It was heated and mildly territorial.

Bradley turned back to me once the staring contest was over. “We have time to get to your last class. You don’t want to miss the whole day,” he said softly, the fury in his voice subsiding. His face softened and I relaxed. I knew I’d give him what he wanted.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Bradley inclined his head towards the parking lot where he was parked. “Let’s go.”

I glanced back at Maren, and my stomach dropped at her expression. I knew it well. It was disgust.

“Bye,” I said, sounding awkward, not knowing what else to say.

Maren nodded but didn’t reply, her eyes flicking between me and Bradley who refused to look at her.

I followed Bradley across the field towards his car, feeling a mixture of anger and disappointment.

Day 4

The Present

While I weep – while I weep

My limbs felt stiff and my back hurt. I tried to move, but I felt as though I were encased in cement. I focused on moving just one finger but nothing happened.

I was paralyzed.

I grit my teeth to stop myself from screaming.

“I’m not sure how long she’ll stay like this . . .”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

What was that noise?

I had lost my phone somewhere that night. The sound was faint, like the wisp of almost silence carried in on the breeze.

But there was no breeze.

Just still, putrid air.

My chest felt tight and I couldn’t breathe.

I just need to move!

Then my eyes popped open and I sat up, gasping and wheezing. I felt as though I had barely survived drowning. My mouth open and closed as I sucked in much needed oxygen. There was a brief instant where I thought I was somewhere else.

I hoped I was somewhere else.

But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light in my barren prison, the crushing truth settled around me once more.

Nothing had changed.

I was still trapped.

No way out.

No escape.

But then I remembered the thump I had heard. Was it yesterday? Last night? Only hours before?

Time meant nothing. It was indistinct. Held no meaning.

Sometimes I tried to focus on the shifting light through the dirty window to give me some idea of whether it was night or day. The desire never lasted long. The more I fixated on the light, the time of day, the more depressed and despondent I became. Which gave way to anger. Which then fed into my hysteria.

Then I’d count again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I scrambled up to my feet, wiping grit from my eyes. I had finally run out of water, so I tried not to think about how dry my throat felt. About how my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and rubbed against the inside of my cheeks like sandpaper. I tried to lick my lips that had begun to crack and bleed but found it did nothing to alleviate the discomfort.

I hurried to the far wall beside the door. I had heard the thump from the other side. I had been sure of it. It had been too real to be in my head.

Right?

“I heard you. I know I did,” I murmured. It hurt to talk. Dry, broken whispers barely heard.

I pressed my ear against the wood slats and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

When my ear began to throb and my legs began to burn from standing in one position for too long, I turned around and pressed my other ear to the wall.

Silence.

Nothing.

I tried not to sob. I tried not to scream.

But I was teetering. Floundering. Ready to go over.

So just this once I gave in. I yelled. Even as my parched throat burned.

“I know you’re there!” I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

I jerked away, turning myself so that I faced the room, and slammed my back into the hard wall. The bite of pain made me wince, but it also made me feel alive.

I scraped my back up and down over the splintered wood. It ripped at the scabbed cuts and barely healed wounds that covered my skin.

It hurt. I felt the blood. But I wouldn’t stop.

I thought about Mother praying. I thought about the agony of the cane and Reverend Miller’s empty appeals for salvation.

“Save the abomination!”

Mother standing in the corner of the room never looking at me, her head bowed low.

“I don’t love you. I never have!”

Images weaved in and out. Hazy recollections. Were they real? Had they even happened? Or was I half delirious from exhaustion and thirst?

I was driving Mother’s car to the church. She wouldn’t let me roll down the window or listen to music. She hated the noise so I was forced to suffer her judgmental silence.

She barked orders. “You’re going too fast!” “Slow down around this turn!”

We were alone in the car. Just the two of us. Only ever the two of us. She wouldn’t let anyone else be present for these “special” meetings with the minister. She reserved that horror for me alone.

If I concentrated hard enough, perhaps I could convince myself we were going somewhere fun. Together.

I imagined driving to the coast. I had always wanted to go to the beach. But my family hadn’t been the sort to go on vacations.

Maybe we’d walk in the sand eating ice cream. Mother would ask me about school, and I’d tell her about the book I was reading. We’d laugh as the ocean tickled our toes, and she’d put her arm around me. I’d hug her back.

I almost smiled at the thought.

I wished so hard that was our life.

Then I could be thankful for her attention and not dreading it.

I blinked rapidly and shook my head, pressing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. My head hurt. Something was wrong.

I was never allowed to drive Mother’s car.

That wasn’t right . . .

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Hello?” I shouted.

Silence.

Nothing.

Empty, endless quiet.

I rolled the thin band of silver around my thumb. Over and over again. It helped center me. It made me smile even as I despaired.

“Hello?” I yelled again into the void.

The senseless, never-ending blackness.

“I’m losing my mind. And now I’m talking to myself. Great,” I muttered. I slammed my open palm against the wood. “Just say something! If you’re there, please let me know!” I dropped my forehead to the wall. “Just let me know I’m not alone in here.”

I stood there long after the light from the window faded and the hot, oppressive air cooled marginally.

I wouldn’t move.

I waited. For the noise. For that small indication that someone else was there.

“Please!”

“What are those for?” I asked Mother when I got off the bus. She was putting together craft kits. Little baggies filled with sequins and ribbon and sparkly things.

I stood beside the couch and wished I could have one. They looked pretty, and I’d bet they were fun.

I probably shouldn’t ask her about them, but my curiosity got the better of me. I heard a car crunching over gravel outside and saw Dad’s car pulling up in front of the house. I liked it when Dad was home.

I felt something like happiness. Then it died. Quickly. Rosie got out of the passenger side and walked beside my dad up to the house. My beautiful foster sister had been living with us for six weeks, and I wished she would leave.

I had always been invisible, but now it was worse. Because she saw me. And she hated me for it.

Mother loved her. Doted on her.

Dad tolerated her because Mother wanted him to. He was absently kind in the same manner he was with me. Again reaffirming that I wasn’t special. That even my dad’s love was something I couldn’t claim as my own.

Mother never answered my question, and I never repeated it. When Dad and Rosie came inside, I slipped into the kitchen, trying not to cry when I heard Rosie ask Mother about the craft bags and Mother’s enthusiastic reply about a project she was doing at the pre-school where she had gotten a part time job.

Dad came into the kitchen not long after that and found me drinking a glass of milk by the sink. I didn’t dare take the glass out of the kitchen. Mother would yell at me and then I wouldn’t be allowed any snacks for the rest of the week.

Dad smiled at me, but it didn’t make me feel good like it used to. I had seen him smile at Rosie too. She took everything. Even the small things.

I finished my milk and quickly washed the glass, putting it away just as I found it. You’d never know I was there. I lived in this house as a ghost.

Make no noise. Stay locked away. Don’t let them know I’m here.

Then Mother could pretend that I didn’t exist.

“How was your day?” Dad asked. I knew he was trying. Trying to make up for all the rest. But it wasn’t enough. Not today.

Today I just wanted to hide and do as my mother wanted.

Disappear.

Dad walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. His fingers hesitated just before making contact as though forcing himself to demonstrate physical affection. But he touched me and I tried to focus on that.

“I know you have a hard time, Nora. I know I don’t help you as much as I should. Your mother isn’t a horrible person. She’s had a tough time too.” I hated when he excused her. I hated that he was making light of how she treated me.

“What about me?” I asked, having the strength, just this once, to say what was on my mind.

Dad put his arm around my shoulders, and my entire body leaned into him. My skin seemed absorbed his warmth, not knowing when, if ever, it would feel the skin of another person offering reassurance again. The act of being comforted almost unraveled me. My heart thumped painfully, my throat squeezed tight, my eyes burned and blurred with tears.

Too much.

Not nearly enough.

“She has her reasons, Nora. Sometimes living up to expectations is hard and what we should do isn’t what we actually do,” was all he would say. Why did I get the feeling he was talking about himself more than Mother?

I was filled with misgivings. They clawed inside me. Something felt wrong. I wouldn’t know until later how wrong it actually was. But just then I was enjoying the brief moment of connection with the man who, in his own neglectful way, cared about me.

“George, can you come help me with my math homework? Lesley said you were great at it.” Rosie came into the kitchen, and my dad pulled away from me quickly. The horrible girl stood so that she separated me from my father. And he smiled at her and asked her about her day, and once again I wasn’t there . . .

Rosie followed my dad out of the room, looking at me over her shoulder. And she smiled. It was the sort of smile that filled me with apprehension.

Why was I thinking about these horrible events from a past best forgotten? Why did it matter now, in this foul place, that my dad, who I had loved more than anyone, didn’t love me nearly as much as I needed him to?

People failed you. It was the only constant thing in life. You couldn’t rely on others. They let you down every time.

I stopped begging. I gave up pleading with someone who most likely wasn’t even there. The noise had to have been in my imagination. I was inventing things. Creating stuff that wasn’t real.

It wasn’t the first time that had happened.

I couldn’t wait to get to Maren’s house.

I felt so much joy. So much excitement. I knew that tonight was the night.

I remembered the way she touched my face earlier that day. The way her fingers seemed to linger on my cheek. The feel of her lips on my face when she kissed the ugly, ugly scar.

She meant everything to me.

I buzzed with anticipation.

Soon we’d be everything for each other. Then every awful thing that came before wouldn’t matter. Because we were exactly where we belonged.

The skin on top of my foot felt as though it were on fire. I carefully touched the area that had been covered by a bandage that was now long gone. The area was tender, and I knew that the new tattoo, the one I had gotten not so long ago, was infected.

I barely registered the bite of the needle as it pierced my flesh. I had experienced so much worse in my life.

This was nothing.

I watched as the tattoo artist inked the top of my foot with a symbol I knew well.

A symbol that was etched on her body.

Now I wanted it on mine.

It would link us. Bind us.

Eternally.

I shook my head, not wanting to think about those particular memories. Not here. Not now.

I scratched at my hot, oozing skin. I scratched and scratched until the skin broke open, marring the precise, continuous circle.

“It’s the infinity symbol. It means forever. Constant. Always.” Maren looked so sad, and I wished I were brave enough to hold her the way that I wanted to. But I kept the distance. I hated the invisible barrier between us.

“I’ve always wanted something that lasts . . .”

I was hungry and tired and thirsty. I was going half out of my mind with fear and wondering.

I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting away. And in that halfway state between waking and sleep, I heard the song.

It infuriated me. I felt so much anger that I thought I would burn alive.

The words were a taunt. They were a hateful jab.

Invisible.

Unseen

Deceit at all cost.

“No more!”

They kept singing. It didn’t matter that I wanted them to shut up.

But the voice was familiar . . .

Thump.

The singing stopped.

Everything was like it was before.

Then the tears came. And they would never, ever end.

The Past

Five Months Ago

I stared at my reflection.

I had woken up especially early so I could get a shower before Mother was up. I had meticulously dried my hair, then had taken the time to style it. Going so far as to use gel. The strands were thin and limp and wouldn’t do what I wanted so I ended up brushing my hair flat on either side of my face. I didn’t bother with makeup, because what would be the point?

I painted my nails and moisturized my skin. I took care and attention in a way I never had before. I wanted to feel attractive. Just this once.

But more importantly I needed to see what the rest of the world saw. I had to know how bad it really was.

I ran my tongue over my lips and forced myself to stare into a face I had only seen a handful of times.

I could have been pretty. There was nothing wrong with my hair. It was fine and blonde and suited me.

My eyes were nice. Sometimes they appeared brown, other times they were green. Bradley said that he liked my eyes and that had always made me feel good.

I tried to focus on the things I liked. The things that I knew other people would appreciate. But my gaze kept finding its way to my mouth. To the scars. To the memory of what had been there before.

I remembered how as a small child, no more than four years old, Mother would grip the back of my neck, holding me in place. She would pull all the hair away from my face and pointed at my hated reflection. I stared back at her with wide, scared eyes.

“Look at who you really are, Nora! You are here to punish me and I must bare it. But that doesn’t mean I have to love the thing that torments me.”

I hadn’t understood her words and I didn’t understand them now. Why did she feel I was her punishment?

She had always been cold and distant towards me, but it had become significantly worse after Rosie went back to foster care. After Dad passed away, her hatred knew no bounds. She seemed to make it her mission to keep me tethered to her through misery and dependence. She never wanted me to forget that I was unloved and unwanted. But she would never let me leave either.

I often wondered why she hadn’t put me up for adoption when it was obvious she couldn’t stand to look at me. When she realized that my cleft palate made it impossible for her to nurture and love me as a parent should.

I had dared to ask her once when I was feeling moderately brave. Sometimes I was able to pull on an inner strength that otherwise alluded me.

I usually paid for it afterwards.

That particular day Mother had been especially cruel. She had locked me in my room for hours while she had several friends over for tea. They never knew I was there at all. Mother hadn’t come to let me out until almost bedtime. I hadn’t had dinner, and I hadn’t been able to use the bathroom for hours.

I was hungry and tired, and I just wanted to know why she kept me around when it was obvious how much she detested me.

“You could give me away,” I had said softly, keeping my eyes firmly to the ground. I waited for her to smack me. Or ridicule my lisping speech.

Instead she had laughed as though I had told her the funniest joke.

“I’ll never be rid of you. God made sure of that.”

I continued to stare at myself in the mirror. The scarring was obvious, but the skin wasn’t the angry red it had been just after the surgery. The mark went from the top of my lip to just beneath my nose.

I picked up a small tube of concealer I bought from the drug store earlier in the week and dabbed some of the makeup on the scar.

I carefully rubbed the skin, blending it. I tilted my face left and right and almost smiled.

It was far less noticeable. In fact, I looked almost . . . cute.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped. The small tube of concealer rolled into the sink with a clang. Her eyes honed in the object, her eyes narrowed. I quickly picked up the makeup and put it away in the vanity drawer.

“N-nothing,” I stammered, lowering my head so that my hair curtained my face.

Mother took a step into the bathroom and grabbed my chin in a pincher like grasp. “You’ve tried to cover it up,” she hissed, making her words bullets of accusation.

“I thought you’d be happy not having to see it—” I began but went silent as Mother’s nails dug into my chin.

“Don’t presume to know what I think about anything,” she said, her voice icy cold. She held me by the back of the neck and turned on the faucet. Then without another word, she pushed me down; my head smacked the spigot making my scalp throb.

The frigid water poured over my face. Mother’s fingers scrubbed my skin until I thought she’d peel me to the bone. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

And I didn’t fight.

There was no point. She’d always win.

When Mother was satisfied she turned off the water, and I slowly stood up, drenched. I didn’t look in the mirror again. I didn’t want to see the shame. The self-hatred.

The repulsion.

“Get changed and I’ll drive you to school.” She left and I was relieved when she closed the door behind her. I dried my hair and then brushed it out, making sure it covered the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.

I’d never feel comfortable in my own skin.

Mother had made sure of that.

“Have you eaten?” I looked up from the book I was reading to find Bradley standing over me.

We hadn’t spoken much since the day he found me in the park with Maren. He had been angry, but quietly so, which was unusual for him. Bradley was typically loud and vocal in his fury.

I didn’t have to wonder why he had been upset. I didn’t question his seeming unreasonable anger about my ditching school and spending time with someone that he didn’t know. Change in routine upset him. I was his constant. He relied on me in simple yet important ways.

Bradley’s anger was its own entity. It lived and breathed and destroyed. And it tried to wrap around me and hold me close. There were times I surrendered to it because I wanted to make him happy.

But then there were times I wanted to hold back. I wanted something just for me. I didn’t want him privy to everything inside of me.

Which wasn’t necessarily fair.

Because I expected everything from him in return.

“I haven’t,” I said softly, closing the used copy of Emily Dickinson poetry I was reading for one of my classes.

Bradley’s lip was split, and I could tell he had been chewing mercilessly at the skin. It looked like it hurt. I could have given him a tissue from my bag. Maybe I should have told him to put ice on it. I didn’t do either. He’d never allow my offers of help. I had learned that quickly.

He bore his pain silently. Alone. He didn’t show it to anyone. Except to me. Only ever to me.

I knew his secrets, and he was confident that I’d never share them. He knew I’d never use them against him.

If he could trust anyone, it would be me. I had earned it with my own tears and tragedy.

“Let’s go then,” he said gruffly, picking up my bag from the ground. I got to my feet and wiped dead grass from my pants. He clicked his tongue in exasperation. “You shouldn’t be sitting out here. It’s way too cold. You’ll get sick or something.”

I rolled up my paperback and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’m okay. Promise,” I assured him. He needed to hear me say it.

I’m okay.

Even if it was a lie, he found solace in the deception. He wanted to believe that I was fine. That I’d be all right.

He let out a sigh that would have sounded like relief except for the firm set of his jaw and the angry glint in his green eyes. So hard. So unyielding.

“Come on,” he gave my hand a pull, and we started to walk across the campus. Neither of us spoke to anyone.

Me, because no one noticed I was there. Bradley, because he didn’t see anyone else.

We entered the small cafeteria, and I found a small table near the back while Bradley went to buy our food. He knew what I’d like so I didn’t have to tell him.

I dropped down into a chair with my back against the wall. It was important for me to always see my exits.

Bradley still had my bag, so I twirled the frayed edges of my scarf around my finger and waited.

“Hey, Nora.”

I stopped breathing. My face flushed red.

She was here.

Maren sat down in the chair opposite me, and I lifted my head to look at her. I gave her all of my face, not hiding anything from this complete stranger.

“Hi,” I responded. I glanced over her shoulder and saw that Bradley was still waiting in line.

Thankfully he was looking the other way.

“I was hoping that I’d see you again,” Maren said, folding her hands together on top of a battered notebook with a blue and green cover. My heart did cartwheels in my chest.

She was wearing cut off jean shorts with zebra stripped leggings underneath. Her yellow sweater fell off her shoulder, and she wore a necklace with a large wrought metal sun around her neck.

Her statement left me flustered and I didn’t know how to respond, so I pointed at the sun lying between her breasts. “I like your necklace.”

Maren looked down at her jewelry. “Thanks. I made it actually. I took a welding class last year when I lived in Baltimore.”

I latched onto the tiny detail she had given me. “You lived in Baltimore?”

Maren smiled. She was lovely in the way perfect people were. With clear skin and sparkling eyes that made my stomach knot up. Did she have any idea the affect she had on me? Was I able to hide it the way I hid everything else?

Somehow I doubted it.

My palms began to sweat and I wiped them on my jeans.

“Hartford, Connecticut before that, and St. Louis, Missouri before that. I’ve moved around a lot.” Maren picked at a spot on her sleeve. There was nothing there. I looked.

Bradley was still getting our lunch, but he had noticed Maren at our table. His face was surprisingly unreadable.

I didn’t like it.

“I’ve only ever lived here,” I replied, watching Bradley as he watched me.

Maren ran a hand through her long hair, and my attention was torn from my possessive friend to the woman who demanded to be looked at.

“You don’t sound happy about that,” Maren observed.

I shrugged. “I’m not,” I found myself admitting. I liked telling her my secrets.

“I wonder which of us had it worse then?” Maren tilted her head to the side and regarded me steadily. She chewed on a piece of loose skin on her bottom lip. White teeth nibbling on dry, flaky flesh.

“What do you mean?” I asked, sounding strangely breathless.

Maren tapped the back of my hand with her finger and I stiffened. Then melted. Then froze. Then fell apart. Slowly she began to trace endless looping circles on my bare skin. Connected. Eternal. Infinity.

“Was it worse for you or me? Me without roots or you with roots that run so deep that they’ve cemented you to the ground?”

It was a good question. One I wish I could answer. But I never had the chance to think about it.

“You’re in my chair.”

Maren frowned but didn’t look up at the sound of Bradley’s deep, threatening voice. She didn’t get up either. She gazed at me, giving me a long penetrating look that was filled with a thousand uncertainties.

“Do you want me to leave?” she whispered, the query loaded with insinuation.

Bradley dropped my sandwich in front of me with a glare that would make a normal person shake in their shoes. I knew he was moments away from physically removing Maren. I could see him clenching his fists over and over again.

He became angry so easily. It didn’t take much to light his fuse. Maren’s frown deepened, her body tensed. I knew how she interpreted my relationship with Bradley.

She didn’t know how right and how wrong she was.

I could never explain to her, or anyone, how hard it was for Bradley to share anything. Let alone the attention and affection of the only person who he counted on.

A perfect family hid so much. The drying blood on his cheeks revealed those things best ignored.

I was possessive of his jealous anger.

Maren watched me. Bradley watched Maren. I watched both of them. My heart full in uncomfortable ways.

Finally with the tension ratcheting ever higher, Maren slowly got to her feet, pushing the chair out behind her. The legs scraped loudly across the linoleum floor.

“I’d like to call you sometime, Nora,” Maren announced, purposefully ignoring Bradley, who impatiently seethed.

I began to reach into my pocket to get my phone, a slight smile on my face. I knew what was going to happen.

It excited me.

Bradley grabbed my wrist and held me tight. I left my phone where it was.

Maren bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. A small bead of red blossomed beneath her teeth. My mouth went dry.

“Bye, Maren,” I said softly, our eyes meeting. I heard a humming in my ears. Like a melody.

Like a song.

Our song.

“Bye, Nora,” she responded just as softly.

She slipped her bag onto her shoulder and left. Bradley instantly took the seat she had just vacated.

It angered me to see him there.

“You could be a little nice, you know,” I told him off handedly.

Bradley opened his sandwich and tore it into tiny, messy pieces.

“You’re too trusting, Nora. I would have thought you’d have learned to be more wary of people.” Bradley sounded upset, and I knew it was for me. He knew that looks were deceiving. It was a lesson we had both been taught in brutal, vicious ways.

“Maren’s nice—”

“She’s pretty. There’s a difference,” he interrupted, sounding so, so bitter.

I stiffened. “You think she’s pretty?”

Bradley looked at me in his usual way. Hard. Probing. Territorial. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

I swallowed a mouthful of bread, almost choking.

“Maybe your mother was right to lock you away,” Bradley said, words cold. Sharp and piercing my heart.

I took another bite, filling my mouth.

“That way you would be safe,” he said softly. “Away from everyone who could hurt you.” He reached out and grabbed my hand, gripping it tightly, knuckles crushed together. Bone on bone.

“You can’t trust anyone, Nora. But you can always trust me. I’ll always protect you. I promised you years ago that I’d look out for you. And I will. No matter what. Even if you hate me for it.”

I felt hot all over. “I know you will,” I whispered, feeling flushed and agitated.

His truth was scary. But it was reassuring too. I knew the lengths he would go to. For my friend, there were no limits.

I wrapped his words around my heart and kept them there.

His confession was all mine.

Day 5

The Present

Not with a bang but a whimper

I laid on my back, relishing in the twinge of pain. It kept me grounded. Rooted to the present. I needed that right now.

Lights danced in front of my eyes even though I knew it wasn’t possible for me to see them. The darkness hadn’t changed. The heat was still impenetrable. I was always hungry. So hungry. I thought it had only been a day since I ran out of water, but already the thirst made me crazy.

And the lights that shouldn’t be there blinded me. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision.

I covered my face with my hands and concentrated on pulling air into my lungs.

Then I heard voices.

Murmurs really. Words unclear. A woman and a man. I didn’t recognize either of them, but something about their tone had me sweating and shaking. I wanted to curl into a ball and hide so they couldn’t see me.

They spoke in low, urgent whispers. I knew they were talking about me.

They’re not here!

I’m alone!

The voices became louder. My head hurt. Too much. I couldn’t focus on anything. It was meaningless mumbles blurring together.

I pushed myself into the concrete. The still healing wounds on my back ached from the pressure. But it cleared my mind. The voices faded. The lights disappeared. The illusions were gone, and I doubted they were ever there to begin with.

Time moved slowly. Maybe it didn’t move at all.

Nothing changed. It was one never-ending drone of monotony. Hunger. Thirst. Pain. Fear.

It pressed around my heart, taking over. Invading and conquering until there was nothing left but my hazy memories and barely controlled madness.

I lightly tapped the silver ring on the floor in a repetitive rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I smiled through my suffering.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I snuck into Rosie’s room. I had to be fast. I knew she’d be home soon. Mother had gone to pick her up from a friend’s house.

Rosie had only been living with us for a few weeks and already she had a life.

She went to slumber parties. She went shopping for dresses and cool shoes. She giggled on the phone in the evening and gossiped about boys in the hallway at school.

She had everything that I wanted. It came so easily to her.

Being normal.

I headed straight for her dresser and opened the small jewelry box Mother had given her when she arrived. I started sifting through the mess of necklaces and bracelets. My fingers lingered over the sparkly, colorful things that I had never had.

And there it was. The ring.

I had wanted it. So much. Mother knew. She didn’t care. She gave it to Rosie. Had it made just for her.

I picked it up and slipped it onto my ring finger. It was too large. It didn’t fit.

Of course it didn’t.

It wasn’t made for me. It belonged to her.

Instead I put it on my thumb and it was snug. Maybe . . . just maybe it could be mine . . .

I heard the front door open, and I scrambled to put the ring back. But I hesitated. I wanted to keep it.

It should be mine!

It wasn’t fair!

Why did Rosie get the pretty ring and beautiful clothes?

I could hear Rosie’s voice just at the foot of the stairs. I didn’t have long.

I quickly put the ring back in its spot and quietly closed the jewelry box. Just as I was about to turn around to leave, I glanced up and into the mirror that hung on the wall behind the dresser.

The reflection that stared back at me was that of a spiteful, jealous monster.

My teeth were exposed behind my roughly split lip. Disfigured. Horrifying.

I looked like a monster.

I was a monster.

I ran my fingers over my lip. I wished I could love this face. I wished I could feel good about the skin that now fit together. But I couldn’t. It was impossible.

Not after everything . . .

“Why does she lock you up?” Bradley Somers asked. My boy with the green eyes who watched me at school and followed me home every day. He lived just down the road in the lovely white house with blue shutters. He and his family had been living there for almost a year, but I had never spoken to his mother or his father. Nor either of his sisters.

And I had never spoken to him.

Until that night I saw him outside my window.

The night he saved me from my punishment.

I was walking home, sticking to side roads, purposefully avoiding busier streets. Away from peering eyes and whispered comments. Here, I could tie my hair back and enjoy the feel of the sun on my face.

These ten minutes outside, away from my mother, were the best part of my day. Dad had insisted that I be given some freedom. That I should be allowed to walk from school on my own. For once Mother listened. She had relented, though reluctantly. I think it had more to do with the fact that instead of picking me up, she could finish watching her soap opera in peace. Whatever the reason, I was glad.

Bradley always kept me company on my way home. Though he rarely talked. He seemed content to walk behind me. He’d wait out on the sidewalk by Mother’s car until I made it into my house. Only then did he continue home.

“Why do you climb my tree?” I asked, not answering his question. It made me uncomfortable.

I could hear Bradley breathing behind me. He was a strange boy. He didn’t talk to anyone in school. He kept to himself. I didn’t understand why. He was so handsome. All the girls noticed. I noticed.

He got into a lot of fights. He was always covered in scrapes and bruises. I knew he used the physical injuries to cover over things . . .

“You don’t deserve to be locked away. She’s wrong.” He spoke like someone much older than his years. But his words made me incredibly happy.

“You could do something about it, you know,” he continued.

“What?” I asked.

“You could run away.”

I shook my head.

Bradley grabbed my hand, squeezing it. “You could make her leave you alone,” he said quietly.

There was something about his tone that scared me. But it made me feel better too.

Bradley squeezed my hand again, harder this time.

“I could do it for you.”

And he meant it.

I missed Bradley. When I thought about him, my stomach clenched and my heart hurt. Thinking of him made me feel so many things. Some of them understandable. Protected. Connected. Happy.

But there were other feelings as well. Ones that made no sense.

Because when I thought of Bradley I also felt angry. I felt betrayed.

I felt . . . ashamed.

And those feelings overshadowed all others.

I rolled onto my side and curled into a fetal position, incredibly confused.

Bradley. Bradley. Bradley.

What did you do?

Green eyes hot with desire. Kisses on warm skin.

I cried. I screamed.

Mine!

I had always thought it belonged to me.

I lived a life of lies . . .

The Past

Four Months Ago

“Is it safe to talk?”

I looked up from my notebook. I was sure she was being flirty. I loved how every statement was given like a shared confidence. It made me feel special. Like I belonged.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

It was so easy to do. With her.

She had a way of making everything seem better. Brighter.

We had shared a handful of conversations. Stolen moments between classes. Not much had been said, but in some ways they were the most poignant discussions I had ever had.

Maren sat down beside me on the stone bench outside of the library. I had been sitting there for almost an hour waiting for her. I knew she would happen upon me, and I wanted to be ready.

I knew that she walked this direction on the way to her car. Her class would have been dismissed fifteen minutes ago, and she sometimes stayed to ask her professor questions about an assignment. Maren seemed to be the studious sort, even if she didn’t look like it.

I knew a lot about Maren Digby. The kind of information gleaned from careful observation.

I knew her schedule. I knew that she was only taking three classes at the community college. One English class, Statistics, and Political Science. The English class was the one she had just left.

The Political Science class had surprised me. She didn’t seem the kind of girl to be interested in politics. I appreciated that there was more to her than what I had originally guessed. She was more than a beautiful hippie in flowing tops and patchwork jeans. She was more than the girl with the toothpaste commercial smile and silver bejeweled fingers.

Maren was kind. She was thoughtful. She was everything I wished I could be.

I liked so many things about her. All the things I had learned and the things I had yet to discover.

I noticed how she would bring an apple and a bag of crackers with her so that she didn’t have to waste money on lunch. She would eat the apple first, but she’d keep the core instead of throwing it away. She would wrap it up in a napkin and put it back in the cloth sack she used to carry her food.

What did she do with the apple core? Why did she keep it?

I planned to find out. Slowly. Carefully. In secretive ways.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays she only had one class. It began at eleven in the morning and lasted for two hours. But she would stay on campus after lunch, spending the afternoon playing her guitar beneath the willow tree until around four when it began to grow dark.

People would stop and listen to her pluck the strings. They’d talk to her and she would talk to them. Comfortable smiles. Unhurried chats. Everyone received an acknowledgment. Everyone wanted to talk to her. I felt a twist of jealousy. Strong and severe.

Maren Digby was a likable woman. People watched her. Just as I watched her. Both women and men followed her with hungry eyes. Wanting something from her, even if it was only a discarded greeting.

She was beautiful. She was talented. She was so many, many things. With a wistful smile and sparkling eyes. With thin fingers that danced over guitar strings. With a voice that sang clear and true.

And she talked to everyone. She offered pieces of herself out to anyone who wanted them.

But she saved her best smiles for me.

I knew that she gave me the important pieces.

I was convinced of it.

And I guarded them jealously.

“Of course,” I said, moving over to make room for Maren on the bench. She sat beside me and laid her guitar case on the ground.

She looked over my shoulder at the words I had scribbled on the page. Would she realize they were about her?

Star kissed

Dreams untold.

She sings the stories

that unlock my soul.

“That’s beautiful. We should put it to music,” she said, her hair brushing the exposed skin of my shoulder. I was wearing a shirt like hers. A grey stretchy sweater hanging loosely around my neck. I liked dressing in clothes that reminded me of Maren. It made me feel closer to her.

I turned my face so that my nose was less than an inch from her hair. She smelled like coffee and something sweet. Cotton candy, perhaps? Good enough to eat.

“If you want to,” I replied shyly, looking up at her through my lashes.

Maren gave me a look that penetrated deep. She was a woman who saw too much. She reminded me of Bradley in that way.

“You hide a lot, don’t you, Nora?” She chewed on her bottom lip, and I wanted to tell her to stop. I didn’t want her to mangle the pretty, pretty skin.

But I didn’t say anything. Words escaped me. I’d rather sit there with her and not talk at all. She had a calming way about her. Like slipping into a warm bath.

Maren rested her arm along the back of the bench, just behind me. I leaned into her slightly so that we were touching. It was nice. More than nice.

“What’s with you and the berserker guy? I’m worried he’s going to show up and rip me a new one,” she said, and I giggled at her description of Bradley. Mostly because it was appropriate.

Maren chuckled too, and I liked having this moment that was just ours.

I shrugged. “He’s my friend.” Simple but honest.

Maren frowned. “Are you sure that’s all that it is?” she asked, and my heart tripped over itself. Did she seem bothered? Was she jealous?

What a deliciously joyous thought.

I nodded, my hair falling in my face and I quickly pushed it back. I wasn’t hiding. Not this time.

“Just friends,” I said softly.

Maren was still chewing on her bottom lip. I watched her mouth in fascination.

“He doesn’t hurt you, does he?” Her blunt question didn’t shock me. I knew what she must think. I knew that was the impression Bradley gave. She wasn’t the first person to question our relationship.

I liked how worried she was for me. I was used to Bradley’s concern. But Maren’s felt . . . different. Special.

“He doesn’t hurt me,” I assured her. Feeling bold, I put my hand on her thigh. Just above the knee.

Oh god, I was touching her.

It was blissful. It was just right.

For only a second . . .

Maren tensed slightly and her smile became strained. Inside I mourned.

She dropped her arm from the back of the bench and got to her feet. Quickly. Too quickly. My hand fell away and I was cold. From the inside out.

I lowered my head, refusing to look at her.

I had ruined everything. My eagerness to be close had made her run.

Then I felt her hand on my shoulder and she squeezed. I looked up and she grinned. It lit up her face and I felt better.

“I have to go. Can we meet here tomorrow? Maybe I could read your stuff. If that’s okay,” she said and I nodded. Of course it was okay.

And then she was gone.

It felt like new beginnings. It felt like what life was supposed to be.

“New friend?”

Any warmth I had felt from Maren’s presence was doused in white-hot hatred.

“What are you doing here?” I spat out. I was shocked at how easily I unleashed my fury. Normally I wouldn’t dare. Rosie knew that.

She seemed surprised as well. Her eyes widened slightly, but then her mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

“That’s really none of your business,” she retorted. She watched Maren walk across the grass. I didn’t like the thoughtful expression on my former foster sister’s face. It made me nervous.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Her question was leading. She was trying to trap me.

I wouldn’t let her.

“What would Lesley say about your new . . . friend?” Rosie chuckled, enjoying my discomfort.

I hated when she said Mother’s name. I loathed that she was permitted to say it at all.

I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to antagonize her. I didn’t want to give her a reason to attack me. Though I knew with Rosie, she didn’t need an excuse.

She leaned in close and I pulled away slightly. I couldn’t help it.

“What would Bradley say?”

“Don’t talk about him!” I seethed. I couldn’t help it. Bradley was off limits. She knew that.

“Oh, he’s cute,” Rosie cooed, staring at my silent friend as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets, looking angry and defiant.

He looked up, seeing me. I was always on his radar.

“Why’s he looking at you?” she demanded, sounding annoyed.

“He’s my friend,” I answered. Rosie had only been with us for a week, and I was still trying to be nice to her. To be her sister.

Rosie snorted. “Why would he be friends with you?”

She sauntered towards him, shaking undeveloped hips. I followed behind her meekly. Rosie was pretty. Bradley would notice that and then he would love her too. Just like Mother.

“Hey cutie. My name’s Rosie Gilbert,” she said. I frowned. That wasn’t her last name. That was my last name.

Bradley didn’t look at her. He looked at me. His green eyes dark with questions.

“Her name is Rosie Allen,” I corrected.

Bradley raised an eyebrow and finally turned his attention to my foster sister. She flushed.

“Well, I’m living with the Gilberts now, they said I could use their last name—”

“I don’t care,” Bradley cut her off. I covered my mouth in shock. Rosie reared back as though he had slapped her. “You’re a liar. That’s all I need to know about you,” he continued before turning back to me.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Rosie sputtered.

“As long as you’re nice to Nora, I won’t have a problem with you,” Bradley informed her, voice hard.

“I’ll see you later,” he directed at me. I nodded.

Then he was gone. Rosie turned to me, her face thunderous.

“He’ll love me too. I promise,” she declared. I wished I could smile. Because her delusions made me want to dance.

“I’ve never understood your relationship. You say he’s your friend, but he comes into your room at night—”

“How do you know about that?” I demanded.

“What’s her name?” Rosie asked, ignoring my question, inclining her head in the direction Maren had gone.

I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want Rosie to have anything that belonged to me. But I found myself giving it to her anyway.

“Maren Digby,” I said begrudgingly.

“Maren. Maren Digby. Pretty name for a pretty girl, don’t you think?” Rosie taunted, her blue eyes flashing.

I wouldn’t answer her. I refused to rise to her bait.

“You and I both know he won’t like Maren sniffing around. He wants you all to himself,” Rosie continued, her gleeful grin cruel and calculating.

“It’s not like that,” I protested, knowing my argument was useless. She’d believe what she wanted to believe. Just like everyone else.

She played with the ring on her finger, and I found myself staring at it. It was easier than looking at her.

“You never know when to run, Nora. That’s your problem.”

I startled at her words.

Rosie got to her feet. “Just don’t go giving that sad, pathetic heart away too easily. It might end up being the worst thing you ever do.”

Was she threatening me? I couldn’t tell.

With Rosie it was hard to know.

She was gone before I could ask her.

Day 6

The Present

And so being young and dipped in folly

I raged.

I despaired.

I fell apart.

I got back up.

I was defeated.

I was strong.

I went around in circles becoming a dozen different versions of myself in the span of minutes. My emotions were wild and out of control.

I hallucinated things that couldn’t be there. Conversations I knew I hadn’t had. Memories that were false and meant to torture me.

My mind was becoming my worst enemy.

Worse than my still unknown captor who continued to tease and soothe me with words I felt I should remember.

Bind you.

Deny you.

Wrapped up in chains . . .

The water was long gone. The smell and the incredible heat in the tiny, dark room left me weak and ill. I tried to control the urge to dry heave, but sometimes it was useless and all I could do was lie on my side and shudder as I expelled the acid in my stomach.

I was in constant, agonizing pain. Between the hunger and the nausea, I could barely stand up.

But then I thought about who could have brought me here, and the anger gave me a strength I hadn’t known I possessed. I would slam my fists against the glass of the window trying to break it. I’d hit it until my knuckles were raw and bleeding. But it never cracked.

Then I would despair again. Thoughts of death became prevalent, and I planned a hundred ways I could take my life. It was in those dark moments that it felt like my only means of escape.

I chewed at my wrists, wanting to hit a vein. Blood coated my lips and tongue. But I could never go through with it. I’d stop when my mouth filled with copper, and I’d gag and dry heave again. Then I would panic at the sight of red dripping from the mangled cuts.

I tore strips of cloth from my T-shirt and wrapped my wrists, applying pressure. I loudly berated myself for my stupidity. When the depression faded, I found something so much better.

Resolve.

I was determined to find out who took me. Who had locked me away?

“Maybe your mother was right to lock you away.”

I felt sick again.

Bradley’s words bounced around in my head.

“I’ll always protect you. I promised you years ago that I’d look out for you. And I will. No matter what. Even if you hate me for it.”

Why was I remembering that? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about Bradley’s angry, green eyes?

Flat, expressionless. They were past seeing anything at all . . .

“Stop it!” I groaned. My brain was working in overdrive. Things weren’t making sense. Reality and fantasy were smashing together with the force of a freight train.

“Stop, Nora! You don’t understand!”

“Think, Nora. Think about that night. What happened?” I murmured under my breath, trying to focus myself. I pressed my fingers to my wrist, staunching the flow of blood. That had been a moronic thing to do. I couldn’t let myself get that low again.

I had to think.

I had to remember!

I could see the tree lined sidewalk. I was in a hurry. My steps were quick and I all but ran. I hadn’t told Maren I was coming. She wasn’t expecting me. I wanted to show her my new tattoo, exactly like the one on her arm.

I hoped she liked it.

She had told me I looked beautiful earlier. I could still hear her laugh as she pushed the hair out of my face.

I loved it when she touched me.

She did it purposefully. Full of intention. There was nothing random or nonchalant about Maren Digby’s caresses.

I had never thought I could love anyone, but I knew that I had been a naïve fool.

Mother would be appalled. Revolted. She would find my affectionate regard for the lovely girl who played music to my words as yet another example of my sinful soul. I could almost feel the kiss of Reverend Miller’s cane on my back.

I should be frightened. I had lived so much of my life in fear. Beaten down. Repressed.

But with Maren, life could be so much more . . .

And that was it. I couldn’t remember anything else. Did I ever make it to Maren’s? Was she looking for me too?

No.

My subconscious screamed the word.

I felt the truth of it deep inside.

Maren wasn’t looking for me. She would be glad that I was gone.

But why?

I had been excited to see her. I had been so sure of her. Of us.

What happened?

Bradley’s green eyes.

Maren’s mouth open in a scream.

Flashes of skin.

Lips pressed together.

Sighs of pleasure as limbs intertwined.

My heartbeat quickened, sweat cooled on hot flesh.

Mother’s disapproving face.

Rosie’s hateful laugh that filled every tormented piece of me.

You don’t deserve any of them, Nora. You’ll always be alone.

I gripped my head in my hands and tried to calm my racing thoughts. They jumped all over the place.

Okay. I had gone to see Maren. I had planned to tell her . . . what?

“I love you!” I cried and cried and cried. Tears fell down my cheeks, soaking my shirt.

I twisted the ring, Rosie’s ring, on my thumb.

I would never have the things I wanted.

Ever!

I ripped the ring from my finger and threw it as hard as I could.

It bounced off Maren’s arm and clattered to the ground. It rolled until it disappeared under the mountain of discarded clothes left forgotten on the floor.

My head felt as though it had split open. The headache came on quick. I groaned and dropped back to my knees, rocking back and forth as I rubbed my temples.

So much pain. So much agony.

Inside and out.

I needed to get out!

The bite of the familiar ring brought me back to the present. I couldn’t afford to forget the important things.

Finding a way out.

Discovering the person responsible for my imprisonment.

Those were the things that mattered. Not ghosts and illusions.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound grew louder and louder. But it didn’t seem connected to anything tangible. I didn’t have my cell phone. I wasn’t wearing a watch. I couldn’t identify any other source for the noise.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Floating on the air it assaulted my eardrums. I wanted to scream but my throat was too dry. The effort too much.

Memories came and went too fast to hold on to.

“Dad, can I help wipe down the leather?” I asked, picking up a cloth.

Dad’s smile seemed more distracted than usual. I wasn’t sure he heard my question at all. He had been quiet. Very quiet.

I didn’t think that he wanted me in his workshop at all. But I had begged and pleaded to come, and he had finally given in.

Rosie had wanted to come too, but Dad told her not this time. It had been a small victory. She was angry when we left. I could feel her rage on my back as we walked to the car.

It felt good.

Dad didn’t answer me so I started wiping the leather. I loved being in his workshop. It was the only place I felt some sense of peace. I could tie my hair back and feel air on my face.

Dad never looked at me the way Mother did.

He really never looked at me at all.

But being invisible with him didn’t hurt as much.

“Do you smell that?” I asked a while later. Dad had been working silently, and I had been keeping myself busy with tidying up.

Dad didn’t answer.

I continued straightening the tools into nice, neat lines.

“How’s this, Dad? Does it look okay?” I asked, feeling proud. I hoped that he appreciated the time I took to make his workspace clean.

Dad frowned, irritation on his face. “Don’t talk to me when I’m working, Nora,” he snapped. “I knew it was a bad idea to let you come when I had so much to do.”

His anger stung. His rejection was unexpected. I swallowed my tears and disappointment and sat down in the corner, not touching anything else. Waiting . . .

Then I saw them. The blue eyes.

She was there even when she shouldn’t be. I glared into the shadows. She was always there to see me at my lowest.

I sensed her sadistic glee.

Or was it mine?

Then I smelled it.

Stronger this time.

The smoke.

I heard it again.

The thump against the wall.

“I knew you were there,” I whispered. It was all I could do.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Who are you?”

Thump.

“Can you help me?

Silence.

Nothing.

I stumbled towards the wall and pressed myself against it. Listening. Waiting.

Thump. Thump.

I began to laugh uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop. I sounded cracked and torn. My laugh was breathy and became lost in the oppressive heat and lurking gloom.

“I knew I wasn’t alone,” I declared, though it was a lie.

I was used to being adrift in my solitude.

But I had hoped.

My god, I had hoped.

I leaned my shoulder against the wall, cradling my still roughly bandaged wrist to my chest. It throbbed, but I didn’t look at the mutilated skin underneath.

It was then that I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. A two-inch gouge in the wall five inches up from the floor. Hazy light filtered through, and I knew that it led into whatever lay beyond the room I was in.

Where the noise had come from.

I dropped down onto my haunches and looked through the hole.

At first it was blurry. Non-descript. But I could tell that the room beside mine was brightly lit.

Was that a table in the middle of the room? And it seemed there were objects lining the walls. I couldn’t make out what they were, but some were larger than others.

I squinted. I pulled the skin at the corner of my eye taut to try to clear my vision. I tried to see as much as I could with what little eyesight I had.

And then I saw something that made me pause. Made my heart flutter madly in my chest.

There was someone lying on the floor only five feet or so from the hole I was looking through. I could tell it was a person by the shape and length of it. The body was still. So very still. And even though I couldn’t make out much, it was close enough to the wall that I could see some details.

And what I saw made me lurch backwards in shock. I stumbled and fell over.

“Oh god,” I keened through my ruined throat.

“Oh god!”

I didn’t want to look through the hole again. But I couldn’t stop myself. I had to make sure. I had to know.

I pressed my face against the wall.

Tears fell down my cheeks.

Cutting through the dirt with thin slices of anguish.

They fell and fell.

Because now I knew that I wasn’t alone in this hell.

I had company . . .

The Past

or

The Present

Somewhere in between

The smoke filled my nostrils. I was watching it burn.

Burn to the ground.

Smoldering ash lifted into the sky, and my eyes blurred with tears.

I pressed my fist to my mouth willing myself not to cry.

Crying was useless. What would be the point?

Life as I knew it was over.

“You don’t deserve any of them, you know.”

I didn’t turn at the sound of the voice. I didn’t need to. I could see her face without having to look at it. Beautiful. Wicked. Hateful.

A face I could have loved, but my cold, warped heart hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t let me. And I hadn’t wanted to.

She was my reminder that I had never been capable of affection.

“I know,” I said, agreeing with her statement, because it was the truth.

Rosie came up and stood beside me. We both stared off into nothing. Smoke. Fire. Ash.

It all burned.

“You like to play the victim. You do it really well. But I know better. I know that’s not who you really are,” Rosie sneered.

I wished she would leave. Why was she here at all? She shouldn’t be.

But I should have known she’d always show up when I didn’t want her to. She loved to witness my vulnerabilities. She delighted in my catastrophe.

“I’m not playing anything,” I argued.

Rosie laughed and I hated the lovely sound. It danced over her tongue and rang in my ears.

“Don’t you remember that day I found you in my room? I knew what you were doing? I saw through you then and I see through you now.”

I frowned, not understanding what she was talking about.

“The ring?” Rosie prompted, looking down at my hand.

I twisted the thin, silver band around my thumb. The tiny, engraved symbols flashing in the flickering light.

“How did I get this?” I asked her, knowing she was setting me up. Just like she had done when we were children. She’d make it look as though I had stolen it. She’d make me think that I had, even if I knew that it wasn’t true. Rosie had a talent for distorting reality to fit her version of the truth.

She was ruthless in her pursuit of falsehoods.

“Don’t you remember?” she taunted and I shook my head. I hated her games. She played them so well.

“I only ever wanted you to like me,” I told her, hoping she believed me. Even as I detested her, I could still remember how much I had wanted to be her sister. For a brief time she had mattered to me. Before her cruelty had made it impossible.

Rosie snorted, still looking at the ring that had found its way onto my finger. “No, you didn’t. You wanted to be me. Then you wanted to get rid of me. You were jealous. You hated that I was beautiful and that Lesley loved me. You never understood that you were the reason that love evaded you. It had nothing to do with your hideous face. It had everything to do with who you are.”

Sparks lifted into the sky and the wind carried them off to make bigger fires somewhere else. Spreading the destruction as far as possible.

“You don’t know anything about me, Rosie. Nothing at all.”

The woman beside me wormed her way into my brain with her hurtful comments. It fed the dark fears inside me. She knew that. She knew how to make me believe absolutely everything she said.

“Ask your mother,” she stated callously.

“I can’t,” I replied.

“Ask your dad,” she continued, her smile mean.

My tears began to fall. Her evil knew no bounds.

“I can’t!” I screamed.

Rosie leaned in, her lips a breath from my skin. My flesh recoiled. “Ask Bradley. Ask Maren. Ask them all!” she yelled, and I covered my ears just wanting her to leave. But she’d never give up tormenting me.

I shook my head back and forth.

“Why are you like this? Why can’t you ever be nice to me?” I begged. I pleaded. I just wanted her to leave me alone.

Rosie’s eyes narrowed, her face no longer beautiful. She was the ugliest person I had ever seen.

“You already have all the answers, Nora. Don’t you?”

I stayed silent.

Rosie’s face turned red with her rage.

“Don’t you?” she shouted as the fire burned and the world around me crumbled.

Invisible.

Unseen.

Deceit at all cost.

No one will miss

The little girl lost . . .

To be continued . . .

Volume II

Lies

COMING SOON!!!

Days. Hours. Minutes.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

Time becomes meaningless when you’re lost.

I thought I was alone, but I was wrong.

She’s here with me.

My companion or my captor?

Everything I thought I knew is a lie. Memories turn to delusions. Promises become poison laced with dishonesty.

And still we sing. Our song. Our past.

Our dark, dangerous present.

And in this room of blood and agony, we have found our home . . .

Read other books by A. Meredith Walters

This is for the usual suspects. You know who you are.

And for the readers who enjoy the dark and different.

A.M. Irvin is the pen name of A. Meredith Walters who is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Contemporary and New Adult romances including the Bad Rep, Find You in the Dark, Reclaiming the Sand, and Twisted Love series. She is also the author of the psychological thriller, The Contradiction of Solitude. A.M. Irvin writes thrillers that keep you guessing and makes you want to sleep with the light on.

Before becoming a full time writer, she worked as a counselor for troubled and abused children and teens. This Virginia native currently lives in England with her husband and daughter.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without express permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © A. Meredith Walters/A.M. Irvin

Cover design © Amy Queau/ Qdesigns

Editing services by Tanya Keetch/ The Word Maid

Interior designed and formatted by:

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Books by A. Meredith Walters

Dedication

Clues

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

The Missing Volume II Lies

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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