“I know.” He kneels so our eyes are level. His head cocks, and disgust twists his face as he stares at me. “You’re confused. But I researched this subject thoroughly for you—repressed childhood memories and all that psychobabble.” He flicks his gaze to Frankie, and she swallows. “You had quite the traumatic childhood even after going to live with your aunt, it seems. I’d say I’m sorry but ...” He stands, letting his incomplete sentence hang.
“Stella. Now, if you will.” He winks when he glances back at me. “One final thing to set the mood, and this should do the trick.”
A soft, feminine voice drifts through the air, so quiet I think my mind is playing tricks on me. It gets louder, and I shift in my spot, looking around the room. The voice is everywhere. In the corners, on the walls. In my crate and in my ears.
I know this song. Somehow, I know it.
Come little children ...
I squeeze my eyes shut. Why does it hurt?
I’ll take thee away.
No, no, no.
I try to bring my palms to my ears, I try to make it stop, but my wrists are stuck behind my back.
The song only gets louder, and soon it’s seeping into my bones and filling my lungs. My knees fold up, my hair curtaining my face to block out the patches of light my eyelids can’t close off. I need to stay out of the brightness. It’s where bad things happen.
Blue eyes, black hair. She’s looking down at me.
I shake my head. It’s not real.
But it is. Her eyes are soreal. Her touch when she flicks my nose with her finger, her quiet laugh when I smile. It vibrates on my skin, and I know it’s real.
The images, the voices, they won’t stop. They flood my brain until it hurts.
She tells me she loves me.
I’m herbaby girl.
I want to say something to her; I want to speak. But then I remember I can’t. I can’t. Because I know what happens when people speak to her for too long.
There’s so much crimson.
Smooth bones in my hand.
Just paint, I tell myself. Paint it red.
It looks just like the real thing, he said.
You did good, he said.
I promise I’ll come back for you.
