Chapter 1
“Can you make out a face?” Cynthia’s tone was calm and understanding. “Is it a woman or a man?”
I squeezed my eyes shut as panic coiled tight in my body. Cold sweat slicked my palms, and fear knotted my chest.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
I gripped the chair’s armrest like a lifeline.
“A man . . . I think.”
The sudden, piercing screech of a woman’s voice cut through the memory. It was followed by a man’s muffled scream.
“A-a-and a woman,” I added quickly.
The flashback swept over me until it felt real, until I was there again, caught in their violent clash instead of the quiet therapy office around me.
“Can you see your father’s face?” Cynthia pressed. “Or your mother’s? Is it them?”
My throat tightened. There was more to this. So much more. This wasn’t just a fight.
The question came again. “Is the man your dad? Is he hurting you? Or your mother?”
A face began to take shape behind my closed eyelids. Then came the blood. Crimson and sudden, it cut through the darkness like a blade.
My eyes snapped open, and my ears rang. As always, my fingers flew to my chest, desperate to know: Was the blood mine?
This wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. But of what? What the hell had happened?
I blinked, and the shabby therapy room slowly came back into focus. Cynthia’s worn armchair, the old window. The dark mold stain on the ceiling. A lavender diffuser failed to mask the scent of mildew. Even the ocean-wave white noise, once soothing, rattled my nerves now. But Cynthia’s collection of little pig figurines, lined up on the desk and windowsill, still brought an odd sense of comfort.
I tugged at the collar of my shirt, trying to cover the scar on my neck. I had no memory of how I had gotten it, but deep down, I knew it was connected. The scar stretched from behind my ear down to my collarbone—thick and raised like a secret trying to claw its way out.
“Anything new?” Cynthia leaned forward.
I was tempted to lie. At this point, I felt like I was letting us both down. My gaze fell to the gray rug between us.
“Just the blood. Then nothing.”
Cynthia’s familiar nod and gentle smile eased some of the tension. Her short silver hair caught the light as her rainbow-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose. Deep wrinkles marked her face, the kind that came from decades of worrying about other people.
“It’ll come to you someday. And when it does, we’ll be ready.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
“Have you given any more thought to inviting your mom or dad to a session?” she asked.
Not too long ago, I’d toyed with the idea—back when calling Mom felt within reach. Silence had stretched between us for years. Now, though, talking to them again felt impossible.
The truth of my childhood remained tangled in more than just the nightmares, memory loss, and scar. My dad was a raging alcoholic. His drinking binges, his hot rage, his toxic insults that hurt more than knives. And then there was Mom’s silence as shelet it all happen. Even Uncle Ben...that night he’d crept into my room when I was fifteen, believing he could get away with it. As he’d climbed on top of me, I’d bitten into his shoulder so hard that I’d torn away a chunk of flesh. At his scream, my mother had burst into the room, but even then, she hadn’t taken my side. “What are you doing in here?” should have been her first words when she saw Uncle Ben in my room at night. Instead, she scolded me and swallowed his excuse that he’d come to check on me after hearing a noise.
He never tried again, though.
“Trash,” I muttered, not even realizing I’d said it out loud. That was where I came from. And no matter how many years of therapy were behind me, some part of me still believed that was all I’d ever be.
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head and stood.
