1 Chapter 1: Prologue

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Charlie

Nine Years Old

The air is thick and hot, and it smells bad. Similar to the smell of rotting flesh, and pennies. I try to cover my nose with my dirty shirt, but I can't move from this spot to see what's causing the disgusting smell. Mommy told me to hide under this table and not to come out until she said so. That was two days ago. I'm hungry, and blood has crawled from the other side of the kitchen and under the table, painting my feet in a staining of red. I've peed myself a few times, and I'm starting to shiver, but I'm not sure if it's from being wet and cold or from fear. I've called for Mommy, begged for her to come to me, but my cries go unanswered. I should disobey her, get up and look for her, but I'm too scared. Terrified something has happened to her. All I can seem to do is sit under this table and rock back and forth, replaying snippets of what happened just days before. But the images are getting foggier, the sounds of voices fading.

I close my eyes, trying to remember. There are legs blocking my view, legs wearing black pants along with black shiny shoes. A loud bang erupts, followed by a man growling and yelling. Then I hear Mommy screaming. All in that order. I squeeze my eyes closed harder, trying to make out what the man was yelling about, but my brain washes it out. The growl that came from the man sounded like that green guy on TV who gets stronger when he's angry. My mommy's scream terrifies me to the point I plug my ears and freeze. The man attached to the legs and black shiny shoes leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Closing my eyes, I try to remember the faces I saw from when I peeked from under the tablecloth, but all I get are blurred images. Was there more than one face? How many people were there? All I see are wings behind my eyelids. Wings that make my stomach fall, my teeth chatter and my body quiver. Is it a drawing? Is it a painting? I can't tell. Tears slip down my cheeks, and a sob escapes my mouth.

"MOM?"

"Charlotte, can you tell me what you see?" Dr. Tesser asks, pushing his wired glasses up on his nose firmly. I gasp for air, my fingers clawing into the white pleather chair. My back is covered in sweat, and my head is throbbing with unbearable pain from trying to remember. I've been here two weeks. Every day, I'm brought to this room that is nothing but white: white couch, white pillows, and white walls. The only color in the room is from the carpet, which is gray, and Dr. Tesser's black shoes. The doctor is an older man, with white hair and a white mustache, so he fits perfectly with the room. He has wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth, giving him a permanent scowl.

"I saw nothing," I mutter, looking down at the carpet. I tell him the same thing every time we do this crap. Truth is, I don't want to remember that day. Every time we have one of these sessions and he tries to pry me to remember more, it just hurts. I can't remember much, honestly, but the things I do remember can only point to devastation. So I tell him I see nothing. If I don't speak of it, it's like it never happened. Right? Eventually, this fear that rattles my brain when I think about it will disappear. At least, I hope it does.

Dr. Tesser sighs, tossing the clipboard to the side in frustration.

"As usual. Maybe we should double your meds, make sure you're sleeping better." He pulls his glasses off his face, pinching his nose in frustration. More meds don't sound so bad, considering they make me feel nothing. Like a puffy cloud just passing through Hell.

"Charlotte, dear, you're never going to get better until you start telling us what happened that day. What you saw, what you heard, what you're feeling. Something other than silence," he informs roughly. "You're not even trying the exercises to help jog your memory. Don't you want to remember?"

I shrug and look out the window. "Not really."