

Don't Say A Word

## Don't Say A Word

Jennifer Davis

Smashwords Edition Published by Jennifer Davis

copyright 2013 by Jennifer Davis

This ebook is licensed for your perosnal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given

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your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

****

Dedicated to those that have taught me

the unconditional love and innocence which this life has to offer...

... to my boys, love now and always, Mom.

****

Contents

  1. The Awakening

  2. The Mission

  3. Mental

  4. No Light at the End of the Tunnel

  5. Silver Lining

  6. Home Sweet Unknown

  7. Burnt

  8. The Notebook

  9. Solitude of Serenity

  10. Diamond Venom

  11. No Turning Back

  12. Remorseless Butterflies

  13. The White Fog

  14. Picture Perfect

  15. Epitome of Realization

  16. Black Silk

  17. Eradication

  18. Posed, Poised, Perfect

  19. Unearthed

  20. Muse

  21. Jubilena

  22. Delicacies

  23. Violent Entry

  24. Brooks & Weston

  25. Mine

****

Awakening

"Good morning Susan," a voice said so strong and soothing that I felt my body gravitating towards it, as if I was being magnetized. The voice came again, this time from beside me, like it had sensed the yearning that radiated from my body and had come to oblige it, "and how is our patient today?"

"Stable, but no change," Susan's angelic voice sang in reply.

The voices continued to sing to one another with a dialogue that I cannot comprehend. ECG trace; oxygenation level; white cells normal. Hearing them and listening to their song send a rush of warmth all the way through my body. Their presence seems to have cut away the black fog that has been binding me to nowhere. The feeling of numbness and horror that my whole being has been absently surrendered to is removed.

A brief remembrance of that humming — a tortured lullaby that someone within the black fog had been drilling into my head..." hush little baby, don't you cry"...

No! I scream defiantly in my head, trying to shake it away. I want my essence to dissolve into this world, the one filled with the songs of angels. The dark world needed to be pressed deep into the back of my head, I had to hide it from myself; before I allowed my mind to wander any further and the black fog took the chance to crush me into a soulless oblivion of black ash.

As I pushed the last haze of black to the furthest edge of my mind, a blinding streak of light flashed before me. My eyelids clench tightly to the base of my cheek bones, as the awareness of burning rushes from the creases of my eyes and race down along the contour of my nose. A swift stream of gritty water films over my eyes, the grainy specks of sand scratch abrasively, igniting the burning sensation into a blaze of hot fury.

The angels' songs began to echo through my head again. Angels? The word penetrated my thoughts... what the hell kind of angel blinds your soul with the reassuring peace of their voice and then sets your eyes on fire? Again one of the soothing angels' voices comes and interrupted my thoughts, "dilation is normal." Dilation... The word ricocheted with a drumming of curiosity in my head, as other words come fumbling back to my memory, patient, ECG trace, and oxygenation level. My head begins to reel in confusion, sending a pulsing headache to transpire its way through my temples. My angels — my dear singing angels — they were floating away from me, drifting out of my reach. Only the stabbing pain remains, strong and allows nothing the ability to breach it.

"Ava," the angel's voice questions, only this time the voice wasn't singing it is low and masculine. I could feel the calm consoling that this voice spoke with, and it made me feel safe. If only I could wrap my body in the security of the voice — allow its comfort to embrace me and pacify the trembles that quivered through my muscles.

It was at this moment, that I realized that I was no longer in the body that the illusive black fog had once held bound like a straightjacket. No, this new body was heavy. Heavy, from the fullness of the pain and aching that soared through every fiber of it.

"Ava, its Dr. Swanson, can you hear me?" the voice came at me, bellowing through the emptiness.

The words filled my head and recoiled back and forth between the entangled crevices of my head. Ava? Dr. Swanson? None of this made any sense. I want to scream at this voice to go away! I don't know Ava! I don't know Dr. Swanson! Where are my angels, why did they leave me?

My lips parted slightly. Flakes textured to the resemblance of dried clay, crumble from their movement. Preparing to scream at this man, I gasped in, a surge of air strains through what little amount I managed to open my lips and stings through to the back of my throat. I gasp in shock. My mouth widens, as my body begins to choke at the abrupt presence of air. An intense stab of pain comes across my lips and a trickle of sweet warmth runs to the inside corner of my mouth and swims along my tongue. My initial reflection from the taste of my blood is to be revolted, but instead I find myself indulging in the taste... the warmth... the comfort..., the truth that flowed through me for the first time. There were no angels, and this blood was a sign. A sign, that I was alive. Somewhere, in this hollow body... I was alive.

"Ava," a low voice began to murmur, "I want you to try to relax. I realize that this must all be very unsettling, but allow your mind and body to adjust back to the world and I will try to explain."

The voice paused momentarily and I try to contemplate the meaning of his words... "Adjust back to the world"... what world? ... Was it any better than the world that kept me submerged in nothing but blackness?

His voice breaks my thoughts, "You fell into a coma about three years ago. During the sixth day of your coma, you suddenly seemed to have emerged from it; however you were still incoherent to the world around you. As suddenly as you had emerged, you slipped away again. After you had drifted away on us, we ran multiple tests, each came back showing that your brain no longer exhibited signs of being in a coma state, but you had definitely become unconscious to everything around you," his words slowed as he seemed to consider the scientific analysis of my abnormal state.

"From a medical perspective," he began, almost jumping back into a half startled speech, "we cannot fully explain what the subsequent state was that you slipped into; but we do know that your brain was performing on its own and remained to function at standard medical levels. In other words Ava, this means that since your unconsciousness, you have suffered no brain damage; and given time, along with appropriate therapy, you will regain full functioning of your body."

He mentioned Ava again. I wanted to explain to him that I didn't know Ava, but envisioning that burning sensation running down my throat again; seemed too unbearable. And then it hit me! Despite the fact that I didn't know who Ava was, he did. And he believed that I was her, that I was Ava.

"Some of the things that your body previously did on an involuntary basis may be challenging for you to do now. Even when your brain is telling your body to do it, it could prove difficult. Your body will just require some time to regulate itself. You experienced this earlier when you tried to breathe in by way of your mouth and found your body choking on the air. Your body hasn't forgotten how to breathe, but instead has been relying on another form of breathing. So that we could be assured that your brain was never being deprived of oxygen, we put you on an oxygen support system via a tube in your nose. The breath of usual air that you took in was like, a new process for your body, but your breathing will restore quite quickly," Dr. Swanson noted with precise assurance.

"I am going to let you rest for a while now and hopefully you'll have a chance to absorb this information, and then we can discuss anything you may want to know shortly. We will begin with some simple steps at your own pace, what you feel comfortable with. When you feel ready, you can start with trying to adjust your eyes. You must be prepared however that your eyes have been in the shadows for a long time, so the slightest light in your eyes will be irritating and could possibly feel like sandpaper or even some slight burning sensation within them. You may have even already felt some of these effects, from the light used earlier to check your pupil dilation. Your focus will also require some fine-tuning. Your eyesight wouldn't have changed; you'll just need to allow your eyes time to learn to refocus. Once you have become a little more coherent to your surroundings, we will remove the oxygen tube and allow you to regain breathing on your own. Don't worry, progress may be slow," he paused, his words becoming quiet, but sincere, "but it will be progress just the same."

The warm creases around his hand felt peculiar as he gently patted his reassurance on the top of my hand. A sift in the weight on the bed, gave me a slight notion of nausea, as he released his braced position from the side of my bed.

The room filled with such a deathly-odd silence, that I couldn't even be sure if the man and woman, whom I once believed to be my angels, were still present in the room or not. I laid there concentrating hard to hear their breaths, but the headache that I had felt occurring earlier, now pulsed fiercely between my temples and overshadowed all other noise.

As I lay there replaying the doctors' words through my head, a cold rush streamed in my arm and webbed rampantly through the veins of my body. My pain started to melt numbly into my body. My surroundings began to lose their heaviness and started to feel light and flaccid.

"Three c.c. of morphine should allow her to relax for a while," a voice muttered softly, as a light blue mist filled my head and sleep took over.

Shivers began to make my body tremble uncontrollably. The black fog was slithering its way all around me, weaving and shifting into shapes that I couldn't recognize. Beads of salty perspiration slid off my body, despite the fact that I was cold and the foggy air around me felt clammy and bitterly stung at my nostrils. As if under sheer instinct, my body froze and stiffened, as I heard the humming start. It flittered through the web of fog around me; it came from nowhere and faded into the depths of the murkiness at all points. Each word was sung with a calm whisper. My body shuddered again under the breath each word produced... the sounds tortured my every being and tormented my mind. Restlessness could be felt throughout my body — my soul was ripping at itself to be free from my body; free from the hands of horror that were inching it's grasp towards my numb body.

Another breath; another whisper...

"Hush little baby... Don't say a word...hmm hmm hmm... and if you're a good lil' girl and don't cry... hmm hmm"

"Please," I began to beg out load, "please don't."

It was too late, all in one swift motion my soul jolted from my body and the bullet found its mark. Pain. Horror.

"Death, please take me."

The sudden thud my heart made as it bounced off my chest wall sent me wheezing for air. A familiar stinging surged down my throat and continued to burn its way to my chest. A hard lump lodged itself in the cavity of my chest and smoldered there, while I tried to gather my thoughts together and interpret what world, I was in now.

Any sign of the black fog had disintegrated with my sudden awakening, or at least I assumed that I was awake. At this point it proved to be a little difficult to decipher when my body was truly awake or asleep. I say my body, because it seems that no matter what world I am stuck in, my mind continues to flow at a mile an hour rate; never requiring refueling. Though from what Dr. Swanson had said, I should be expecting that a tune-up was in order to keep it running.

Everything around me was silent, the only noise that seemed to be even remotely near the vicinity of me, was a faint beeping sound that seemed to be in perfect harmony with the rhythms I felt expelling from my chest.

Under an assumption, I picture that it is daylight around me. The velvety sense of my eyelashes can still be felt lying against the protruding point from the top of my cheek bone, so I am able to make one truthful realization... anything I was seeing, was definitely in my head. But it seemed that for the first time, what I was seeing was exquisite. Enough that it may have even take my breath away... except for the fact that some machine was apparently breathing for me. The space around me really had no colour, but I could see these reflections, reflections of the rainbow glittering everywhere; as if I had a crystal dangling from my mind and the sun was catching it at all the right moments. It was this that made me believe that it was day light, on the outside of my body, in the world that the doctor wanted me to adjust to. I remember hearing stories of people who had gone blind, but at moments, could see streams of rainbow light in their heads when looking towards the light of the sun. Oh, how I longed to see the sun, to feel its warmth touching my body.

Giving strict orders to my brain, I decided to attempt to pry open my only shutters to the outside world. What little muscle a person has around their eyes, proved to be exceptionally strong in their will. They were making every effort to defy the commands from my brain, keeping the shutters closed... keeping me locked in. Remembering back to Dr. Swanson's words, about normal functions now being a challenge, I fully understood how much focus this rehabilitating of my body and mind would really take.

Concentrate... concentrate... A small oblong shape of light slapped me in the eyes, leaving in its mist a ball of fire that sat in the corner socket of my eye and slowly rolled down the roundness of my cheek and into my neck. Heat streaked through my skin from the trail of the liquid fire. Slight burning sensation my ass! Obviously Dr. Swanson hadn't felt the difference between a slight sensation and the anguishing torch that just lit my eyes on fire!

Without warning, my eyes clamped shut. A sauna of water begins to fill my eyes, till the brims can't hold it anymore and warmth streaks down my face. The persistent stream seems to be washing away the flurry stinging of heat.

In a calm motion, I slowly began to reopen my eyes. The pain sends shocks of needles through my head, but this time my eye muscles hold steady and continue to open. I'm not sure, what, I expected of this world on the outside of my personal shutters, but even in its distortion it was familiar... it was home. Just like the torture of the black fog, there are no defined shapes, just never ending colours, bleeding into one another. Purple... white... pink... yellow and even turquoise, a real masterpiece of abstract. The images were brilliant and aching at the same time, they were acid on my eyes, burning. I don't care, I reprimand myself. If I couldn't manage to ever open my eyes again, if the shutters somehow became bolted shut, this... this was the image that I wanted tattooed in my head.

A twitch began to run along my jaw and through my teeth. Someone or something was splashing water across my beautiful abstract canvas. My once brilliant colours were being washed away... fading... fading... and then — nothing. The tears streamed warm again, but the fear I could feel was sizzling from my heart. The one image that I wanted to remember forever and my own eyes washed it away. The only thing that had made me feel whole had been wiped clean, by me, my own body.

"You shouldn't feel disappointed," Dr. Swanson stated, "I've been watching you, and though it may not seem like it now, that was, a huge step. And now, each step here after will be that much easier."

He was watching me, for how long? Doesn't this doctor have any other patients that, he should be watching? What was this — diligence or creeping? I rasp, quite arrogantly to myself.

As if reading the thoughts right out of my mind, Dr. Swanson sent a chuckle that echoed off the walls in the room.

"Ah, you have a lot of questions! Why don't we try getting some water in you and maybe we can talk a little. Get those racing wheels in your head to ease up a bit," he said with the slap of a sarcastic tone.

Talk! Taking a breath was hell; opening my eyes was hell on fire. If I try to talk, I'll probably find myself, only an inch tall, sitting in the very hands of the devil himself!

"Here," the doctor mumbled, nudging something at my lips, "take a sip from the straw."

Mutely, I obliged my parched mouth with the refreshing treasure he had so graciously offered. The water slid through my throat lightly, suppressing each area once scorched by life's other much needed element, air.

As I lapped in the water, I wondered, what a comical picture I must be to Dr. Swanson. Milking one of the most common entities to man like it was going out of style, and with each mouthful of water, a gust of smoke bellowing out of my ears from another fire within having been doused. That was it, that thought alone and I was boiling over. But this time it wasn't pain, it was the laughter, boiling over the edges of my gut. The bubbles never boiled enough to roll over the top and spit through my lips, but it was enough to fill my body with a new warm sensation, one of joy.

"There, bet that feels better," he said in a soothing tone.

God, you have no idea, and I don't know that I can get the words from my mouth to describe it, or say anything at all for that matter; I thought, half-heartedly hoping that he could read my mind again and save me the agony of even having to try forming a word.

"Ok, then. We'll start off slow, and please don't try to open your eyes. Let them have a rest, you'll probably find that it is easier to concentrate on opening and focusing them when it is night and the light in the room is dim," he replied, obviously not hearing my previous thoughts.

"Ava, do you know where you are?"

Do I know where I am, ah duh, trapped in a shell of a body that can't see anything but smudged shadows or feel anything other than pain that relates to be dropped into the blazing fire of the earths' core!

I knew that that statement came out way to easy, so it had to have been said in my head. How do I form the words to come from my mouth and make a noise to come from my throat at the same time? Concentrating, I wiggled my lips a little; well that's a good sign, no clay flakes or blood, my lips felt like they had formed the right shape, so I attempt to get the word out.

"Aawk," the sound croaks out.

"Good," Dr. Swanson said, with a sly smile that I just knew, had to be there. No one in their right mind could have heard such a feeble attempt at a word, and not had a snicker rise to the corner of their mouth as they smiled.

The thought of him watching me earlier and possibly smirking at me from the corner of his mouth now, sent me into a rage. Men, stupid know it all men! My lips wiggled this time without the motivation of my brain, rotating to a full pouty circle and waiting for the hard part to trigger.

"NO," the boorish sound startled me so, that in instinct I cupped my hands over my mouth.

"Very good," he declared. "What splendid progress. You were able to form a solid word and had an involuntary movement from your arms."

Somewhat embarrassed I hid my arms at my side. Then suddenly realizing what he had said, I lifted them again in front of me. With my eyes still closed I slowly rotated them, admiring them, not their look obviously, but the amplification that their movement meant. This body wasn't just some hollow shell, nor was it bond by the psycho straight jacket it once felt. Then from out of the blue, I felt my hands entwined in a mass of soft satin.

"Mm... my," I began to stammer, "Blank...blanket?"

"Your hair, the nurses have made a point of brushing it every night for you, hoping it may soothe your sleep, and dreams."

"Hmm."

"Do you know where you are?" he asked again.

"Hos...pital," I responded, a little unsure.

"Well, yes. But when I asked you earlier you said you didn't know, why?"

"No," I began, shaking my head lightly, "no, A...Av... Ava."

"Do you prefer to be called by a middle name or such then?"

Without answering him, I shook my head lightly again, and waited. The room felt quiet, too quiet. His breathing was racing to the rhythm of an upbeat drum, and the harder I listened to it, the fast the wheels in my head spun.

"You mean that you are not Ava?" he questioned, sounding quite puzzled.

"Right," the word flowed smooth from my lips, without the hesitation.

"Do you know who you are then?"

His question sent my head reeling again, I had been so set and determined to make him understand that I was not Ava, that it never even crossed my mind to tell him that I was...

Heat began to streak the outside of my cheeks, resting absently and bitterly at the corners of my mouth.

... that I didn't know who I was. How was that possible?

"Do you have any memories about yourself? Any memories about those around you or things you did?

"No," I mumbled, tasting the adversely bitter salt of my tears.

"Ok," he replied softy, patting my hand again, "everything will be fine."

"What is wrong with me, why can't I remember who I am and why do you think that I am Ava?"

"I need to ask a few more questions first, before I can give you any answers to that. Are you ok with that, it will kind of be a test of sorts, but without all the machines?"

"Yes, I guess, if you think it will help," I answered in a scuffing tone.

"It will. First count from one to ten backwards."

I signed impatiently at the stupidity that this was already heading, "ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. Happy, do I pass?" I said starting to feel exceptionally irritated with him again.

"Good. Now, how about twenty-five multiplied by four?"

"A hundred, what is the point of this?"

"Could you recite the alphabet," he asked ignoring my question.

"Yes, but I won't. So what the hell is going on with me? Can't you just tell me who I am and why I don't know anything about myself — isn't it fair that I be able to know that!"

The urge to start screaming and throwing some sort of toddler's temper tantrum was starting to feel like a good idea at this point. I'm laying here, eyes closed, not knowing who I am and having to trust this man. This man, that won't even give me the respect of answering my questions. This man that is talking to me like some kindergarten child on their first day of elementary school.

The sound of his feet shuffling on the floor as he paced along my bedside, started to engrave into my head. The tails of his medical coat could be heard swishing behind each step that he took and his pants were grating together, similar to that of nails grazing a chalk board. His every step irritated me; sent me into a dizzy of a rage.

"Enough!" I screamed, semi-unsure if I was screaming at the doctors annoying movements or the continuous small talk that kept filtering through my mind.

Either way, the noise stopped altogether. Then I hated myself for my sudden abruptly rude behavior. I may not have known anything about who I was, but I had learned that the silence disturbed me. When everything was quiet it allowed me to have dark thoughts that made me cringe, so I broke the silence myself.

"I'm sorry," I started, "but you need to understand how hard, not to mention," I paused, oh what was the word that I was looking for... "Confusing this is for me. Could you please just explain what is wrong with me? Please," I pleaded.

"Your right, I should be considering your feelings a little more here, I just didn't want to jump to speculations about what was going on with you. Comparing your responses now, in relation to what all your tests have shown for the past three weeks, it does seem that you have amnesia my dear. Now, I do know that you are Ava, Miss Ava Kendrew, I treated you about a month ago at my clinic, and you are not a person who is easy to forget. Are you ok?"

I nodded slowly, I am Ava Kendrew, hmmm, Ava...

"Why can I remember other things, like math and colours, but nothing about myself? Did I damage the part of my head that holds my memories from the accident?"

"No, everything as I said before shows that there was no brain damage at all. The accident, well," he paused, searching for the right words it seemed, "the accident never actually affected your head. I believe that the reason you can remember some things, is because you are suffering from a specific type of amnesia; referred to as dissociative amnesia. When somebody is diagnosed with this type of amnesia, it refers to the way that the memories are stored and why their retrieval is being psychologically impaired by your brain. See you still have every memory you ever had... somewhere, in your head; but something in your brain is refusing to allow you to remember them, it's what we called a defense mechanism. Your brain is protecting you from your memories."

"Protecting me from what memories, though?"

"That is something no doctor could ever tell you. On a general basis, the majority of cases are caused by some sort of trauma in the patient's life, but I can't pinpoint any individual event in your life and say that's it. This will probably be one of the last things you want to hear, but you will have to rely on things and people from your life and past, in order to connect the broken dots. I'm Sorry."

"Dr. Swanson, why am I even here — you said the "accident" but never anything more. What happened?"

He was quiet for a moment, perhaps paused in thought or perhaps getting tired of all the questions.

"Actually Ava, it's getting late, and I still have to finish my rounds before the end of my shift. Why don't you take some time to work on focusing your eyes again and get some rest? We can pick up on this tomorrow."

Before I could protest his leaving me with more unanswered questions, he had mumbled a quick good night. The silence slipped through as the door made it's swooshing close from his exit, and I was alone, again.

Why did he tend to avoid so many questions all the time? Obviously he didn't understand that a person couldn't make any dots connect from their past on the sole fact that their name was Ava. Ava, I thought to myself again; well I guess I should be happy, at least I didn't have some completely ridiculous name. Where would I begin to find people from my past to help me remember who I was, I hadn't even heard anyone else's voice but Dr. Swanson's and the woman named Susan, did I even have any friends or family who loved me?

So many questions, so little answers, and an empty head that couldn't even point the direction in which to search... how I hoped that Dr. Swanson would be able to at least spin my body in the right direction, before the medical insurance providers decided to kick my ass out of this hospital bed. Oh god, do I even have medical insurance... ah, I'd have to worry about that later, even with my mind as empty as it apparently was, it still didn't have enough room to hold all the questions that I had been pondering about.

I allowed my mind to relax for a minute and then noticed that the rainbow reflectors weren't visible, and decided that maybe it would be time to try focusing the eyes again, besides it sure would be nice to view Dr. Swanson's face when he was explaining his answers. He was able to conceal too much from me when his expression was obsolete to my sight.

The left lid slanted open first, and I wondered if that meant that I might be left handed. I would have to pay particular attention to these minute details now in order to discover who I was, am. Both eyes were now beginning to slide open, I paused and waited, but this time, no leak sprung from my eyes. My body allowed them to fully open, still no tears, and no fire to put out. My fist rubbed at them, they felt itchy and dry, and all the images around me were blurred into each other.

Not fully aware of how to teach my eyes to focus, I figured that starting slow was going to be my best approach. Looking around, I found my perfect shaded area of pink, the one that I had seen earlier this morning. I stared at it, nothing. Hmm... quickly my eye lids shot closed and opened up again, still nothing. I stared more eagerly now, trying to concentrate solely on the pink smudge. A wrinkle could be felt riding up my nose to the center of my brow; my eyes had a thin slit in them now that I was looking through. I continued to stare and stare... something crisscrossed in my gaze. My eyes had intersected each other's path and there it was! Perfect, a flawless beauty... sitting across from me, was a fully bloomed pink tiger lily caressed in a smudge of pink. More tiger lilies? Maybe, but it was too late to tell, my eyes rolled to a shut and my temples started to pound again.

I laid there in bed with the perfect image to close my eyes and fall asleep to, my simple pink tiger lily. I gazed at it lying there; nestled in a dust of pink cloud... so flawless... pure wild beauty... and sleep had come.

What was happening to my pure little tiger lily, I could see it sitting there in front of me, but someone had lifted it just so, right out of my reach. I gasped, watching as the lily slowly bowed down to an invisible presence. It's once spry petals, were now being drained of their life right in front of me, limping their way to death. Their edges began to curve into themselves, the once bright coloured pink fading to a placid sick look. A charcoal colour beginning to coat them, it slowly skulked its' way up towards the center of the blossom.

Suddenly the pink was entirely seized. I stare at it bewildered, as the now smudged flower crumbles to dust. A breeze comes, lifting the dusted particles and blowing them into my eyes, in reaction my eyes close against the pain, tightly. Tears began to run from them again. These tears felt strange; there is no warmth from them. They are cold, like ice cutting its' way from my eyes and down the skin of my face. My body is trembling... could the tears really be cutting me? No, the atmosphere around me has changed too, clammy...

"Please," I beg without opening my eyes. There was no need to. I already knew what was out there.

... hush lil' baby... don't cry...hmm hmm ...good lil' girl...hmm ...don't say a word

"Please, please just leave me alone."

...hmmm, hmmm... gonna sing you a lullaby... Ava

My body goes erect at the sound of my name; I had heard my name before from that voice, somewhere else though. I open my eyes and scanned around me. I can't see anyone. Just illogical humming sounds.

The bullet comes from nowhere flying through the blackness towards me at lightning speed, I close my eyes... embracing, waiting for the pain. The stab comes from the center of my stomach, it surprised me, I had never had the bullet miss its' mark before, but I double over in horror just the same

My whole body bolted upright from this dream. I gasp, only sensing a minor trace of the burning in my throat. My eyes are open, fixed in the dim light of the moon, but seeing nothing just the same. Sweat is pulsating from my body, still cold and clammy. Mindlessly I prepare to lift my hand to wipe across my forehead, suddenly sensing that my hand had curved at the navel of my belly where the bullet had hit me...

The baby... my baby.

****

The Mission

When he walked into the room, I was awake and sitting upright on my bed. I still wasn't able to see everything in focus yet, but I knew it was him the moment the swaying white smudge crossed the path of my vision. It had seemed hours that I had sat there waiting for him to come and see me; hours since a vivid sense of new knowledge, of fear, had woke me from my nightmare. Knowledge that needed questions answered and a heart that yearned to hear the answers that I wanted, not the ones that had resurfaced in my foggy broken sleep. Before giving him a chance to speak, or yodel out his peaceful good morning to me, I spoke...

"My baby!" That was all I could choke out before the sobs cut my remaining words from exiting my throat.

"Ava, you can, I mean, did you get your memory back?" Dr. Swanson questioned me.

So it was true then — there had been a baby, but where was my precious little one now? I shook the bewilderment from my head, answering his question at the same time.

"No, I don't remember anything at all really." I began to stammer out, "I have been having these exceptionally real dreams, well nightmares actually. And last night it changed from the usual ones and when I was startled from the dream, I was holding my stomach in a protective manner and I realized that I was pregnant... or had been." I paused for a moment and then added so quietly, that it was almost more of a whisper to me. "I don't feel anything in my stomach, it's empty... hollow, there is no feeling of love anywhere in my body."

The white smudge slowly wound its way through the blur of beeping machines and lowered down at the end of my bed. A slight breeze formed from the weight that his body had placed on the gravitational force between him and the structure of the mattress, the cool air tingled at the arch of my feet and sent a wave of goose bumps soaring up my legs and across my arms. He sighed, deep and heavy.

"I think it's time that we talk," he said.

I concentrated hard on him, until an instant of focus came through my sight and my gaze fell to his face, he was sullen, and seemed to be grimacing at himself, or life for putting him in this predicament; making him the one to have to have a conversation that he was so clearly dreading. His image became a damped white smudge again, as I realized that the image I had once focused so hard on had now become clouded by a new onset of tears.

I closed my eyes tightly, feeling the sobs welling inside my chest, my body ready to begin hyperventilating. Without opening my mouth I began to concentrate on breathing slowly in and out, I knew that I was breathing through my nose which was supplied with oxygen, but at least it gave me something to concentrate on, to slow down my trembles.

Dr. Swanson's image skipped into my mind and I stared at the new intruding vision with regret. This poor man, who had once come in my life, and with the sound of his voice alone, soothed and comforted the aches that stemmed from my body and soul, was now perched at the end of my bed, seeming as if his own soul was being drained from his body. He was an older man, appearing to be in his late fifties, with a strong frame that appeared relatively tall from the stance that he took sitting on my bed, slouch and all. His hair was offset from the normality that most aged men had, instead of white or graying hairs appearing in the colour of his hair in the usual spots, he embraced a full head of snow white hair, with speckles of his natural colour around the frame of his face. The hair appeared soft and added an overall appearance of a matte and gentle tone to the man's warm and slightly creased face.

His voice, even toned as it had been from the first time I heard it, though crackling every now and then from the ailing that he obviously felt in having to have this conversation with me, sliced his image from my mind, and I opened my eyes again to watch the smudges around us, as his voiced trailed into the story...

"The first time that I met you was when you came to my clinic, the time that I mentioned to you yesterday. You were such awe to me, the poise and grace that flowed from you was such a contrast from the life they portrayed you to have come from. A home pregnancy test had already confirmed for you that you were pregnant, you hadn't come to me for that — instead you wanted to know at what stage in a pregnancy you could have a paternity test done. I tried explaining the risks that having this type of test done could bring to your baby, and that it was much safer to wait till the birth of the child if there were any concerns about whom the father was. But stubborn I can say you are, and you insisted that you had seen plenty of women who had had this done before with no damage done to the baby — you know, one of those stupid talk shows," he said gesturing his detest with the flick of his hand.

"And you insisted right back at me that more risk could await the baby if you waited till after the birth to do the test."

"So what, you're saying I was some kind of whore?" I asked, slightly angered, but somehow not seemingly as surprised, considering the weird dreams, and having had no one to come and visit me in here.

"No." he replied quickly, "well not that I know of, I had kind of assumed that a one-night mistake thing had happened, it happens more than people believe. Anyways we had set an appointment for the following week, and then on the day that you were expected for the appointment..." his voice trailed off quietly.

Things were quiet for a while, and when he started again, his voice was shaken, as if reliving the moment as he spoke.

"The day that you were supposed to come in, I had an emergency call from here, the Sinette Grandes Regional Hospital. The nurse told me that a young lady had been brought into emergency with no identification or personal belongings of any kind, just a business card with my name on it. They had hoped that I might be of some assistance in helping to identify you and get in contact with any family. After having met you that day, and hearing the anguish from your voice about having the test done — I just couldn't leave your care to anyone else when I arrived. I said that you were a new patient of mine and that I was your family doctor now. After what they did to you"... humph, he grunted dissatisfied, "I felt obliged to help you."

"After what they, did to me? Did the Doctors do something to me when I got here?" I question, slightly shocked and not understanding what he was referring to.

"No, Ava, I mean the people that put you here. An hour before your appointment with me, the police received a phone call about a beaten girl in an alley way." I shuddered as he spoke the word beaten. "The cops found your body only a block and a half from the police station, though the police insisted that it was some kind of mugging gone bad — because all your stuff was taken, I still don't believe it. No mugger does that kind of thing, only someone with a mission could do it."

"A mission," I puzzled, trying to keep my voice calm. Every time I got upset he seemed to excuse himself from my bedside, leaving me grasping for more answers, this time I didn't want to faze any of my hurt or fear on him, and scare him off.

"Yes, it had to have been a mission — or at least something of that nature," he started "remember how I said that your head had never been damaged in the, accident, as you called it?" I nodded my head; I remembered that vividly, it was one of the times he had left me with all those questions.

"Well, just as your head had not been damaged, neither had anything else — nothing that is, except one area." My hand protectively embraced my stomach again.

"Yes, Ava. That one thing. Whoever beat you, knew that you were pregnant and was not happy with it. They never laid a hand on you anywhere but your stomach, they savagely beat every ounce of life that lay within you, from your belly out."

"My baby..."

"I'm sorry dear; their mission was a success, that poor little one never had a chance to grace the doors of this world. Its life was taken before we even had the chance to aide it. I am so sorry Ava!" his weight lifted off the bed with his apologizes. An apologize that, was not warranted from him — he didn't take the life of my child he wasn't even given the chance to save the life of my child.

Instead of leaving this time, as I had expected him to do, he began pacing again. His breathing turned into heavy pants and his smudged white image began to fly across the room, making my head spin in circles, as my eyes painfully rotated with his movement.

"The police here don't believe me Ava. They feel that no one in their right mind would have touched you like this, that I am reading into it the things that I want to see, because I couldn't help save your baby. But they're wrong Ava — I can feel it. You are going to have to remember what happened though, and I know that I said that no one could help you with that. But I have enquired with an old friend and he is intrigued with your situation, if you'd like, he is willing to help you."

Still trying to wrap all his words through the rotating images of white, I wasn't able to respond, and he filled the silence for me.

"He's a retired detective now, but he was the best in his day and he still has a lot of the right contacts. I have informed him of everything and he agrees that it seems that something else is going on here. He will fly out in a couple of days to meet with you and you can decide for yourself if you would like his assistance. I had advised him to allow you some time to meet with your family, so that you could talk with your loved ones before discussing anything with him."

"I have family?" I asked sourly, with the thought of their abandonment during this time, biting at my lips.

"Oh yes, I notified your parents when you awoke, and informed them of the amnesia, however, I did ask them to give you a few days to try to adjust to things, you know, without the sudden intrusion of people that you know that you are presumed to love, but can't remember. Figured that might be a little hard on the memory and heart at the same time. They will be coming up here to see you tomorrow." he stated, and for a slight moment, my eyes focused to be able to see that he had relaxed again, allowing the creases around his eyes to fall gently down his cheeks, and alleviating the ones that had formed earlier on his forehead.

"What are their names — my parents I mean?"

"Sophia and James Kendrew."

"Dr. Swanson, you said earlier that the police here said that no one in their right mind would have done this to me, the way that you feel, mission and all that. But why is that, why not me?"

His chuckle was boyish like and bellowed off the walls as it had once before, it reminded me of my angel, and I felt slight warmth begin to glow within me.

"Why, Ava, you are the daughter of the great James Kendrew, Police Chief of Saxon, the big city just outside of Sinette Grandes. That's why they don't think anyone would have touched you, unless it was some poor man looking for some money and not in the know of the limelight that follows your father around." His tone was very sarcastic, and I could tell that he didn't seem very approving of the devotion that my father obviously received for his status as the Chief.

"Well Ava, I am going to have to get back to my rounds. Susan will be in here shortly to help you get cleaned up and see if you need anything. Is there anything else I can do before I go?"

"Just one more thing Doctor?"

"Yes, of course."

"When I first met you, you made it sound like someone had already told you about me and that I wasn't what you had expected, why is that?"

"Oh that. Well that was front and center — a Sinette Grandes Headline Story. The police Chief performs a drug bust in his own city and amongst the arrests was his own sixteen year old daughter. The papers claimed that you were so high on cocaine that you paced in the cell from the time that they put you there till your bail hearing thirty-three hours later. You were definitely a far cry from the Ava that walked into my office. But I heard that you had been put on probation because you were a minor, not to mention that you had a father with the right names and numbers, and then you were reprimanded to the custody of a rehab center for twelve months."

"I was a teenage drug addict," I replied, though more or less just repeating it out loud, making sure that I had heard the words right.

"So the papers say. They say the T.V. lies, but the paper never does." He chuckled again and then was gone through the door and out to the bustling of the hospital hallway.

****

Mental

Where the frigid night air of the hospital had once left my uncovered toes feeling frost bit, danced a little ray of hope. The freshly risen sun was showering its delicate warmth, through the slat of the floral patterned hospital drapes and feverishly rushing the coldness from my body.

I had awaken from an unconventionally peaceful sleep long before the sun had pierced through the skies, and being that the hospital air felt as chilly as it had at this time of the day, I made the unconscious decision to lay in my bed with my knees hugged tightly to warmth of my breast and tried to focus my eyes in the dimness of the hallway light that shone into the corner of my room.

As my body temperature restored to a normal setting, from the warmth that it had absorbed on behalf of the sun, I rolled over and sat myself up. I wanted to test the dexterity of my eye focus, which I was sure I had just spent hours honing in on. My previous nights' dream had ruined the beauty of my tiger lily, so I decided to try finding a fresh area to focus on; partially scared that if I saw the lily again it may be scorched to charcoal as it had been in my dream; and my worlds would collide, bringing the straight jacket of binding fog into this world and leaving me with nowhere to run.

My sight had found a mixture of green smudges located towards the corner of my room furthest from the door. As I stared at the corner, my eyes almost instantly focused the same as I had so diligently been practicing prior to the dawn of this new day. This repaired focus seemed to be able to sustain for a longer period of time and stretched the radius of my vision to a longer and wider area. It enabled me to view my surroundings with the sight of tunnel vision, and allowed me to spend more time looking at things and remembering the physical attributes of objects that my mind had allowed me to forget.

The green smudge that I had focused on, turned out not to be green at all, but in fact was this enormous bouquet of yellow carnations with a mixture of tiny little blue-bell strands draped over the edges and clenching the crest of each pale yellow bud. The over-sized bouquet reeked of being an arrogant symbol of "Get Well." This was quite apparently meant as a sympathy basket for my parents, one that had been sent from one of their affluent friends; not a genuine desire to send out one's best wishes to the invalid in bed.

The bouquet of delicately placed flowers began to disperse back into the green smudge that I had focused on earlier, as the remembrance that my parents were going to be coming in today, clouded my thoughts. Other than what Dr. Swanson had told me about them, I couldn't remember a thing—I wouldn't even be able to recognize them when they came in-my only clue would be that they most likely wouldn't be wearing the medical smocks that the hospital staff all donned.

Curiosity took me over and I had to wonder if the reunion with my parents could possibly be so strong that it might allow me to recall all of my lost memories. Was it possible that the bond that a parent and child share; the same way that I had felt for my unborn child; to be a love that could pull the blinders from ones' eyes and allow them to evoke themselves? Could I find myself through their eyes and restore that which was stolen from them. I wanted them to come and tell me nice things about who I was, something that could replace the only things that I had been able to absorb so far—a drug addict teenager, pregnant from a possible list of unknown partners and mother of a murdered unborn child! I wanted them to come in and tell me that I had been a young bubbly child who ran around the grass, bare footed and blowing bubbles in the summer air, that I had been a straight A high school graduate and that my "rebel persona" was just the making of a dead-end reporter looking for his own ride to stardom. Deep inside, I knew that that was just a fantasy. That I wanted to make all the repulsion that seemed to be surrounding me go away. Deep down though, I knew that I must have been a bad person, why else would my own mind block itself from conjuring up any recollection of my memories.

I guess I would have to either, start fresh and create a new me, or else dig through my past and try to amend what I had done. Unfortunately, the latter seemed like the only way to resolve the dreading nightmares that continued to torture my sleep, and was regretfully so not the path that I desperately wanted to take.

"Ava, oh, my baby," an overly exuberant voice gasped, startling me from my day dreaming. My head jerked towards the sound of the voice and again my eyes had allowed me to focus instantly on my subject.

There, was a woman standing at the foot of my bed, hands clasped over her mouth. Her grin was so wide from dimple to dimple, that her small hands never stood a chance of concealing its shocked gasp. She was a shorter woman, with an hour glass figure, somewhat perfectly proportioned — not too small, and not obese. A mass of obviously dyed-blonde hair was pulled back and clipped to the top of her head. Stray ringlets danced along, falling from the sides of her loosely piled hairdo and framed the plump cheeks of her face. The pattern of her red dress looked as if it had been sewn around her body to complement the overflowing nature that her bosom took , the cut of the dress revealed enough of her womanly assets to appeal the eye, and yet hid enough to intrigue a male eye to take a bit of a longer gander. She dropped her hands down to her sides, revealing a soft and child-like grin, with obscenely over-botoxed lips, that had been painted a shade of red that flawlessly matched the colour of her dress. As her hands dropped, she wrinkled her nose up, sending a disgruntled look to form in the creases of her smile. Under my breath I giggled at the sight of her, it was like watching a child tasting a lemon for the first time.

"My god! James, would you look at her, they are starving her in here. And this bedding, how can they expect a person to sleep and get well while sleeping on poverty made sheets?" She started to lift up the edges of the sheets and patting at my pillow.

"I mean really James, what good is it, paying all those taxes, if they can't even treat a person with a little class when they are ill? My poor Ava, they've just thrown you in this destitute place, they call a room. Treating you like you were some stray to be picked up from the cardboard box left on the curb. It's no wonder you've stayed locked in your head for so long... who in their right mind would want to leave sleep for this?"

"For Pete sake, Sophia, quit exaggerating and would you stop coddling the child already!" a man's voice replied to her abruptly.

I had been so overwhelmed by the woman's exhausting presence that I hadn't even noticed the man that had entered with her. My attention followed to where the sound of his voice had come from and focused through the sunlight, to find a man standing with firm posture staring out the window.

"She probably doesn't even remember who you are, and you're worried about how many damn stitches the hospital sheets have," he added without even taking a second to remove his gaze from the window to glance at her.

My glance sifted to her, ready to hear some kind of feisty reply from this woman, but instead she sighed her disgust along with her temporary resignation in the fight, and shuffled over to the corner and appeared to be re-arranging.

I had to admit that even though I didn't know who she was, I felt bad for her, I thought that the spirit surely had been crushed from her, but she seemed to actually be just as happy and content with making sure that the flowers and gift baskets were aligned perfectly, and seemed to be trashing anything that showed even the slightest sign of wilting.

I altered my position just slightly, so that I could see the man again, he stood motionless and still staring at the same point of direction. He was a fair bit taller than the woman, and had a husky solid build to him. His hair was dark and cleanly cropped short at the nape of his neck. Age was more apparent on his face then it was hers, not that it meant that he was older, just that he wasn't a Botox enthusiast! As my focus stretched a little further, I was able to fully see his stance. His hands sat in the pockets of his finely pressed pants; for all the wrinkles that he had on his face there was not even a single one in sight on his clothes. Just below the navy coloured shoulder of his shirt, were three stripes stitched into the cloth, one red, one yellow and one white; I began to ponder what the colours might represent when my eyes caught sight of the embroidering just below the stitches, Chief Kendrew.

These were my parents! The stern man that stared out the window without the slightest expression of emotion on his face was my father, and the woman, I turned back to gawk at her again; whom was so full of energy and excitement that she could actually make a person believe she was an over aged child, was my mother. James and Sophia Kendrew, my parents.

"You're my parents," I said, semi-stating and semi-questioning.

"Well of course we're your parents, dear," my mothers' voice replied in a completely exuberant tone, as she bounced in a youthful manner over to my bedside and began to start parting my hair into her perfect look.

"See, James, how could you ever think that she wouldn't remember us?"

This time the man, my father, glanced towards her, and made a subtle roll of his eyes, "Yes, her response to our presence is just full of her loving knowledge that she knows who her parents are!"

This time my mothers' eyes squinted into a fine line, as she spit back at him, "Why must you always be such a pessimist? She's our daughter, her memories may not all be there, but her heart knows." With that her smile returned and a doe like innocence swept into her bright blue eyes as she stared down at me, tenderly brushing the stray hairs off my forehead.

What a strange pair they made, it made me wonder how they ever ended up together. Were they better matched when they were younger, and just after so many years on the police force, my father had turned cold in his human nature? Or could I have been the cause of their relationship, one of those one night things of fun, which turned into a full-time pledge of responsibility and commitment?

"Umm, do I have any brothers or sisters?" I asked inquisitively.

"God lord," my mother replied with a full laugh straight from the bottom of her gut, "one was plenty enough for us!"

Mumbling from the window, my father added, "You were too much as it was."

"I understand that I wasn't apparently the easiest child for you guys, and I apologize for that, I truly don't remember, but I would like the chance to make things right."

Something in what I had said apparently allowed my father to find his emotional side, because he abruptly turned on his heels and shifted himself to face me. His body began to shake, violently, but not from fear as I had found my body to do so many times, but from a rage that was ready to erupt from within.

"Easy," he screamed at me, "Do you have any idea the kind of shit that you have put your mother through, the embarrassment that you have caused me, to our family? You don't deserve to have your memories wiped from you, you should be condemned to have to remember and regret what you've caused us, for the rest of your life. If we have to live with your pain, why the hell shouldn't you?"

Warm tears began to well up in my eyes, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that it was that bad."

"No of course not, little Ava doesn't see anything but herself. Never did and you never well. I tell you Sophia, when she started yammering at that rehab clinic about all that bullet crap, we should have had her committed then — damn psycho crap, runs from your side of the family you know," he said, turning back to stare out the window.

That same feeling of my body hyperventilating inside itself had returned. Maybe I wasn't the greatest child for any parent, but how could my own father talk to me like that. Was his aversion for me really that strong? Was it possible that I could just be some mental case? He had mentioned from my mother's side of the family, maybe I was just genetically screwed up.

"Well good morning everyone," Dr. Swanson greeted as he entered the room; his voice was chipper, but not transparent to the tension that lingered in the air. "Wasn't expecting everyone so early this morning, but glad to see you were able to make it."

My mother apparently vague to the mental understanding of the tension in the room, charmed in with the same animated chatter that she had when she first graced the room with her presence. I listened to her questioning Dr. Swanson about why my bed sheets were in such poor condition and what exactly the hospital does with all the tax money that it receives from city payers such as her. He attempted to explain that the sheets were standard sheets for all hospital rooms and that tax money commonly went towards acquiring and preserving hospital equipment; but she didn't seem to actually be looking for answers at the moment and continued to ask what kind of food they were feeding me, cause I most certainly was not the same daughter that she had seen prior to my admittance into the Sinette Regional.

"In fact," she declared abruptly, "she seems to be wasting away right in front of us, when was the last time that you fed her anyways?"

I looked at her and her hands were on her hips, smile cocked up in an attempt to look like someone of dignified importance that he must listen to. But even as she tried to stand there with all the importance of the world, she still just resembled a toddler throwing a temper tantrum in an attempt to try and get her way. I almost expected her to stomp her foot on the ground and throw her arms at her chest if she didn't begin to get her way.

"Give it a rest Sophia; the Doctors' don't care about all your trivial requests. There only here to get the patients up on their feet and kick them home. This sure isn't some pampering spa like your use to!" Again my father had used that sarcastic tone, only this time it was aimed at my mother and Dr. Swanson.

How could he talk to my angel that way, Lord knew that it wasn't my father there when I first opened my eyes and began to experience all the burning and aching that was associated with trying to be human again. My glance focused in on Dr. Swanson and I could see the grimace that had come across his face, and immediately recognized the look, the rude undertone that my father had spoken with, had definitely not went unnoticed, at least not to Dr. Swanson that is.

Mom, on the other hand, shook it off her shoulders as she seem to do quite naturally and began talking again, "Well, I still don't see where the harm would be in at least letting dear ole' mom here bring in some Egyptian cotton sheets and having them put on the bed. Not as if I am asking the hospital to buy them or anything... though if one of those little candy strippers that you have parading through the hall manages to sneak off with them, you will be buying them! Comfort and class don't come cheap you know!"

"Yes, yes, I know Mrs. Kendrew. You are free to make Ava as comfortable as required or needed, as long as she gives her okay on the situation, alright," Dr. Swanson had replied as he laid his hand on the top of her shoulder.

"Oh goodie," she squealed and slapped her hands over her mouth again, still too wide to be completely under cover.

With that she was off, taking mental notes on things in the room, holding her arms apart as if she had a built in tape measure from fingertip to fingertip, and talking to her assistant, whom only she could see. The mental thing that my father spoke of earlier was starting to take some consciously real form, while I sat there and watched my mother, wondering if I was like that and if maybe I was being too judgmental on my father right now. I was his only daughter... only child for that matter, of course he had high expectations and was overly protective. Wasn't every good father like that?

"Danny boy, is that you?" a voice rasped from the entrance of the door, sounding too rough for the friendly words that it spoke.

Dr. Swanson's laugh echoed off the walls again, as I had noticed it did when he was caught completely candid in the moment. "Brooks, old buddy, come on in" his arm motioned in an open and friendly manner, as he gestured to our new company to enter.

"Ava dear, this is the man I was telling you about. This is Colin Brooks. Brooks, this here is Ava Kendrew and these are her parents, James and Miss Sophia," he said gesturing to each of us independently with a slight nod of his head.

I smiled in politeness to acknowledge the old man standing in front of us, but saying a word to him with my mother around would not be easy, the mere mention of her name, had her bounding over once again to be center stage to the conversation, and of course she led the way into the small talk without a moments' pause.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you Mr. Brooks, are you an old friend of the good doctor?" she inquired with such sweetness that you had to admire that she was a people person and knew how to handle herself at all moments.

"Oh yes, Danny and I go way back, but please call me Brooks, not one for the formalities you know," he replied. For as rough sounding as he was, not to mention his ragged outward appearances, he really seemed like he was a big teddy bear.

He reminded me of Mr. Wilson, from that old show Dennis the Menace, yet at the same time, seemed like an old grandpa that would fall to all fours for a child and start pretending to be a bucking bronco. Definitely on the stout side, he carried his statue well; dressed in a pair of slacks that had been pressed along the seam and a well-worn green plaid shirt. The silver framed lens that he wore just graced the backs of his ears; the fullness from his cheeks was evidently holding them in place quite well on their own, and the round stub at the end of his nose was discoloured with a rouge hue, indicating his self-indulgence with the liquor.

"Ava, Dan here has given me the eclipse version of your story and maybe we could discuss a few things and then if you're interested, I will come back down when you get situated at home and we could do a bit of the ole' Sherlock Holmes work together," Brooks said to me, nudging in the air at the end of his sentence, giving me a mock elbow to the gut.

"Excuse me, but firstly she won't be going home; she'll be coming to stay with her mother and me. And maybe we weren't properly introduced... I'm Police Chief, James Kendrew; and exactly what... kind of investigation work do you believe that you be doing with my daughter?"

"Oh I apologize Mr. Kendrew," Brooks said, laying his hand across his chest as a means of trying to show the sincerity of his apology, "I didn't mean to step on any toes here, just thought Ava could probably use some one-on-one help with her own investigation of getting herself back."

Folding his arms across his chest and bracing his stance in determining the alpha male status of the room, my father narrowed his eyes, "Oh I don't think it was you"...he paused and glanced at Dr. Swanson before returning his glare to Brooks..."whom was trying to step on toes."

"Dad, I want Brooks to help me with this and..."

"It's not up to you Ava," he replied, cutting me off abruptly.

"I'm not a child!"

His body began to vibrate again as he lowered his eyes at me, "You can't even remember who you are, I'd say that constitutes you being very much a child and in need of your parents care. In fact I would wager any amount of money, that I could warrant at least a dozen judges to make a court order, ruling you incompetent. Don't test me Ava!"

"Maybe so, but I bet I can get a medical review that states that I am not incompetent, only difference is that I won't have to pay the Doctor off!" I retorted.

"Sophia! Are you listening to your child, she's even more difficult than she was before." He turned to Dr. Swanson and Brooks, "You got her started, so she's your problem now, and I'll hold you response for the tornado of hell that she stirs up."

Without looking at anyone again, he stomped over to the door, "Sophia, you got fifteen minutes and then I'm gone, I've had enough of this child's games." With that he left, leaving hard hollow steps echoing behind his every footing.

"Well dear, I was thinking that a set of peach sheets would really brighten the room up in here. What do you think, should I bring them in tomorrow?" my mother asked, dumbfounding me. Was she completely oblivious?

Waiting for me to answer, she looked down at me, confused by my expression, "What?" Casually she glanced around at Dr. Swanson's face and then Brooks, when her gaze met mine again; I could see her literally still searching for what she just missed.

"Mom, what is wrong with you, how can you put up with him?"

"Oh that, that's just your father's loving way... you just don't remember, that's all," she mumbled, her voice quiet for the first time, as she began to busy herself again, tucking the edges of my poverty sheets around my body.

"He just needs time Ava. Give him some time, he'll come around." She kissed my forehead gently, and whispered, "Be here in the morning" and with that she slipped out of the room.

The room fell quiet again as I stared into the miles of clouds that had wedged itself between logic and reason in my brain. I looked up at Brooks and Dr. Swanson, with the conclusion coming into sight; my whole family was a mental case; one big flipping psycho circus!

****

No Light At The End Of The Tunnel

After eight days, my eyes had fully restored themselves, requiring no more concentrated focus from myself, just pure natural instinct.

I hadn't seen my father since that first day, but my mother came in every second day. Once she had ensured that my sheets were clean and returned to my bed, she diligently removed any withered flowers from the "gift" baskets and inspected the food the hospital was feeding me, and then politely said her loves and would excuse herself.

Once I had regained my eyesight, the oxygen tube was removed from my nostrils and from there I began the mountain climb back to attaining full functioning of the remaining parts of my body. The doctor was right, slow progress was the definition of the therapeutic recovery that my body was being put through.

Hourly sessions, began to blend into days and then into months.

Even with my eyesight operating at its' fullest— there was still no light at the end of this tunnel, at least not to be seen by me.

It took a week before my legs could stand on their own; even in the beginning with support, they gave out under me, just couldn't handle my own weight bearing on them. After that, another full month before my feet would move with the support of aides.

Half a month after walking with my aides, my legs finally began to allow me to walk short distances on my own, unobstructed; it was then that I saw the first light. Though it wasn't a true light in the sense, and it wasn't some miraculous progress that I made on my road to recovery...still it showed me the light, the beauty of these every day load-bearing, strenuous teachings that my therapist put me through.

When I woke up, it was the morning after taking my first steps. One of the nurses had already been to my room and had opened the drapes that shaded the windows; as I looked outside I seen through the shaded tunnel and saw the light on the other side.

Outside the window, was the first snow fall of the year. Fluttering from the skies and dancing with the wind, were the tiniest most delicate white flakes. As they twirled and intertwined with one another, the sun bounced off each, throwing a reflection of rainbow across the open air. The reflections reminded me of that warm place I had found in my head, were my own personal crystal had dangled. These precious little gifts of nature were my light!

I had known what snow was, instinctively, I knew what it was. But seeing and feeling each of these things, were the gift of my light. I was given the chance to experience all of life's gifts for the true beauty that it was. I had known snow before, and cursed it for being cold and lasting too long; never taking the time to notice the way each flake was unique and moved together swiftly but synchronized to all of the earth's elements. Same as I had once known how to see; though I never took the time to appreciate what I saw, the wondrous nuts and bolts of our world.

And now, I realized, that though I had once know how to walk, until now, I had never respected the truth of being able to walk; to be free; to dance the way that all of nature moved with the wind; to bound, and feel the power of every movement flow through my body. Losing the capacity to do all of life's normal little things that I had taken for granted, made me revere the pain that I was enduring to retrieve them again. Not only was I seeing the light of my progress, but I could see the light in my life again. Hope.

After having endured another exhausting day of therapeutic pain; rotating muscles that I never knew existed; stretching ligaments till they were ready to spring out of my body; the comfort of the overly priced sheets that my mother had been so adamant about bringing, were my heaven to the hell that my body had just been put through.

Sleep was just a whispers length away. My eyes felt groggy, as my mind began to urge for the rest that my body was begging for. Serene quietness, penetrated through the room, a light blue mist began to frolic at the corners of my eye lids, gently dusting them down, till they pressed shut; finally relaxed to the solitude of sleep.

The tune sounded different this time, hypnotic and sweet to my ears. So perfect, that I was longing to hear it. Desperate for it. I had to find it; my hands were sifting through the black fog. Desperately my body was cutting through the thickness of the hoarse blackness that was drowning me; pulling me further into its depths. My mind was urging me to turn and run... but I couldn't. I couldn't turn back, that song, so simple, so perfect...

"hmm, hmm... and if you be a good little girl...hmm...hmm...and don't cry..."

I had to find it, what had changed it so that it was such a splendid thing; filling my head and heart in pure erythematic harmony. One last slit through the fog, and the beauty froze me. So tiny. So perfect. There she sat, long brown curls dangling around her angelic little face, pulled to the top of her head with a shiny red ribbon. The white laced socks that surrounded her feet were delicately crossed underneath the tiny frame of her body, as she sat on the ash tinged floor, poised with the form of a little lady in training. Her black dress with deep red poke-a-dots grazed the bottoms of her pale stubby knees and blended seamlessly into the darkness that twisted around her. Cradled in the seat of her lap, was a teddy; latte coloured, one ear hanging at the threads. The teddy was her solace; her rock.

Her sweetness began to flow from her again, "...hmm...don't say word...,"

My legs crossed underneath my body, as I lowered to be at her level. I raised my arm up and started to extend my hand to her, I wanted to sweep her into my lap and cuddle her the way she did that sullen teddy. Hold her tight and safe; be her rock... or maybe have her be my rock... so perfect.

Whispers blew through the fog, making translucent strands blow between us. Frozen. Both of us, frozen in time, at the moment that the whispers began. The bullet was gliding. Freely cutting through the surrounding darkness. I opened my mouth to scream for the precious little one to run; the fog rushed into my throat, gagging me with pain. I clutched my hand to my throat, it had to stop, and I needed to warn her...the bullet was too close. There was no time. Her sweet humming began again, drowning the whispers from my ear; she looks up, balls of tears streaming down her face...and then dust.

Gone. She was gone.

****

Silver Lining

Ugh... where was that damn thing anyways? With next to no personal belongings in a private hospital room, how could I possibly have lost my only ponytail. As I stood with one hand still holding the bunched up satin of curls to the back of my head, I turned to search and from the corner of my eye, caught a glance of myself in the mirror.

Even after seven months of living in the hospital and doing my therapeutic work to rehabilitate and unearth the genuine side of me, I still had a hard time adjusting to the fact that the reflection that gazed back from the little unadorned hospital mirror was me. Instead, I found myself admiring the image of the woman that stared back at me – the resemblance to my mother was uncanny.

Though, without all the Botox and hair dye I definitely lacked the animated Barbie doll that she emulated. The curls that bounced around her chubby cheeks and wide-eyed grin, embraced the frame of my own olive toned face. The same hue of brown that ran through my hair could be seen in hers. Of course hers could only be seen at the roots of her beach blonde hair. The subdued look that I had seen nearly every day in the depth of her bright blue eyes was identical to the muted look that haunted me from the pale green eyes that stared back at me. Unconsciously my nose wrinkled at the image in the mirror, making my face become distorted and the thin brown band wrapped around my wrist was brought into full focus.

"Of course," I grunted to myself, as I reached towards my other wrist.

Who else would spend ten minutes searching for a hair tie, followed by another twenty minutes staring at themselves in the mirror, just to find that the hair tie was on their damn wrist the whole time? Gently I wrapped the band around the bunch of hair that my other hand still held tightly to the top of my head, and then with a second loop and a quick tug, the mass of curls was secure.

Sighing, I flung my body backwards onto the hospital bed, which was still made up with mom's peachy Egyptian cotton sheets. My head shifted to the left to look at the clock, ten thirty exactly. A half an hour left.

Starring up at the ceiling again, I began to ponder my nervousness. What if Dr. Swanson was wrong? What if I wasn't ready to be released? How was I possibly going to be able to function outside of the hospital? Being stubborn, as I had clearly discerned myself to be, I was adamant with my mother that I would not give my dad the satisfaction of me coming and living with them, even on a temporary basis. I was determined to prove that I was not incompetent and that I would be just fine on my own... however positive I had been before, doubt was definitely flooding through my mind now though. With my release time quickly approaching, I was beginning to realize everything that I had come to count on the hospital staff to do for me. And now, I couldn't even reassure myself that I could make my own toast. Oh my god! How could I possibly manage? That's it! I'll have to just tell Dr. Swanson that I'm not ready yet, and surely he can't force me to be released....

"Good morning Ava."

Abruptly my body shifted up and I crossed my legs on the bed to see Brooks standing at the door. In the time that I spent enduring my recovery, he had been there right along with me. After our initial meeting during that first tense afternoon, we had spent a lot of time talking and I had come to grow quite fond of Brooks. He had become my substitute grandfather.

"Morning," I replied, glancing at him as he strode across to the oversized chair in the corner of the room. Contrary to his gruff appearance, I had found that Brooks was easy to befriend, and he had a way about him that always showed the silver lining in every dark cloud that crossed my direction.

"Your lookin' a little disgruntled this mornin'," he said, commenting on what must have been the obvious.

"Yes, you know Brooks, I've been thinking," I cut myself off mid-way through to glance up at him from where I sat, head bent, hunched over the thumbs that twiddled in my lap, "maybe I should have my parents send a car down from their house. I mean it took me thirty minutes just to find something this morning that I had had on me the whole time. If I can't do something as simple as get myself ready, I mean... maybe my dad was right, maybe I'm not competent enough to take care of myself right now."

The legs of the oversized green chair squeaked as Brooks, shifted positions, with his head nodding, apparently contemplating everything that I just said.

"Did you find what you were looking for on your own?" he questioned.

"Yes, but it took me thirty minutes," I responded, "and it was on my wrist," I added, muttering shyly.

He began to nod his head again, "Um hm, um hm. I think you forgetting the important part Ava, you did it. You did it on your own. No one can give you any set right or wrong way of getting yourself ready, or how to manage your life. And darlin' if you are inept for misplacing something for a while... then damn am I screwed," he said, as he lifted the ends of his pant legs from the base of his knees, exposing one grey sock and one black sock.

As I began to chuckle, the corners of my mouth shifted upwards, pushing hard against my cheeks till every muscle in my face hurt.

I grimaced at myself, embarrassed by my childish self-loathing. "Thanks Brooks."

"Ah what else is an old man good for?" he replied as he stood from the chair and stretched, "well what do ya say lil' lady, are you ready to be escorted to your home?"

"Home... My home." Smiling at Brooks, I took a hold of his arm, which he had so diligently and protectively held out to me. "There really is a silver lining isn't there?"

With a gentle grin and nod, Brooks patted my hand, "A silver lining and a new start."

****

Home Sweet Unknown

The cab ride from the hospital to the home that I apparently kept prior to my coma was a long and quite ride. Joining me was Brooks, whom had come to the little apartment earlier in the week and made arrangements with the caretaker to get the keys and ensure that everything was in order. As the driver swiftly pulled the vehicle against the curb to a stop, I gazed at the scenery out the window.

Staring straight back at me, I could see a cashmere and chocolate coloured brick building which merged with the clouds that speckled throughout the blue sky. Multiple big bay windows lined the wall of the building; each bordered by obscenely long frosted windows and vines that swooped along the edges with white blossoms dropping between the leaves. Just off-centered to the right of the building was a set of large mahogany wooden doors and a brass sign that read Willowbrook Estates. To the left of the doors was a sitting area that was both elegantly and privately wrapped with an iron wrought gate. Inside of the gate sat a cluster of tiny wicker table and chair sets, each sheltered by an umbrella of tree foliage.

I stepped out from the cab and followed Brooks lead towards the building. To my dismay, the place that I called home; the place that I should feel the most security, evoked no familiarity from my memory and was as unknown to me as everything else that had surrounded me.

The lobby of the building was neutral and calming. The walls were painted uniformly with a beige and natural crimson red. Tall plants rose from large ceramic pots in every corner of the room, and two blossoming plants hung from the corners of the reception desk. Behind the large wooden desk stood a dark man; a little older in age, but broad and firm in his looks. The uniform that he was fitted with was belted and accessorized with an array of items. Just below his left shoulder was a tag that read, Security: Jones.

As we approached the elevator that was located behind the desk, the man nodded his head.

"Good to see you Ms. Kendrew."

I did the only safe thing that I could think of, respectively nodded my head. When we reached the double doors of the elevator, Brooks pushed his thumb against the golden arrow that pointed towards the ceiling and the doors instantly opened.

As we stepped inside, the stench of a man's cheap cologne could be smelt lingering in the air and orchestrated music softly echoed off the mirrored walls that now surrounded us. Alongside the frame of the door, was a brass plated pad, with the numbers two to five lit up. Brooks leaned forward and pushed the number three button, the doors chimed in warning as they slowly closed.

When the bells sounded out the end of our ride, the doors glided open and straight across from us, standing within feet of us was a single bright red door. The door was situated in the middle of the open room that we had descended upon. Plant potters surrounded either side of it, evenly centered in the middle of the door was an oversized peep hole and a large antique styled entrance knob, along with a key-in entry system, that graced the edges of the solid wood door.

"This building doesn't lack for security, now does it," I mumbled looking around the rather empty access room, as Brooks, keyed in the code and unlatched the entrance lock.

His chuckle was low, "Something like that, or at least you don't lack for security anyways."

"Is all this security on my door, simply my fathers' doing?" I questioned partially disgusted.

"No, this is all you." Brooks replied, nudging the solid red door in with the corner of his fist.

"Well Ava, welcome home."

Brooks stood aside this time allowing me to take the lead into my house. Contrary to the darkness aloft in the room preceding the entrance of the door, the private level apartment was bright and spacious.

The obscenely large windows that I had seen lined along the outside of the building, were standing across from me now, and the glaze of the hot sun danced through each contour of the frosted glass with little trembles, displaying its own little ballet of light throughout the walls. As I stepped forward, there instantaneously was a single subtle drop in the mahogany hardwood floor, as it descended into the opening of the living area of the house.

The wall to the east of where I was standing displayed a large screen television suspended in the middle, surrounded by built in shelves that seemed to house hundreds of books. Without hesitation my feet wandered forward towards the shelves and, I found myself standing on a large rug that was woven with colours of beige, burgundy and chocolate in an abstract movement.

Softly I laced my fingers across the seam binds that sat within my reach, gazing over the titles of the books; Strands of Poetry, by Susan Hayes; Freedom of Words, by Louie Singlar; Interpreting the Mind, by Dr. Howard Hughes; The Depth of the Soul: A Collection of Poetry; Running Down a Nightmare: An In Depth Look into the Mind of a Psycho, by Dr. Raymond Ahmong. Great, I sighed, poetry and psychology, I am a psycho in the making... or at least a psycho trying to decipher myself and write disturbed poetry all at the same time.

Between each area that shelved the literature were small groves that had obviously been made to house the portraits of a person's loved ones; however in each of these slots on my case, were black 8x10 frames that housed a professionally matted black and white photo. Each photo was not necessarily logical, but definitely intriguing; most likely they were each one of those abstract photos that a psychologist had shown me, and allowed them to interpret that I was whacked.

Following along the perimeter of the room, were the windows I'd seen earlier, each without any type of shading from the world that lay outside; each lined on the inside with a tall plant that hung over the edges, but never intruding into the view that lay outside of them. After the third long, deep set window was a brimful plush tan couch with two matching chairs, each of which were big enough to accommodate up to four people. Sitting in both corners of the couch were colossal sized pillow cushions that had been made to match the artwork of the woven rug in front of the literature shelving across the room.

Positioned squarely between the couch and the two chairs, was a plain large wooden table; which held only a large coffee table book of landscape photography, and a single white candle that sat in a plate of decorative rocks to each side of it. The room was perfect... perfectly inhuman. This was the exact way that a realtor would situate the showing of a room, something that was warm and becoming, but lacked the soul of any human nature.

Across from the living area, just slightly bordered off from where I stood, was the eating area full of the light that flooded in from it. The walkway between both rooms held no windows or light fixtures, but just the same, it never lacked an ounce of light throughout the way there.

The kitchen was the same as the living area – seemingly perfect, nothing out of place. The kitchen sited large counters, and huge cabinets that had a single plate of glass embedded in between each frame of pine wood. Inside the cabinet arranged perfectly were sets of matching rouge serving wear. Each appliance in the kitchen was a jet black with stainless steel handles, all of them reeking of professional statue, though none looked as if they had ever been touched.

In the middle of the room, sat a bar counter, with a stainless steel pot rack hanging from the ceiling and a set of pots and pans that glistened as they hung there, aligned by their size. At the opposite side of the bar counter, sat three black iron chairs, with long pine wood backs; and propped on the left of the countertop was a recipe book, strategically placed in a book holder and sitting open, to "Mom's Famous Chocolate Chip Cookies."

Parallel to the counter was a huge bay window, with a neatly set round kitchen table. Four rouge coloured placemats sat in each quarter of the table, all of which boasted a short clear wine glass and a brilliant white napkin. Sitting at the core of them, was a red bowl that had been filled with a vast assortment of fruit. My god, what the hell was the place. This most certainly was not a home. The voice that echoed through my head was right, who could live like this.

I decided that I would check the rest of the place at the other end of the house, though I was half-heartedly not expecting much, in fact I was kind of preparing to see an impeccably set up children's bedroom with bunk beds and maybe even two flawlessly dressed little mannequins in the room. Brother and sister playing amongst themselves in whole harmony.

As I brushed my way past the overly perfected living area, I noticed that Brooks had made himself comfortable on the couch with the sports headlines being broadcasted from the large screen television, and suddenly felt bad when I sensed myself smugly laughing, at how out of place he looked sitting there.

Past the living area, came a little hallway. It was almost chilly to even continue following it, it sat so out of place, in situation to the setting of the rest of the house, completely lacking in the light that had flooded throughout everything else. To the left was a door that led into the bathroom, I choose to skip this room. What was there to see, a bathtub that was surrounded by candles and rose petals with perfectly aligned towels. I shook my head in spite of the sad life that I must have lived; still allowing the intrigue that the room at the end of the hall was drawing me in with. Only a sliver of light, squinted through the partially closed door, reflecting off the wall of the corridor.

The door pushed open with ease, and there was another slight drop from the main floor to enter into the new room. The uneasily dark room was being shaded at the other side of it, by huge brown curtains, that draped the length of the ceiling to the floor. Gently I pulled the string, so that the heavy fabric parted down the center and came to a resting stop at the edges of the window, allowing the sun to momentarily blind me as it gazed in from the glass doors that were partitioning off the room and the private balcony that nestled off of it.

Over the iron decking of the balcony, I stared at the view of the park; mystified and yet intrigued by the beauty that surrounded something as simple as the tops of the pine trees from a local park, when shrouded by a debilitating layer of mist. Against the edge of the wall just outside the glass door, stood a sun weathered wicker couch, and a pair of slippers stashed at its border. The couch and the slippers were remarkable to me, they were the first things that I had seen in this place, that didn't look as if it would have a price tag hiding in some crevice of it – it was unfeigned, something that showed life was actually here... once, anyways.

I sighed as I skimmed the beautiful vista out the window, before turning to explore again. I turned back to the room again, taken aback, at what was evidently my room, but so distant from anything I'd known. The room stood out from all other remaining remnants of the house, photos lined the dressers and nightstands; each showing love and happiness and laughter, each enclosing a profusion of memories... memories that I wasn't familiar with and struggled to distinguish.

I sat at the edge of the bed which was made up with a beautifully handmade rag quilt. Beside me, was an oak stained night table with an antique crystal facade lamp and propped up in front of the lamp was an iridescent silver frame.

I picked the frame for a closer look. On the bottom of the frame was an engraving etched in black that read, "Love binds two lives into one soul." Framed inside was a black and white photo of a couple sitting on the top of a large boulder by the shore of a lake, pants rolled up, feet skimming at the edge of the water, hands entwined as tightly as the look between their eyes exclaimed their love for one another. Along the side of the big picture, framed in a smudge of black were three smaller pictures, each capturing another aspect of their candid love. The top one displayed his hand gently holding her hand over the depth of his chest, and in the next one she had her head down slightly eyes closed, in an almost angelic state, as he protectively bent over her, sweetly kissing her forehead. Through my tears, I strained to see the final shot. Staring at the photo, I could literally feel the wrenching as it started inside my gut and crept through every fiber of my body, reaching for my already aching heart. The sobbing took over the shearing pain that stung from profundity of my heart... everything had been lost, I had lost everything.

Uncontrollably, I continued to cry to myself, till my very being became somnolent. The image of everything I lost haunted me into my sleep. In the shadows of my mind stood the eclipsed image of the woman, myself, standing staring off towards the sunset. All the while the man, down on his knees looked up at her lovingly... one hand caressing the slight protrusion of her stomach... an extension of them, the bonding of them and their love, forever.

****

Burnt

I am not sure what it was that awoke me in the morning, whether it was the dampness from the tear soaked pillow where I had cried myself to sleep or the smell of burnt toast and sound of hot grease sizzling. The image that had wrenched my insides apart was still gawking at me from the side of my pillow, and as the heaving sobs that dwelled within me once again began to boil, I quickly flipped the frame and veiled it under the pillow.

Amidst all the other photo shots that were framed and sitting atop the dresser was a large oval mirror. Once again the unfamiliar reflection loomed back at my gaze as I tried to adjust myself. Those same muted green eyes now were enveloped with puffy red crescents underneath them, and the tops of my cheeks still sodden from the tears, looked bruised and tender. Not much would alleviate the mess that looked back intently from the mirror. May as well eat and give it time to settle... if it ever did.

As I walked from the bedroom towards the kitchen, I could already notice the change that the house had taken. A radio was playing eighty's songs from the kitchen, and the living area now had blankets spread out across the couch. The coffee table no longer showed any signs of realtor envy perfectly set up on it, instead it had been replaced, by a coaster with a water filled glass, a book that was being held together by duct tape and Brooks silver framed glasses. My whole body heaved a sigh of relief at the thought of Brooks still being here.

Just as I walked into the kitchen, a large puff of smoke filled through the air. Brooks, had bacon grease running over the edge of a pan that was one size to small, and sizzling onto the element of the oven burner. The music was far too loud for him to even hear the onset of my approach, and he continued to spread butter on the blackened toast as he removed it from the toaster, juggling it back and forth between his hands, till he managed to set it on a plate. I fumbled my way through the disaster that had hit the kitchen to find a coffee mug and pour myself a cup, sensing that Brooks had finally noticed my entrance when the radio was cranked down a few notches.

"Good morning," he chirped to me, "hope you like breakfast," he paused, "also hope you like everything well cooked." He chuckled at himself as he continued to busy himself with his chef techniques. "The wife never would let me cook. She said I couldn't boil water without burning it, now I kind of relish in the times when I can cook... even if it does all turn out charred."

After adjusting the coffee to relinquish the bitter taste, I pulled one of the chairs out from the counter and sat down.

"It smells great, thank you," I lied, not about to hurt his thoughtful gesture.

A smile filled his face and plumped up his already fat cheeks; you know the way a squirrel that has just stored his food looks. Without the silver frames floating a top of his cheeks, I was able to really notice his eyes. A soft brown and symmetrically round, they filled his whole face with the happy persona that bubbled from within him. My heart was grateful to have someone like him around, ready and willing to help me, but never pushing too hard. To anyone, my meltdown from last night had to be obvious, but not once did he even signal that there might be any type of indifference since we had last conferred nor did he push at me to discuss it; as if I could release feelings that were already unknown to me.

"In that back room, there are a lot of photographs." I slowly hinted to Brooks, noticing his head nodding with my words, and suddenly aware that he would of course have inspected the place, and I was not stating anything but the obvious to him.

The coffee in front of me began to expose little ripples at the top of the surface, resulted from the trembling that was being exerted from my quivering hands. The skin along my knuckles was slowly turning white as I tried to grip the edge of the cup harder, struggling to control the movement within the coffee and the underlying emotions to which it represented.

Still completely silent, Brooks slid one of the rouge plates in front of me; the burnt toast was already sitting on the plate with crumbling blackened flakes around the edges. In the center of the toast was a white and yellow rubbery egg, speckled from the flavor of pepper. Reaching forward, Brooks placed three pieces of bacon alongside the remainder of his creation, and quickly and reassuringly patted my hand before turning to prepare his own plate.

As I tried to steady my voice again, to find the words from within, I watched my sunny side egg as it descended down the side of my toast and hung suspended and dangling lightly... definitely not appetite appealing, I thought to myself, with a subconscious rolling of my stomach.

"There's a man. I mean, in those photos, or at least most of them, with me... there is a man. Do you know by any chance who he is?" I asked, biting my lip and the tears back.

Brooks, mouth half stuffed with a mixture of his burnt concoction, nodded his head and motioned towards the little table by the big bay window. Plate and cup in hand, I followed him and took a seat at one of the chairs.

Starring out the window, he slowly processed the mound of food that he had stuffed in, before swallowing what seemed to still be an oversized amount for any humans throat, and gulped back a long drink of the thick coffee that he still had.

"The man is Weston. Weston Myers, he's a young lawyer at the firm of Wilsher & Lang Law Corp, in town here." Ripping another bite of bacon off, he looked at me to continue. "When that apparent drug bust went down by your dad," he said, suddenly pausing, "wait, do you know about that?" he inquired, wagging the half of bacon that he had not yet hovered into his mouth. Shamefully, I nodded, and he gently nodded back, knowing not to linger.

"Any who, he was one of the, I don't know what you call them exactly. But he was kind of like one of the little gopher lawyers on your case. Then apparently around three months after you finished your rehab stint, while you were finalizing the purchase of this place," I followed his gaze, as he sort of rolled his eyes around the house, "you had to sign papers at another division of the same firm. Guess you ran into one another and the sparks of love flew," he said with a low chuckle and pausing to wash all the burnt fibers of his meal down with a drink of pulpy orange juice.

"Excuse me. No need for the syrup when I never made any pancakes," he said, motioning to his coffee cup, as he walked over to the kitchen sink and rinsed it before pouring a new cup from the fresh pot.

"So I guess than that after three years of being in a coma, someone would move on with their lives. No wonder I can't recall having heard his voice at the hospital," I muttered out loud.

"Oh, no, no, no, my dear," Brooks began again, shaking his head as he reseated himself at the little kitchen table. "I had a chance to talk with Weston when you were still at the hospital, and apparently you two were not together anymore, even before your accident had taken place."

"So what he just got me pregnant and left," I snapped at him, as if it was his own doing.

"Nope. Wrong again." He said, never retorting to my sudden snarky attitude, but quickly shoveling another slab of bacon into his cheeks, possibly stuffing it away for later.

"You kicked him out. When you first got pregnant, I guess you never actually told him, he lucked out in finding one of those test things, you know the ones that you woman use, in the trash. He said that he was simply ecstatic about it, and though you weren't at first, you seem to slowly becoming around to the idea as well. The two of you began to house search in neighborhoods that were more family oriented. You even became adamant that you had to start practicing motherhood by getting a puppy first."

"Sounds perfect – so why would I just split up the little family that I was just starting," I inquired, cheeks warm and flushed from the onset of new tears.

"Well he doesn't know exactly. There was a phone call one day that had you in absolute hysterics and constant fits of sobbing. You had locked yourself in the bedroom for hours, and when you finally emerged, you were throwing all of his stuff at him and screaming that both he and his dog needed to get out of your life and never return. He said that he left to a hotel, with the belief that you just needed some time to calm down. He repeatedly called and tried to come see you, but you never gave him the chance to even get close enough to talk to you. The door security was even informed to not allow him access to the building, from the sounds of it, you definitely went all out." He stopped momentarily, to stir a spoon of sugar into his coffee and take a sip.

"The next thing that he knew, he was reading about your being hospitalized in the paper. However, when he showed up at the hospital to see you and try and get more information, he had a run in with your father."

My head jerked at the sound of the words, my father. "I guess your dad told him that he was fully aware of what he had done to you, and that he was never to set foot near you again, or else."

"Uuggghhh... Why is he so controlling!" I spit out in frustration.

"Ah, don't be so critical there my dear. He is your dad... and that is a dad's job."

"But I don't get it, what is it that Weston did to make me destroy and throw everything away and why would he just let my father scare him away like that?"

"Well Weston cannot honestly think of anything that he did, or that may have happened between the two of you. He said he's spent a long time trying to figure it out, and has never been able to come up with anything. As for staying away, well at the time you were still only eighteen, and your dad, could legally have a lot of control of you – not to mention having an obscene amount of hegemony over the man that got your pregnant, good intentions or not! Besides, Danny boy informed Weston that he would keep him updated about your condition at all times."

"So then he knows everything, all the things that I have been going through... that I don't remember anything, not to mention that I can't recollect any memory of him?" I responded quietly and querying at the same time.

"Yes, that he does. He is also willing to help with anything that he can. And he would really like to see you, when you're ready of course. In fact, he also gave me the name and the address of the rehab that you went to, said that there is a lady there by the name of Judith, who may be able to help us out in answering questions as we quest for your past and memory," he assured me, as he started to dig through his pockets, finally producing a wrinkled yellow paper.

"Ah, here it is," he stated, removing a crumpled the yellow paper, before shrewdly smoothing it and exposing the writing at the top, "Judith McMahawn, Cedar Counseling and Treatment Center; 145 Cedar Park Drive."

Anxiously I stared at him and continued to contemplate his words in my head, "wants to see you, when you're ready of course."

"Well I got nothing else planned for the day, should we take a walk to Cedar Park," Brooks questioned, "give Ms. McMahawn a visit?"

"I'll clean up and get ready," I replied, practically tipping the little kitchen table over, as I jumped up with excitement. Brooks once again only nodded in response, as he concentrated on slapping pieces of bacon with a now cold poached egg, between two hard slabs of charred toast.

Cleaning up my own kitchen was a lot harder than I could have thought. Not knowing where anything was or went, meant me rummaging through every cupboard in the house trying to sort through products and shelves. One would think that glass in the doors of the cabinets would make it that much easier, but it seemed to be more deceiving than anything else.

Once I had finally started the dishwasher and laid the last of the washed pans to dry, I quickly made my way back towards the room at the other end of the house, so as I could cleanup and get ready. Not quite to my surprise, as I made my way to the other end of the house, I spotted that Brooks had found his spot on the couch and was catching the early morning headlines regarding all world news affairs.

Entering the bedroom this time was more comforting then the night before. Now taking the time to notice the rest of the room and its attributes, allowed me to see the deep closet at the top of the room, to the right side of the door. To the back, situated just to the left of the patio doors, was another door, leading me to the ensuite bathroom, which like the bedroom was still full of the life that had once lived there. Hair brush laying on top of a white facecloth that had been left on the counter, in a wooden cup beside the basin sink was a purple toothbrush, and lavender potpourri sat in a wicker basket a top of a shelve that lined the back of the toilet.

In the corner of the room was a large jet tub that had a beige towel hanging over the edge, Ivory soap sitting at the edge of the faucet and a book still sitting propped at an open page along the stairs to get into the tub. I sat at the edge of the tub and began running a nice hot bath. Submerging a handful of scented bath beads before leaving to go and sort through the closet to see what kind of style it had lurking in its depths.

After searching through an umpteen number of ensembles, I finally found a fixer up of regular old blue jeans, a black long sleeved styled camisole and a knee length wrap around sweater, made from a soft grey wool material.

The temperature of the water tingled at the soles of my feet and along my legs, as I slid my body down along the ceramic side of the tub, until it was fully immersed in the bubbling water. The warmth of the water and its massaging effects felt rejuvenating and long overdue. My hand brushed against the book from the stairs and I reached over to pick it up... What to Expect When You're Expecting. The soft covered book, made a loud thud as it hit the plastic waste basket across from the toilet. Damn book!

I closed my eyes and allowed my body to absorb the tranquil that was flowing over it. Sensational tiny ripples, running along the curves of my body, touching every little crevice and making the small of my back twinge, as the muscles in my loins tensed.

Weston... hmm, a very fitting name for the man that appeared in the photo. I could see him so intensely, that I could almost feel him here, with me. His tousled somewhat unkempt hair, falling so lightly and sexy that it shaded the devilish look that came from those bright green eyes, when his smile crooked itself into that smirk at me. Strong arms caressing me; holding me, with a fierce tenderness.

This man, my best friend, my lover, I struggled to remember... but as I fought to visualize him, my body in turned began to burn for him. Every part of me physically, could remember every inch of him, feel him. The presence of his fingers gently sliding along the top of my thighs, and then grasping me, pulling me closer to him; his breathe hard against my neck as he ravaged deeply for me. The tender way that his lips, slightly parted, gently skimmed over my body, stopping and caressing my earlobe, the base of my neck, my bottom lip...

I could feel my toes curl first, than the rest of my body shivers. The once hot water is now completely ice cold, my hand fumbles for the faucet to add more hot water. The room around me had become dark. How long had we been in here?

We... I shook my head... where had Weston gone, the fiery heat that his body had once held against mine I could no longer feel. A sudden weight shifted towards my shoulders and a fire in the distance instantly cracked alive, screaming its pain.

A glow filled the air in the room and illuminated the black fog that was hovering around me. The water in the tub started to stiffen, freezing around me... the weight shifted again, shoving my head beneath the water. Blinding pain severed at my throat, like thorns gashing at my flesh with the entry of each trickle of water. I lashed out, trying to fight off the ghostly presence that forced the anguish that surrounded my soul. My attempts were futile. Another gush of water strangled me, pushing its way into my body.

My eyes opened, struggling to see some relief somewhere near me.

Then, the bullet.

The pain, my body screamed in agony, as a deep red colour filled the depths of the water, and surged its way into my soul.

Wood snapped, hard and loud. Pain was grasping the sides of my forearms and metal grated against my legs. The burning was choking itself out of my throat, and again the air burnt just as deeply as it once had before, when it tried to re-enter my airways.

The trembles that began to shake my body slowly turned to a dull mute, as a warm heaviness draped over my entire body. I opened my eyes; first seeing what looked like the world turned upside down, water floating around me, little creaks running towards every object in sight. As I glanced around to what was in my vision, I realized that I was no longer in the water, the black fog was gone.

Brooks was heaving from a slumped position beside me, my arms and legs ached from where he yanked me out... he had saved me from the torture that lurked behind the lids of my eyes every time that I closed them

****

The Notebook

The decision to walk the five blocks to the counseling center was a good one. Feeling the fresh air, crisp and yet sultry, felt refreshing. Being able to observe other people interacting amongst each other was a stimulating change to the social apprehension that I could sense at every moments wakening within myself.

It had taken me quite some time to convince Brooks that I had merely fallen asleep in the bathtub, and that I would be fine, that no hospital visit was in order. Though if he knew the truth as I did; he would know, that now I did not only fear falling asleep at night, but I had come to have a deathly fear of the bathtub and not to mention the mere thought of having a daydream. My thoughts and trepidations consumed me entirely anytime I allowed my mind to drift to the even the slightest notion of anything pleasing. These emotions confused my entirety as well, was it even possible for a mind to completely obliterate every memory that a person had to burn the pain away, and then at the same time, reignite the torment, each time that a notion of elation happened to flutter its way into sight.

This smaller town that I had chosen to live in was very quiet and somewhat surreal. Everyone that past smiled and said good day or nodded their head in politeness; dogs romped in a slow gate behind the youngest of their masters, chasing their little heels, before jumping up to catch a bug in their mouth and sending the child into a hysteric of squeals and giggles. In the park, circular gardens delineated with vibrant white rocks, housed vast arrangements of vibrant flowers that danced amongst themselves, without even the slightest breeze to be felt amidst the humid air. From tangos to ballets; perfectly silhouetted movements flowed through each bushel of flowers. The blues jostled the reds; purples dipped the pink; orange and white two-stepped, and the green leaves stood tall sheltering each young bud.

As Brooks and I stood at a pedestrian light, I gazed towards one of god's many master pieces. Across the road, at the edge of a paved pathway that curved its way through the park, was a green metal bench, which situated an elderly couple. The man, very involved in the reading of his morning newspaper, sat high against the back of the bench, however still leaning in a protective hover over his wife; whom smiled from ear to ear, as she marveled at the parade of ducklings and their parents, who were dive bombing their heads in every direction to attain the tiny bread crumbles that she was floundering to the ground.

A smile kept upon my face as I fondled the thought of a love lasting for that many years; following the smile, was the onset of a rushing warmth sensation, which flushed the apples of my cheeks, when I noticed that Brooks was chuckling under breath at my bewilderment and awe.

"Here we are," Brooks announced, as he shoveled the little yellow note paper back into its crumpled position, in the pocket of his slacks.

I would easily have mistaken the place for some type of private school before any type of rehab unit. The one level brick building sat at the further edge of the double sized city lot. In front of the building was a large courtyard that had multiple emerald green oak trees spread throughout the yard, like colossal Roman columns. Covering the vast yard were various increments of people; male and female, old and young; all here in union with their addictions.

The front door was fully open, a large white painted rock, wedged against it. Inside was quiet, other than the bustling sound of laughter coming from the room to the left, were four older women sat around a little greeting area. The greeting area, contained no technology, but had a round coffee table sheltered by various chairs. In the far left corner stood a large cherry wood fireplace, and the Lord's Serenity Prayer mounted above it in a black frame. Next to the fireplace, was a single long paned window, which softly illuminated the polished black baby piano, sitting in the opposite corner.

"Oh, excuse me ladies," a soft velvety voice stated from the distance of the room.

A woman, so elegant, and possessing so much affability, began to move towards us; such sashay in her movements. Grayed blonde hair pulled back from the temples and secured at the back, whorls spiraling from root to end. She slipped her right hand into the slender pocket of her finely pressed red slacks, as her left hand fidgeted up and settled to play with her single strand of white pearls. The smile that spread across her face was full of nothing more than sincerity, as she extended her hand to Brooks and introduced herself, before both hands freed themselves to settle on the tops of my forearms.

"Oh Ava, you look so well. I've missed you dearly," she stated, with tears starting to brim at the edge of her eyes, one hazel and one grey.

"I am so sorry about everything..." she slowed, her voice trailing. With one quick and slight sniffle, she corrected herself, sincere grin replacing any sign of sorrow; and gestured with her hand outwards, "Please, follow me to my office. We can discuss things further in confidence."

I followed in step with Brooks, as we were lead down the hall. Brooks began menial chit chat and repeated his thanks, for being able to see us on such short notice. As we approached she motioned for us to take a seat, and I noticed the sign on the door of the private office, Dr. Judith McMahawn.

From my seat in a chair of sticky hot leather, I watched Judith pick up a pitcher of ice water and return to us. Gracefully, she sat a cup down in front of the chair that Brooks sat in, the spot on the couch where I was and the chair adjacent to Brooks, filling each along the way, before setting the pitcher down on a wooden plate and sitting to join us. I began to regret my choice of sitting arrangements, suddenly feeling like I was on the couch of judgment, propped between the one whom knew my past, and the one whom knew me presently; and not sure how the mixture of once and now would merge.

"So, it is my understanding that you are suffering from dissociative amnesia Ava; are you able to remember who I am or anything about the center?" Judith questioned, with a crease that impinged above her forehead, reaction from the subtle scrunching of her nose.

Apologetically, I shook my head. "I can't really recall anything about myself, or my past; unless it revisits in one of my dreams."

"Oh. So you still get those dreams do you?" she inquired, startling me with surprise.

"You know about those, the dreams... well sometimes not so dreamy, but just the same."

"Yes. They were definitely the latter of when I knew you too. You seemed to have them almost every night that you were here, at least for the first few months; then slowly there frequency became further and further apart. God your first few weeks here, you woke up every night, screaming and in a dazed sweat. Dreadful it was. Really hard having to watch someone go through something like that, yours were way more than any type of withdrawal dream that we have typically seen in here. These were so powerful and they seemed to consistently throw you into these entangled webs; you could literally at times see your heart and mind fighting through what was binding it down, struggling."

"Is it true? Was I really some messed up druggie teenager?"

"You were an addict, yes. But don't come down on yourself, your addiction was your mask. You weren't gleefully racing through the drugs, having the time of your life. You used cocaine as a mask. Your addiction allowed you to mask your feelings; pain, suffering, fear; everything."

"But what, what was I hiding from. I mean don't normal teenagers just mask their feeling from their parents with pot or drinking, or something else similar to that?"

"Well from day one, till the day you left, you only ever had one reason for turning to cocaine... and that was to numb the pain. Numb the pain of the bullet." She replied quiet and thoughtfully.

The bullet... the memories tore back at my brain; the pain, the fear, the agony that I felt each time that the bullet made contact with me. "That's what my dreams are always about, the bullet." I could see her nodding her head, as she already knew what I was telling her.

"Was I shot before?" I gasped numbly, partially questioning them, while also searching through any of my own thoughts that might prevail.

"We questioned your parents, your doctors, even friends; you were never shot. In fact no one in your family or close to you has ever been shot. After multiple interviews with family, the other counselors as well as I came up with the hypothesis that perhaps, your fear of being shot, of the bullet, may have somehow manifested from your fear of your father being hurt while on the force. He had been there since the day you were born, but as you got older, the times changed and his position became more perilous. He had apparently had some close calls, and also lost a partner, a man that you grew up thinking of as your uncle..."

"Uncle Jerry," I said interrupting her.

"Yes," she replied waiting, hesitantly.

"I remembered him," I stated, in exasperation and disbelief, "On my own."

Quickly I glanced back and forth between both of their gazes, each of them had slowly crept forward to the edge of their seats, as children do while listening to the excitement of an action story and awaiting the finale.

Unfortunately, my smile turned as I shook my head at them, fully knowing that they were anticipating that I could remember more; maybe even everything. Brooks slouched back into his chair, as Judith reached over placing her hand on mine, which was rested atop my knee.

"Don't worry, it'll all come in due time."

Removing a cotton cloth from the front pocket of his shirt, and beginning to smear the smudges from the glass of his silver frames, Brooks sighed deep and low.

"Can you think of anything else that she may have mentioned while here that may help us in focusing on our next steps. Anything that may give her an insight in where to go from here?" he asked Judith.

"Oh yes!" she stated, venturing towards her desk, and shuffling through papers, and file folders that had been strewn throughout it.

"When you first called me and explained the situation, I had brought Ava's file out and began looking through it, to see if anything popped out at me. While digging through the file, I stumbled upon something that may help her personally; I don't think that it'll assist anyone other than her, but the best way to remember your lost memories, would be to reminisce them from your own words. Ah here it is," she stated, lifting up a brown leathered notebook, and brushing her hands against it, trying to align it to be flat and smooth, as it would have once appeared while first new.

"Ava, those dreams that we were discussing that were constantly haunting your sleep, it was obvious that they were more than just some causal nightmare. After about your first week here, I went and bought this book for you, something that you could write your dreams down in, something to just get your own words out; full of every sensation of pain, hatred, fear; literally anything and all that you felt. My hope was that it would allow me to get a better understanding of what was going on for you, as well as give you a more logical place of relieving things... other than drugs. You scrolled in here faithfully; sometimes reliving your dreams, sometimes poems, even just descriptive words that you felt throughout any moment of the day." She said, starring towards the little depleted notebook.

"Did it ever allow us to solve the explanation of the bullet?" I asked her, almost begging for an answer to the riddle of my dreams, something that I could use to placid them from tearing at my soul, each and every time, that darkness crept through the sky, and sleep came to haunt me.

"Um, no. I don't think that that was really ever much of a mystery to you. We never learnt the meaning of the bullet that was causing you the pain; however, I think that you always knew. The amount of horror that crept within you, isn't something that just necessary disappears from one. I mean, look at you now, your mind has completely blocked recollection of yourself and your memories from you, however that sheer darkness still continues to lurk in you, dwells there waiting for the perfect and precise moment to leap at you. Though the book never helped me in further counseling you, it did seem to alleviate things for you; when you left, you said that the book needed to stay here, with everything else from your past that you were leaving behind you." She stood up half hunched, as she reached over to hand me the book, "I'm so sorry that I couldn't be of more help Ava; I wish I had more to tell you, but as I have always told you, I will be here for anything that I possibly can, just let me know."

The book that she had placed in my hands was, of soft delicately worn leather that felt warm and slightly damp from the perspiration that had weaned into the material from the clenching of her hands. I stood up to thank her and saw her eyes again where brimmed with water that her heart was shedding for me, someone that should be a perfect stranger to her, and yet she was aching inside because of my pain. Without hesitation or the slightness cumbersome appeal of awkwardness, I leaned in and hugged her.

"Thank you. Everything that you have done for me, today and then, has been incredible," I said.

Motherly her hand stroked my hair, as she gently whispered at the base of my ear, "I almost forgot; what the papers said, what your parents said – it's all wrong! You are not that person; you are beautiful from the outside in, and I am honored to know you, and I know that once you find yourself again, you will be honoured to know yourself."

****

Solitude of Serenity

Once we had reached the house again, and Brooks was assured that I would be safe, at least momentarily, he departed from the house to run out and grab some take out for supper, both of us exasperated from the events of the day, and not much up for cooking.

Without his presence, the eeriness of my apartment was apparent again, and I snuggled into one of the oversized living room chairs, with a baby pink chenille blanket that I had stumbled upon while I rummaged through one of the hallway closets. Don't recall that I was actually looking for anything in particular from the closet, just deathly afraid of what the pages between the leather bound book resting on the coffee table, could possibly contain. Now as I snuggled in the blanket, it still sat motionless atop of the table; beckoning my interest and summoning my fear.

The leather no longer felt warm in my hands. The distant wane, now gone, left it feeling rigid and jagged in my hands. The malleable cover slouched over easily as I opened it to where a worn chocolate brown piece of ribbon laid, bookmarking its page.

September 14, 2002

A Ghost of Surreal Darkness:

All alone; forever alone. I can feel the pressure of the wind; blowing me down, pushing me away, pulling me at all costs. The beat of my heart slows to a mild muffle, as the mist of this anger engulfs my soul, spinning an entangled web over everything I dream. My anger dwells deep within my stomach, over and over again, until I feel my life, sifting into a maze. I race through, unknowing if I am conscious or not... every road I take is blocked; no way out. Barriers surrounding me; over eight feet up, there is no sky; no exit, just empty corridors at every turn.

They mock me. All of them, the whole world... pretentiously they laugh at me; think they know. Know the pain and the horror. It expels from me at every waking turn, my body exuberates it with each breath. Some sort of phase of a spoilt brat, that's what they called it. Little girl with everything she could ever desire sitting in front of her, turns to cocaine – spoilt I am! If they could only live it with me – feel the pain you assholes! You live that pain; then they'd see, then we'd show them. It's not a phase. It's my solitude of serenity.

Excitement boils within me. That taste, that smell, as I sniff in deep and hard. Then the freedom surged by the numbness. Every accusation, every critical word, they all slip away – I become bulletproof. Even that ever so cunning bullet that finds its way to me against all odds is no match for this – I'm safe in my only solitude of serenity.

Brooks' sudden approach through the door caught me off guard. I slipped the ribbon in between the overly expended pages of writing, securing my return to the location from which I was departing. Gently, I laid the book on the edge of the chair arm; partially scared of any ravaging movements against the book itself and the thought of losing the only thing that I owned that truly came from me – my words, my feelings, my thoughts; meticulously set out in front of me... my cobblestone path to finding myself, solving my past. I flung the disheveled blanket to the corner of the couch, as I quickly grasped a tissue between my fingers and dabbed away the sticky impression that my salty tears had left to linger along my jaw line, and down the nape of my neck.

In the kitchen Brooks, had already begun to lay the aluminum foiled containers of Chinese food along the bar counter. The big brown bag that stood out of place beside him, read So Ho Lee's, and divulged a big soaked in grease stain that was crawling up the sides from its original saturated spot at the bottom. My stomach rippled a slight revolt to the sight, but otherwise didn't care, the smell was intoxicating as it lingered in the air, and the hours between breakfast and dinner had been too long. With silverware nestled in the middle, I set the plates on the counter, waiting to be served individually, buffet style; when I noticed Brooks removing a slender bottle of wine and setting it at the end of the procession of food that he just finished aligning. From deep within one of the high cupboards, I removed the two wine glasses that I stashed there from the precise place that they once took on my kitchen table. Bracing them in one hand, I cupped my thumb and index finger of the other hand around the neck of the bottle and placed the ensemble on the kitchen table.

By the time that I had served myself and sat down at the table, Brooks was already getting up and heading back to the counter to conger up his second helping of the meal. My short wine glass sat in front of me with what appeared to be a pink tinged wine, or maybe that was what the prosperous referred to as a blushed wine. My throat downed the remaining glass full, after the taste of the first surprisingly congenial sip from my glass.

Wagging his fork at me, Brooks reseated himself, "Careful there missy; I'm still sore from yanking you from the tub this morning, not sure that I can handle dragging your drunk ass to your room. Remember, it's been awhile since you've had a drink, so take it easy."

Suffering from the impression of a scolded child, I somberly nodded my head, still continuing to pour another glass full.

After kitchen duty, and culturing the knowledge that when Brooks purchased a drink for supper, he didn't do it second rate; we polished off the three remaining bottles of wine, leaving Brooks passed out in an upright position, and me left to drag my own drunken ass down the hallway to find my own slumber land.

Reaching the door to my room, regretful thoughts of why I had done this to myself, began to inundate my mind. My fingers just nicked the switch for the light, when the recollection of the layout of the room came to mind... a little too late; the hardwood floor smashed against my face, sending sheer pain to raid every bone. I had forgotten about the slight step down to get into the room. In fact, I missed it in its entirety.

The muscles in my arms trembled as I forced them to bear the weight of my body, heaving it off the ground and to rest at my knees. Bracing myself on my hands and knees, did not alleviate the trembles that were rippling through my body.

The air around me had begun to spin and choked at my throat, I searched for the black fog, when the wrenching began to take hold. Then the slightest notion took over, as the realization sunk in; this wasn't the fog, this was different, the wrenching brought on the heaving, the heaving brought up So Ho Lee's lovely grease cooked supper. Fervent pain stung from the base of my throat, up and through my nostrils. The taste lingered incessantly.

Still not fully a tuned to the surrounding that spun around me, I braced myself against the edge of my bed, reaching for the leather book that I had sent spiraling against the wall, and heaved my dead body towards the bed. Again, pain sheared amidst the muscles of my face when it bounced off the pillow with a clunking sound. Scavenging under the pillow, my hand submerged, holding the frame that I had so diligently hidden away this morning.

Reaching across to the night table, I propped the photo back up where I had originally found it, as I simultaneously threw my head to the side and managed to maneuver the remained of my supper up from the pit of my stomach, with huge heaving motions and strew it across the floor in front of the patio doors.

"Good lord, I surrender! Do you hear me, I promise I'll never drink again, just please make it stop," I pleaded to the silent air.

My body shifted to the other side of the bed, nestling into the warmth of my quilt. Before coming to a close, my eyes came to rest upon the only mirror I had to look into my past. The leather book rested beside me on the bed, open to the place where I had left the brown ribbon.

Though it still brought on the aspect of uncontrollable spinning, that weaved through out my every line of vision, my hand was the only part of my body that was able to expel any function of movement from within. Grasping the book with one hand shouldering the center of the book, I brought it towards myself, until the shadows that followed each word, finally drifted together to settle into one word and I could make out the poem contained within the pages.

Life is just a myth,

Of magical realism.

Innocence is just a yearning,

Founded on the fear of racism.

Never can one see,

The cold, jaded tears,

They've shed from one another,

Throughout the years

Memories of the past.

Fear of acceptance.

Another hateful word,

Battles the next step through the dance.

All faith lost.

Innocence no longer bearing.

One child wounded,

And a world that won't care.

The moment was instant that my body surrendered to sleep. My mind was not overtaken by the revulsion of binding fog or the quavering ache of the bullet; though tonight it also would not rest.

Slurred visions of beer bottles clanking against each other and hazy lights dancing from the ceiling while lines of coke were busted along glass table tops, floundered their way in my sleep. Even in the course of sleep, the high was strong. The desire for more, the uncontrollable urge to continue indulging in the sanctuary that it portrayed. Wings cocked, I fly higher and higher. The slurred visions that excerpt my life begin to spin.

The visions blur, faster and faster, entangling themselves till they mulch together into an impasse of black. Squealing in delightful agony, blazes of scorching flame rose from the wings that once held me high... high in seclusion, solidarity from all. Secure from the pain; bulletproof.

From above I watched the charred grey ash of my wings glide in frazzled movements of dance, floating into the darkness of the depth below us; till my seclusion had become violated, and the chains sliced through the miasma to grasp at me. The metal cut deep into my skin, the warmth of my blood flowed out from me, causing a delirious sense of warming comfort to overflow me.

"Go ahead" I screamed, "Break me... I'm already broken anyways."

The chains fall into me heavily, squeezing every tranquil peace of high that I was still fighting to cling to, until everything but the subdued fear left my soul. As my head strained to the side, a single tear rolled from my cheek, falling. I watched it cut threw my eminent fog, with no end in sight.

****

Diamond Venom

As the morning sun danced its way into the corners of my eyes, I groggily inhaled, dejectedly sighing. The aftermath stench left from last night's stupidity still loitered throughout the atmosphere of my room. Rolling my carcass out of the bed, sent my head whirling in dizzy sensations, and my stomach began to undulate again from the sight of the now dry, caked on supper that spread across my floor.

Body weak, and head amplifying every sound, I once again began to drag myself down the hall, this time heading for the kitchen; ready to delegate my nurturing to the only cure possible, coffee. Like the morning before, the coffee slimed its way out, in a thickened chunky format from the coffee pot and into my mug. This time, I enthralled my stomach with the coffee, my cure.

Propped up against the sugar and creamer bowl was a folded piece of brown paper that had been ripped from the bag that had held our supper the night before, with my name scrawled in the middle. I picked it up and headed towards the kitchen table.

The morning sun was just beginning to generate warmth, and the frost spawned from the evening before still lingering along the outside of the windows, was beginning to condensate and run down to rest in a puddle amidst the white wooden sill. I took another gulp of the syrupy coffee that seemed to actually thicken while it sat motionless, before opening the note that wafted off a reeking recollection of the night before.

Ava,

Went to go and pay a little visit to the reports that covered your "accident" as well as your dad's drug bust that you were involved in. Thought I would see if they might be able to give me anymore information that they may have conjured up, little rats that they are. Didn't think that it would be helpful for your recovery to listen to what the leeches may have to say. If you need anything call my cell phone.

Brooks,

P.S. – No baths while I am gone!

"Worry wart," I mumbled to myself, choking down another swig of the coffee, before getting up and dumping it down the drain. Starting to feel the dehydration, I poured a large glass of water and made my way out to the living area.

Nothing from the previous night lingered in the vicinity of visible sight. The wine bottles were nowhere to be seen. As usual Brooks had already folded his blankets and stuffed them to the bottom of the closet. The television was still on, and I starred at the exceedingly skeletal like women that walked along the center of a long runway, supporting some hideously man made clothing; each suited up for their admittance to the coming alien aircraft.

Reaching forward for the remote, but not taking my sight off the television, somewhat intrigued with the stupidity of this designer, who was probably overly wealthy; my hand came to stumble upon the book. Not my leather book, but this time the book that I had once noticed before sitting on the coffee table. Binding held by duct tape. I clutched it up, forgetting the emaciated women strutting around on my television and wasting away in front of the world.

The cover was completely worn, that both title and picture could not be comprehended. The inside cover read "Alcoholics Anonymous." The thud my heart made pulsated in my temples. I could tell that Brooks enjoyed his alcohol, but I never realized that he was actually an alcoholic. Here, this man that had fully supported me through the duration of my rough times for months, now could have used my support even if for just one night, and instead, I promoted him to keep drinking. The regret that he must have felt this morning upon waking, I indulged the inquisitiveness that overwhelmed me, as to what he would have read in here to help him set himself on the right path again, as I opened to the page that he had book marked with a small piece of black cardboard textured paper.

The page talked about how we could not control our lives or the things that surrounded us. That God had a plan for each and every one of us, and that when one's time came, there was no stopping it or controlling it, and that one day we would all be reunited.

Then I remember how Brooks had told me the story of how his young bride, Debra, had developed cancer. They went through every type of test and trial cure imaginable, but there was nothing they could do for her. Both her and their child that she carried died within seven months after her having been diagnosed with the cancer. Dr. Swanson had informed me later, that Brooks began drinking after that. He blamed himself, that he didn't have enough money to get her the proper care, that maybe he had done something to cause the cancer. He took it solely on his shoulders as something that he had done to her. He never remarried, just spent most of his life searching for what he could have done, till it consumed him as much as the alcohol. He finally managed to find solace in his AA meetings, six years ago, but still struggled at times; usually when he felt he didn't have the control to help or save someone.

I made a solemn promise to myself that I would help Brooks, any way I could, the same way that he was doing for me. I stuck the paper back in the crevice where he had left it, when I abruptly removed it again to look closer at it. The black piece of cardboard was actually a business card. A matte black filled the card from edge to edge, with writing scrolled out in a brilliantly rich gold:

Wilsher & Lang Law Corporation

~

Weston Myers

Attorney of Law and Justice for the Crown Counsel

Suite 23, Ranjbanks Tower, Sinette Grandes

I rammed the card back in its original position, and set the book back on the coffee table. Moving quickly I strained my body to get up and go take a shower in the guest bathroom. The one that, as I had predicted, was set up with the aspect of a realtor setting in mind; the only thing that was lacking was the rose petals, though a large quantity of various bath beads, crystals and soaps, made up for them in every way.

The heat of the water penetrated into the muscles of my body, massaging the tissues that were entrenched from skin to soul. When I was finally forced to emerge from the shower, impelled by the ice pellets that were now slapping at my bare skin, the thick soft cranberry towel felt heavy, wrapped around the base of my neck, engulfing my mass of thick hair to the top of my head.

Mirror completely glassed over with steam, I wiped the surface with the base of my wrinkled hand, pruned from the duration of the heat in the shower. The image that I was starting to become familiar with looked back at me from the mirror, still frosted with streaks of heat that were embedded. Another cranberry towel wrapped around the curvature of my body, tied tightly at the base of my breasts. Spherical crevices pressed out from the lip of the towel, as I leaned in wearily, noting the mauve marking that etched along my jaw line from the repeated offences against my face... more drunken stupors!

Grasping the brown and pink waffle pajama set that draped over the counter of the bathroom, I pried the door open and continued to my room.

I was beginning to generate a tolerance to the stench that rose in pleats from my floor, however I hadn't come to find the stomach to clean the mess yet and removed the towel that had held my hair wrapped, diffusing the sight and smell, as I laid it out across the mess in front of my dresser.

Making my way to my closet, I began rummaging through it again. Noticing the reflections from the sun as they splayed through the curtains and dancing on the wall in front of me, enticed me to reach for a pair of leather slip on sandals, a pair of stonewash Capri jeans, a full length white tank top and a cropped brown leather coat.

Fumbling to manage holding the hump of clothes in the midst of my arms, I unraveled the knot from the towel which still embraced my body and layered it over the mess that was still exposed at the base of the patio doors.

Without the curtains open and the heat flushing in from the large patio doors, the slight blistering chill could be felt running through the air. The brush of the bitter air against my body sent an undulation of ripples along my body. Tiny goose bumps fluttered to the surface of my barren skin, while quivers tremor at the small of my back.

In an orderly fashion, I strewed my clothes for the day, along the edge of the jet tub. Dressing in a lacy black ensemble of the bare essentials, I strode back in front of the mirror, and donned my olive face in the culturally excepted adornment of au courant makeup. Temporarily alleviating the curls that so habitually bounced through my hair, I blow dried it and styled it straight. One more foreign face for me to have to learn to recognize, starred back at me. I felt gracious though, this time I didn't feel as if I was acquainting myself with the look alike of my mother, instead, I was developing me... old or new, it was me, my way.

As I was setting to depart from my room, something caught my eye. A rough looking wooden box stashed under the night table that was nestled against the opposite side of the bed. Delicately I laid the box to rest on the secure shelter of my bed, and lifted the dilapidated lid from the top. Various increments of jewellery were arranged within the pockets and holding of the box. Under a tangled knot of bracelets, in the bottom left corner was a tiny black box. Disengaging it from the mess of the box, I held it in the palm of my hand, before opening it and surrendering the enclosed treasure, a braided chain of rose gold, silver and softened yellow gold, scintillating rhythmically, as I lifted it from the box. The chain spilled from the palm of my hand, releasing a white gold diamond ring at the extremity of the chain. I positioned the ring between my thumb and fingers, chain gliding through the isle of my hand, and hanging suspended. The ring, had a simple large stone in the center of the diamond setting, sheltered by six oval diamonds on either side of it. Along the inside of the band was an inscription that read, Avec être amoureux, moyen avec être de tu ~ to be in love, means to be with you.

Could it be; was it possible that this was an engagement ring? Scared to try the ring on against my wedding finger, I slid back the clasp open and wrapped the chain around my neck re-latching it and letting it dangle delicately around the nape of my neck. I set the little box back in the position from where I had retrieved it and went out to the living area, fingering the smoothness that came from the cold band as I walked.

The appearance of flashes snapped throughout the room as I entered, hollow applause, like that from the dead echoed; and I realized that the anorexic aliens still wander across the screen of my television, the audience mesmerized. Definitely made me have to wonder, was it me; had my sense of fashion fallen so out of date, in the three years that I had been in a coma. I checked over my outfit again, comparing what I wore to the "it" style that graced the large screen.

"Think I'll stay with what I got," I mumbled wearily at the model who was now staring out, embracing a large purple streak running across her blonde hair, which had been styled in some offset abstract statue movement, to which the hairdresser seemed to have actually left some of the foil wraps from the process of highlighting. The liner that edged her eyes was a border of thick black that ran down to the base of the bone that connected her cheek and jaw, then curving inside itself, the way the tail of a Pomeranian dog does. Lime green shadow highlighted the crease of her eye lid as well as the parallel area across from it, thickly following her little pompom tail and abruptly stopping before entering the curve. Diamond body gems, laced the black curve, and then floated against her skin to run along the contour that stretched along her jaw and coming to a rest at the corner of her lips, which were inked in a dark plum.

I allowed my body to sink into the plush couch, as I sat down and reached for my glass of water, feeling the parchment that was beginning to take over the run of my throat again. The ice water coated the vulgar that was sizzling its way upward. Paying too much attention to the uncouth models strutting around and very little to myself, left me no reaction time, as a sudden glimpse of a slight shifting caught my eye, and the glass slid from the edge of the table, connecting with my hardwood, and reflecting rainbows across the walls, as thousands of little rhinestones flittered their way across the room.

"Great! Just great, you're a clutch Ava," mocking myself, I scrutinized the layout of the sparkling little gems that lingered from the glass that I had just mutilated. I had found the best way to approach cleaning up my mess, now if I could only remember where the cleaning supplies were. Suspiciously I eyed each area of the apartment, nothing came, I couldn't remember.

"Think, think, stupid girl!" My mouth hurled the words out, my fists clinging in a tangled ball of hair at my temples. Why could I not remember, this was not some horrible thing of my past. All I wanted was a simple broom. Surely I had not been Cinderella somewhere in my past life, so how the hell could remembering where the cleaning supplies were possibly be one of those memories that my mind had allowed the amnesia to take over and put into deletion mode?

Every inch of my body vibrated violently, screaming in rage. Shattering within from the havoc that had descended onto my body when they pillaged my child, my soul, everything I knew, leaving my whole being in ruins of shambled memories and recollections. The dominance of shear revulsion hoarded from somewhere inherent within me; a place, a person that I was not accustomed to, engulfed everything that I was, as the plain wooden coffee table that once sat in front of me, now tumbled across the floor, reflecting off the corner of the wall and propelling itself in an upright position leaning against the furthest wall from me.

Scandalized at the possibility that I could even remotely enhance a persona like that, and seeing that along with the table, I had sent the two books that held more soul than anything else in the house, to lie upon the floor, tossed amidst the shamble, I ambled my way towards them. The only access that I had to my highly guarded mind, was laying only a few feet ahead of me. I shook the book, the leather allowing the glass to disengage easily, and returning their descent, gracefully to the floor. Brooks' book was partially opened wedged up against the base of one of the ceramic plant pots that lined the windows. Resorting to my hands and knees, I reached far behind the oversized pot, struggling to fetch the small stock of paper that glistened gold.

Aware of the repeated sting of something that was biting into the thumb of my hand, I fingered hard against the texture of the paper, tugging somewhat forcefully rough, removing it from its location. Removing the sharp spades of glass that marked the edge of my thumb freed the warmth of my own venom to surge from underneath. The thumb found a crevice within my tongue, nuzzling it; till the palpations that cadenced with the pulses of blood adhered to the pressure.

Intently I gazed at the black stock card with gold writing, which was now sitting on my lap. Weston Myers loomed up at me. Gently I tore a piece of blank paper from the back of my little notebook, and remarked Brook's page that was previously held by the business card. I hid the business card within the inside pocket of my book, as I stood, "Weston, it's time for a visit, I'm ready."

****

No Turning Back

October 24

For the first time, in such a long time, I woke up feeling alive this morning. I actually thought that I could hear the cracking of the shell that had built itself around me. Then they informed us of it being one of those "special days." Why don't they get it, what they consider special, we constitute as horrific; well at least I do. My shell has resealed, stronger than it ever was before – the cracking that I thought I heard, has now become the sound of my soul shattering within as it is slowly squeezed to death by the fists of torture.

I begin to think that maybe there is some happiness in store for me, for my future; then I realize that my happiness is like the wind, the cold breeze that blows surrounding me in my house, always taunting me, never seen, never within reach of my grasp. As I laid here, contemplating the day to come, my knees automatically found their secured spot, tucked against the wall of my chest, and I wondered if was it possible that I could seclude myself so tightly inside this ball of my own body; that I could constrict myself harder and harder until the balls of my knees crushed my chest wall and punctured through my hollow heart, stealing every breath that lingers within. Could I kill myself, by protecting myself?

I flipped the page over, glancing up to look out the window from the seat of the taxi cab, very thankful that I didn't try to find my way while walking, visualizing that we were now situated in the core of the city. Buildings along both sides sat skyline, piercing through the horizon and mingling in the cluster of clouds that scattered throughout the sky. Bustles of people were being herded along the sidewalks of the streets, no start and no end. The streets were aligned with taxis, limos, and security coach cars; mountain bikes weaved in and out.

Nervousness began to boil from within me. Maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe I was making a big mistake. Whole heartedly I yearned for the company of Brooks, my rock, my security... and lately my savior.

"Six more blocks, missy." The cabbie informed from the front seat, winking at me through the reflection of the rear view mirror, while stuffing the last of his jumbo salami stogie into his mouth, minus the bits that had fallen in the crevice between his old man beer belly and man boobs, both of which complemented his slouched frame.

"Hmm, thanks," I replied, hoping that he was just built with a good sixth sense and knew that I was fidgety and petrified about the trip that I was making, and not trying to put some move on me.

I smiled at my haughty, not so humble attitude and turned back to the notebook in front of me, pressing the pages along the center till they sat in a straight alignment, and fingered the title of the poem ahead of me.

Memories of the Past

In the light of a simple candle,

I sit alone, wrapped in torments of the past.

At times a feeling comes over me, and I smile in spite of myself,

And the love, that was never made to last.

The fire crackles in agony,

Reminding me of promises made.

A vulnerable heart that opened up to you,

And the sacrifice that I paid.

Time goes by slowly,

Day by day; year by year.

Eventually I will get over it,

Right down to the last damn tear.

The car became motionless. I shoved the book into the beige shoulder sling that crested my body like a sash, and fumbled for the thirty three dollars that the cabbie announced was due. I handed him the folded up bills through the gated barrier which separated us.

"Thanks. Here," he said, pushing a cheaply made crinkled card back at me. "If you ever need a cab again, you can call the direct line on here, it's my cell number. Ya know, so you have none of that waiting in line, twenty to thirty minutes shit."

"Thanks," I replied, with a slight wave of the card, before discarding it into the sling with everything else that I had felt important enough to bring along with me, before opening the door and emerging into the hustle of the smog stained streets.

The building standing tall and aloof of the sky, was something out of an architectural book. Black and chrome steel stabilized the prominent building, cradled by a half sphere at the entrance. The building revealed no sight of solidly obstructed walls, just stabilizing steel and vast arrangements of glass windows; each reflecting its own spellbinding observation of the city scenery. A curvature of gold gleamed across the top of the six double doors to enter, Wilsher & Lang Law Corporation.

Walking beneath the signs, as I approached the doors, I spun myself beneath them, sensing a realistic view of the size of this building, not to mention the corporation itself. The letters that were used to exclaim the property's ownership fixed above me, each three quarters taller than me. In any situation of the law, these were obviously the guys that you wanted on your side. The power they held filled every aspect of the presentation of their building, even the air that encircled me as I entered the building, had a sharp sting of power to it. They had everything, falling only shy at the sight of the gravel in their own hands.

The lobby of the building was larger than the city square that we had passed earlier in our drive here. Perfectly polished black marble floors lined out every inch of the room, every wall was made of sheets of mirrors, stretching from floor to ceiling top, seamlessly blending with the one next to it. Large leather ivory couches were evenly and precisely positioned along the glass walls as sitting areas for clients and other lawyers. Furthest from the doors, was a circular ivory and gold brick desk, aligned with five receptions, each bordered by two security guards.

"Ma'am, may I help you," a young blonde questioned. Hair flawlessly pulled back, falling all at an even level, squared with her shoulders. She wore a single breasted black blazer, fully buttoned, but lacking any sign of a camisole; her matching black skirt crept at her thighs, as she crossed her legs impatiently.

"Yes, actually," I began responding, "I'm looking for Weston Myers." Before I could get another word out, honestly thinking that I would have to explain myself, and what I was here for. Her gum snapped between her red lips, and she held her long manicured fake nails in the direction to the right of me.

"Elevators are located to your right you want to take it to the twenty third floor," she paused sizing me up, before beginning again, and continuing as if I was the one who was blonde, "that would be the button that says twenty three on it. His office is the only one on that floor; ensure that you check in with his reception when you arrive." Sparring no evidence of her trying to slander me as stupid, she added, "You got all that, or you need me to write it down."

I glanced at her blazer, finding the black name tag, with Natalie, written in gold. Smiling smugly, I shook my head gently.

"Nah, I think I can handle it just fine. Besides, I'd hate to see you bust one of those little nails of yours, now that would constitute a tragedy wouldn't it."

We both caught the smirk that slipped from the guards beside her. Her eyes narrowed at me, in response to the innocent smile that I gave her in thanks.

"Whatever," she scowled, in between the continuous snaps of her gum.

I followed the imaginary impression that her once pointed finger had left, towards the elevators. Located along the glass walls beside the elevators, were lists of each lawyer, their floor, their suite, each etched into the glass. I contemplated the cost that something like that must be, not to mention the cost to change it, each time that a lawyer left or joined the firm. Power and money, it was the love of this world we lived in.

This elevator held no warning chimes. The movement was almost motionless, as it began to ascend through the building and towards the sky, taking me with it. The numbers lit up rhythmically, as we passed each floor, I'm not ready. I reached for the stop button. Warning: the stop button will activate an alarm when utilized, engraved on a little red plaque below the button.

"This is it, no turning back now," I mumbled timorously.

****

Remorseless Butterflies

The doors shed from themselves, allowing me to enter onto the quiet and elegantly humble twenty-third floor. Again, without warning or notice, the doors closed and began their descent back. The lobby area of the floor that contained Weston's personal suite is carpeted with a thick, cushioned layer of burgundy. Two black leather chairs sit in the waiting area of the lobby, a silver framed glass table with drinking glasses, a pitcher of water and handful of various magazines, centered amidst it. The reception is located against the far wall with a smaller version of the desk from the main lobby, hovering in the corner. To the right of the desk, are two rooms, one which designated the washrooms, the other has a sign that says Conference Room – Private. Against the other side of the room, elegantly written in the same gold that lingered throughout the entire building is Weston's name.

Venturing towards the reception desk, I instantly noticed that no one was present. Probably dictating a letter, I thought to myself, before noticing the sign on the desk: Out for Lunch – Apologizes for Any Inconvenience.

Maybe I should take it as a sign, I considered, slumping my nauseated body into one of the waiting chairs. I had rumbled with these contradicting feelings that I had felt since I left the house, just to find him out for lunch. Maybe, turning back time and revisiting the past was also out of the question. I mean realistically, what had I possibly been thinking. That he was holding out for me to return from my coma stricken hell. That he would great me with open arms, and not have a wife and children to introduce me too. Foolish I was.

The subtle ringing of the phone filled the air in the receptionist desk, bringing me once again to excuse myself from within my head. Slinging my slouch bag over my right shoulder, I reached for a Kleenex from the box on the shelf under the table. Dabbing away my tears, and the possible dreams that I had imprudently allowed my heart to contemplate, I headed towards the elevator.

"Well what can I say Oliver, the kids' a two time loser. Been convicted of assault twice, both of which were on elderly women, and you have the audacity to ask why I won't make a deal."

That voice; low, quiet and yet sultry just the same, sent me abrupt on my heels, the butterflies soared through my very being. I knew that sound. Wings hummed loudly as they flutter in harmony with the rapid pulsations that were expelling from my heart. Not giving an ounce of thought to the confidentiality of his position, I swept towards the office, pulled in by an urge for him.

"Listen, we both know that he knows a lot more about the Girsher kidnapping then he's been letting on to. If, he gives up information; reliable information and testifies to it, then I'll consider sitting down and working out a deal. Otherwise you can tell your client he can plan on being behind bars until his fiftieth birthday, and if he's lucky maybe he can repent amongst the rest of the world after that," said the voice again, in an obstinate manner, but still yielding an ever present gentle tone.

Having reached the door I found myself hovering, unable to venture in or move away, all I could manage to do was to stare at him, entranced at the way that his tousled hair fell in an uncoordinated manner, as he ran his hand through it. His feet rested high on the corner of his desk, as he stretched back in his leather desk chair, starring translucently at the view adjacent to him through the huge tinted glass window. He wore an unconventional, partially unbuttoned black shirt with black khaki styled slacks; his charcoal sport styled suit coat, draped over the back of his chair. Polished he was, but more so towards something that you would expect to see on the cover of magazine, not sitting in an office chair at the largest lawyer firm for miles of around.

"Well call me back when the kid is ready to quit wasting my time. Ya, you too Oliver, tell Birdie hello for me." He chuckled lightly, and the same smirking smile that I had dreamt about crossed his face, illuminating his ember green eyes, that were now shaded beneath strands of his disheveled hair.

"Dinner sounds great, Percy will enjoy being able to get out of the house. Now that she's not pregnant anymore, she's definitely become her old self again, don't think I'll be doing that to her again. Oh don't forget to consider James offer to come over to this side of the courthouse, sure would be great to have you on this end of things."

Percy? You fool, I thought in a scolding manner to myself. Look at him, what on earth would propel a man like this to not be single. Hell after this long, he's probably got a wife and mistress, that wouldn't surprise me in the least. Shear anger and jealousy began to rage within me, at the thought that he had had a baby with someone else. How was that fair, how could he do that; I lose my baby and he gets the option to just go procreate wherever his little heart contended. My weight pivoted against my heel, fully aware now, that this wasn't where I belonged.

Weston's voice on the phone suddenly sounded hurried.

"Olie, I'll have to call you back, yep you too," he spoke, followed by the thud of the phone against the receiver. "Excuse me," the questioning statement came, followed by silence.

Now what? Surely I couldn't out run him to the elevator and I definitely lacked the stamina to run through the stairwell.

"Sorry, wrong office...," I began, fumbling to get my thoughts to be heard.

"Ava," when he said it, the sound was sweet, alluring... almost lustful. "Ava, is it really you?"

"I apologize, I never meant to interrupt."

"Don't be ridiculous; it was only Ollie," he stated, smiling. The look on his face froze, his smile disintegrating. The look on my face must have said it all. I had no recollection of Ollie whoever he may be, other than the obvious, the voice on the other line.

"Please, come sit down," he motioned to one of the chairs across from his desk, changing the subject at the same time. "You want a drink?"

Passing the ivory leather couch that the firm had obviously bought in bulk, I made my way towards one of the chairs.

"Um sure. Thanks," I replied, nodding my head while trying to digest the framed prints on Weston's wall. They were the same style as the ones that I had noticed on the bookcase at my house only these were huge and had various colours in them, disparate the black that was obstinate about lurking through mine.

Scared to look directly at him, I found myself staring out the window, stealing sneak peeks of him from the corner of my eyes. He stood with his back to me, in front of a marble burgundy bar, wine glasses hanging from the cabinet that stretched the top of the counter, dome lights illuminating from within. The ice clanked as they rolled from the tongs into the glasses that he had laid out in front of him. With one quick and sly movement, he turned at his hips and caught me in the midst of staring at him. Again that look, that smile, the one that took my breath away, filled his face. Brooding in humility, I looked away and stared at the zipper of my coat that I now fidgeted between my fingers. I heard that low chuckle again, and knew that he was smiling all smugly to himself. Infuriated even more, I chastised myself, you're not a school girl, this isn't some high school crush, grow up! The man is obviously in love and has a child, he's moved on.

He held the glass out for me. I took it, without looking up, scared to. I gulped in, too much, too fast. Once again, the actions that I executed resulted in the sweltering of my throat. The taste gagged me. His laughter rose louder than his previous chuckles.

"We generally sip vodka and coke, not gulp it. But then again, my Ava always was stubborn," he said still laughing.

His Ava, maybe he thought that I was to be his mistress. Men! I always knew they were controlling! Throat still raw from the scorching that had possessed from the aftermath of the vodka, I retreated towards the bar. Dumping the drink out, I fetched a clean cup and poured a glass of water.

"I noticed that we seem to have been inspired by the same artist," I stated, motioning to the enormous hanging murals of his office, "I must admit that yours don't have the same gloomy appearance as mine, but then again I don't believe that I was played for quite the fool that you obviously were. I would imagine that from the size of the canvas' you must have shed a golden egg for the unsightly prints. What in gods' name drew you into purchasing such a print?"

A familiar warming sensation ran through my blood, as I watched his hair fall shrouding the look that had fallen upon his face as he cocked his head at me. A slight frown grimaced through his sideways smile, as his hand shifted his hair back from his face but into no particular placing. Agony began to coarse through my veins as I began to sense the solemn pain that settled around him. Ice settled into a pool of diluted whiskey as he set the glass along the desk, still staring at the paintings, and sighing in a jolted manner.

"I guess I just don't really understand the point to these kinds of paintings," I began stammering, trying to correct for my apparent rudeness, "I mean, realistically, do you understand the emotions that the artist claims to convey in each painting. Pictures of cute little puppies and dirty chubby toddlers, those I get... their cute. These though," I said, motioning to one canvas as I stood below, "are foreign to me. Like what sort of person is it that does these. An alcoholic or maybe an inmate of the local metal institute – what do you think?"

Low and genuinely he chuckled. Ice made a cutting sound as it scraped the edge of his cup to the bottom, the only reminisce of his previous drink. As he refreshed his now empty glass, the whiskey slid from the mouth of the bottle and ran like silk. The glass brim nearly overflowed, as the ice burst to the surface for a momentary breath, before succumbing to the toxin and bobbing lifeless in the pool of death.

"This artist," he began, stopping to take a swig of his indulgence. Again the smart ass smile that so beautifully found its way cocked sideways, now grimaced; only this time the culprit was that of the bite that the whiskey took as it slid down his throat. Partially licking his lips, he pointed towards the painting, glass in hand, pinkie finger drawing the way, "This artist, truly is something else, definitely not a drunk nor some psycho path. Well at least as far as I know anyways."

He sat on the edge of the leather couch, placing his drink down and lighting a cigarette. Retreating back to his glass, he slouched against the back of the couch. One arm resting upon the armrest, the other laced along the back of the couch and feet crossed on the edge of the solid mahogany wood coffee table.

"The work that you own exemplify some of the artists' darker days, hence the no colour. These particular paintings," he began to state, one hand stretching the path of the large canvases, the other simultaneously bringing his whiskey to his lips again, "they convey the change that took place during the time period that they were created. And to hear the artist describe them... you could get goose bumps." Gently his head bent down, with a sincere smile spreading his face, as he reminisced in another time and place.

"Ya, I still really don't get them. The whole abstract thing, just leaves so much for the mind to work for, no real beauty to just marvel in," I replied, feeling my nose beginning to wrinkle as I concentrated trying to see what he was talking about.

"Well," he said, stretching and making his way towards me and the particular canvas that I was eyeing. Butterflies flushed their way through my stomach, tingling sensations skipped through my body, and leaving me feeling off centered as he stood beside me, arm brushing lightly at mine. "Maybe, once you start painting again, you will see the beauty that you once saw in them. Maybe your face will even light up again when you talk about them," he said, his warm hand shifting the hair from my face, as he glazed into my eyes.

Dizzily flustered, I sauntered my way towards the bar again, unsure if my footing would correctly take me from one position to the next without planting me on my face.

"I created these... did I have something against just showing how I felt with pictures that made sense?" I said, gently interrogating him and avoiding the closeness of the moment that just took place. I took a sip of water, allowing my mouth to fumble with the ice, as I contemplated my wandering thoughts. My body was hot with yearning to have Weston closer to me, to feel the heat of his body... and then I ventured my thoughts to Percy and their little junior.

"You had always said that you put what you felt into each of the pictures. That the colours evoked ones unconscious feelings and that each stroke persuaded the admirer to find their own sense of being within. What could be felt by you while painting, could in turn be the opposite of what another felt by viewing and that there was the beauty itself in abstract work." Having made his way back towards the couch, he patted the edge near him. "So, how have things been going," he stammered, before refreshing his words, "I mean, have you recouped any memories or anything?"

"No, I can't say that anything has really been resolved. Or opened up, however you want to view it." I settled onto the couch near him, though keeping a vast distance between his godly illuminated body, and my own stiff body, frigid with fear and desire.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nodded, taking a sip of my water, as his hand and arm, stretched once again across the back of the couch, and entering the proximity of my body.

"Do you remember anything about me... or us?"

"Well I know the things that Brooks has told me, as well as what I've questioned about from pictures and such. I woke up once, with a vivid memory of..." my voice trailed, as I felt the caress of my hand against my stomach and watched as his silent sigh slumped through his shoulders... "I also have daydreams, and remember parts of you."

An overexerted cocky smirk returned to his face, as he twisted into the corner of the couch, "Ah, so you just remember parts of me huh." Chuckles pursued through his lips, "Any certain parts of me that you are remembering that conjure your mind to arouse past memories of me into your daydreams."

His sincere smug smile covered me with a sheet of calmness, and I allowed my body to atone into the comfort of the leather couch, my mind allured as his hand settled against my hair, shifting along the base of my neck.

Within the moments of a split second, my body and mind became intertwined a midst the caressing of his hands, the suede texture of his lips manipulating the procession of my neck, and the alluring aroma of whiskey and Chrome for Men. Butterflies that were once nestled in the pit of my stomach now ripple through the palpations of my heart and tremble through the very being of my body.

"What about Percy," I muttered through exasperated breaths and gritted teeth, questioning and inquiring at the same time.

His laugh was muffled with a partial deep moan, "Stay on track... for just a moment Ava."

The roaming of his hands could be felt once more, along the contour of my body. Completely intoxicated by him, I melted against him; the harmonization of two to one... may as well allow the gratification, for I would be crucified in shear agony upon judgment day... my fingers threaded amid a mass of hair at the nape of his neck, unable to withhold the longing, I pulled him closer to me, remorseless to the effects of my yearning.

****

The White Fog

Every rapping sound that proceeded the vibrating of my cell phone, echoed from the mahogany wood coffee table and incessantly purged through the tranquil somber that I had nestled into. A blanket of warmth swathed around me, passive rhythmic beats lulled me and serene breaths whispered a song of adoring ease to me. The moment was surreal, this was my white fog. Nothing could touch this. Not the trepidation of the binding black fog or its illusive singing bullet; nothing could erode this moment for me. Eeeerrrrrr... Eeeerrrrr... except maybe the relentless silent ringing of my phone.

Reaching backwards, I fumbled around the edge of the table until my hand came to settle on the still vibrating phone. Weston's body stirred at my movement, a rousing moan resonated from behind his lips and he shifted closer to me. As I glanced at the screen of my phone, my heart sank. How could I have become so caught up, that I allowed myself to be so insensate to my only friend over the past few months; my rock. "Brooks..."

"Ava, oh god"... he paused, catching his breath, only from what seemed to be a lack thereof, not from actual relief... "Do you have any idea how worried, I have been about you?"

"I am so sorry, I never..."

"Ah, excuse me young lady, did I say I was finished..." he paused again, this time definitely for effect, "I didn't think so. I leave you and come home to find the living room ransacked, broken glass strewn all across the floor, and no Ava. A lady, that seems to have also lost the knowledge of how to leave a note or answer a phone."

Before replying, I waited a moment, not sure if he was finished or not, "I am truly sorry Brooks. I completely lost track of time, I never meant to scare you – I just kind of got caught up in the heat of the moment."

"Heat of the moment, huh? So that's where the business card went to," he said with his usual lighthearted chuckle, "well Thai takeout will be here in an hour, and I ordered enough for three."

"See you soon."

I slide the phone back onto the top of the table and turned in towards Weston. His green eyes illuminated, as he smiled. Gently, protectively he kissed the top of my forehead, "Scarred the shat outta the old man, huh?"

"I guess so. It never really occurred to me that anyone would care that much. He's truly been a savior for me, shouldn't have taken it for granted."

"Nah, I don't think you take it for granted. You're independent Ava. You may not be able to recollect all your memories, but you are still who you are." I giggled in puzzlement. "It made more sense when I said it in my head, but you get my drift. You always got me."

He pulls me in closer. As I indulge his hand brushing along the bareness of my thigh, he gently presses his lips against mine, delicately parting my mouth and enthralling me in deep passion. Slowly his hand skirts up along the small of back, tracing my spine in skipping motions. With ease, his arm envelopes around the back of my body and pulls me to his will. The coldness of the leather couch sends tingles through the starkness of my underside, the warmth of his body draped over top of me. My body begins riveting with desire. The satin underside of his right palm sashayed along my curves. His other hand, fingers the front of my neck. As he teasingly brushes his lips against my neck, his hand runs the course of my body. Effortlessly he found his way. Intensity stung through our veins with each impulsion. Deep arousal comes from our violent quakes of passion.

****

Picture Perfect

"Oh my god," I jerked up from the couch, as well as the comfort of Weston's' arms. Searching around for something to hibernate my body and my stupidity into.

Calmly, shifting into a half sitting half slouching position on the couch, Weston once again, laced his arm along the back of the couch, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong! Percy"... before sullenly adding, "Percy, that's what's wrong. What was I thinking, how could I do this?"

From the corner of my eye, I caught him as he raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to the side and gave that smirk, as he lit a cigarette, "and what is it, exactly that you've done?" he inquired.

"Committed adultery with her husband," I replied, dumbfounded at how nonchalantly he was treating the whole situation; not to mention his wife... and myself.

Gagging, followed by a laughter that rolled freely from behind his smile, sent my blood to an infuriating boiling point. From the core within, I wanted to explode, but as I stared at him, feeling rather bewildered, all I could do was cry.

"Oh Ava, your serious." Grabbing at my waist, he pulled me down to him. "I'm not married to Percy. In fact I'm not married to anyone... I love you. I've always loved you." His thumb nudged my chin up till I was looking at him.

"But I heard you... you were talking about Percy, and the baby. And how she was much happier now, but that you'd never do that to her again."

"Ava, I promise you, that there is no one else and we have done nothing wrong here. If you give me a chance to explain it all, you will see. How about your place? Brooks ordered dinner right?" Unsurely, I nodded in reply. "Okay, great. Let me run home, then I'll meet you back at your place and I can explain everything."

Puzzled, I stared into his eyes. Searching... searching for anything. "Trust me," he whispered, as he embraced me within in his arms. And I did. I allowed myself to get lost in his warmth, his eyes, his voice... and I gave him myself, my trust.

\- § -

Every ounce of uneasiness that I had had, was now just a lingering memory. Together we left his office and proceeded downstairs to the lobby. As we exited the elevator, Weston slid his arm around my waist, and ushered me towards the main entrance. In spite of myself I had to smirk, as I watched Natalie, sit in awe, mouth wide open as she watched us walk towards the doors.

"Thanks again for your help today, such a pleasure meeting you." I said giving her a little girlie best friend type wave. Weston snickered at my childish behavior, but pulled my closer and I found myself gently closing my eyes, and feeling the blissful dreams wrapping around me... peace had settled around me at last.

Outside, the city streets had become busy. Men and women bustled out of office and into cabs, or fell into their position of the herd that stretched along the sidewalks. Beginning to wonder how a person could even locate a cab in the chaos that lay ahead of me, Weston guided me towards a black Cadillac that glistened as it sat parallel to the big gold doors which we had left. Chrome lined the professionally detailed machine, tinted windows peacefully shielded the inside from the hectic world that it sat in, and standing in front of the car stood a middle age dark man. As true statement of something that you would see out of the movies, he was dressed in a black suit and accessorized with a black tie and chauffeur hat.

"Good evening Mr. Myers," he said with a genuine smile and a friendly nod towards me. Grasping the handle of the door, he pulled it towards him as he stepped to the side to allow clear passage.

"Hey Karl," Weston replied patting him on the back, "Slight change of plans, you are going to drive Miss Kendrew here home," he said as he reached into his pocket, "I will meet her there later, and you are going to leave the car there, and go home and take that beautiful wife of yours for dinner and dancing," and with that he slid a wad of bills into the lapel pocket of Karl.

"Oh no, Mr. Myers I couldn't..."

"I won't here anymore of it Karl... Harriet deserves a night out and you deserve a night off! It's been a long week for the both of us, and a little down time wouldn't kill anyone."

Pulling me around to face him, Weston kissed my forehead. "You're in good hands." His smile sent shivers up the length of my spine. "I'll meet you at your house in about half an hour." He helped me in the car, and when I looked back at him, the sunlight was blazing against his face, making his image watery on the eyes.

"Love you," he said as he closed the door.

Karl started the car and smoothly pulled away from everything that bustled around outside, however the windows were already shading me from everything outside and I was stuck inside my head replaying every moment... and... and, the words... he loved me. My body was vibrating; my head whirling and my heart racing, after every that had taken place, he still loved me. And the moment it was picture perfect, a once in a lifetime thing... or was it? It all felt so familiar.

I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to divulge in the realism of my fantasy. The words and the moment begin to replay over and over. Suddenly I could hear the birds singing, the laughter of children... the sun felt warmer now. As I stared at Weston's face I noticed that he was no longer standing over me but bent before me... and we were in a park of some sort. Children joyfully ran through the grass, kites following them high in the air, gliding through the sky with bright colours. Birds tweeted and sang as they darted between the trees. "I love you..."

It wasn't a once in a lifetime moment... the time was different, the place was different, but the picture was the same... the words were the same. It was the day that Weston asked me to marry him.

We were in Cottonwood Park. It was the fourth of June. We had been sitting on one of the red wooden park benches watching two swans swimming in the pond to the edge of the sidewalk, when he got up and bent before me.

I remembered oh gosh! I remembered, something so important and so lovely... everything wasn't lost after all.

****

Epitome of Realization

As soon as the elevator doors open to the foyer of my apartment, my mind instantly became entangled in the melody that brews within the solace of my home. Brooks is clearly listening to classical music and the thought makes me ponder how little I truly know about him. I would have never thought of him sitting and divulging himself in the comforts of Bach or any likeness. The melody, like all classical music that I can recall, feels odd to me... a despairingly happy melancholic tune, and I wonder who the composer is.

The door opens warmly to the place that I am deduced to feel the most comfortable, Home sweet home, and as I walk through a comforting feeling slowly swells over me. I cannot quite place whether it is due to the sullen music that dances through the air silencing any deadly fog that waits to pounce on me, the dozens of deadbolts drilled to my door to protect me, or the wafts of Thai food that are perpetuating my nostrils with the sudden realization that I am starving, exasperated even.

"I see that you get caught up in the moment often," Brooks husky voice gleams; shaking me from whatever day dream trance I had entered, hand slightly extended to the proximity of the living room, neatly and precisely in place, like the model house that it was calculated to be.

Heat flushes to my face from embarrassment, at the memory of the disarray that I had generated from my morning break down.

"It smells delish Brooks. I'm just going to quickly have a shower."

Brooks motions me understanding, as he saunters towards the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Please remember that I'm old. Don't think my body can handle dragging you out of the water again."

I can feel the heat burning from my veins and effervescing to the surface of my skin, as I remember Brooks rescue recovery, and graciously slip into my room, happy that he has already retreated and cannot see my mortification.

The second that I enter into my room, I am instantly strangled by the revolting and trenchant smell of the repercussion of my drunken stupor, which I had yet to clean up and now violates the air and my every breath. The notion of a shower quickly dissipates as I remember that Weston will be here shortly, and there was no way that I was going to allow this smell to stay lingering and spreading throughout the apartment.

Hanging my coat along the post of the bed I gingerly sweep my feet over and across the towels that hide what I generated on the floor of my room, and made my way to the bathroom to scrounge for a bucket of some sort and a cloth.

Pillaging through the cupboards underneath the sink, I manage to find a clean ice cream bucket with a rag already folded neatly inside, making me have to ponder if this is just a component of my cleaning tool kit for the bathroom or if the desecration that I have splurged on my floor is something of a norm for me. Drug addict, why not an alcoholic as well, I think to myself with a shrug.

Scrubbing, Scraping, scratching... and scrubbing, scraping, scratching some more, leavings me chiding myself about cleaning up ones aftermath before it succumbs like gum and glues itself to the wedges of hardwood floor.

After what seems like hours, and a final wipe down, I refurbish the bucket to its place under the sink and stand back to observe my work. Arms heavy and aching as they numbly sit upon my hips. The dreadful sight that was once there is now gone, mission complete. But that smell, oh that repugnant smell. Turning back to start pillaging the bathroom once more, my glance catches a bottle of perfume aside the sink and I pick it up and begin dosing the air.

Intoxication is swept over me, with each spritz that I release. The smell... so familiar.... enchanting and enticing... entwining and encircling me in a daze... a wonderfully blissful notion... the sense incarcerates me to a memory, a past, a time before... Weston!

Au de lord, I grabbed a bottle of cologne. Weston's' to be precise! And with that the door chimes to announce his arrival, what perfect timing.

Mind and body jump into overdrive, delving through the foreign land that is my closet, I persistently begin to chastise myself for sullenly loosing myself within a scent instead of preparing for the evening at hand... the meeting of Percy!

Finally I settle on a loose knit long grey sweater and layer it over my black camisole. I can hear the muffled sounds of Brooks greeting Weston at the door, remembering that they have already met and realize that they probably now both know more about me then I do myself. I shake my head rattling the thought loose before I become ensnared again within my mind... it's a dangerous place for me to be left alone in, too many dark things lurking for me.

Stealing a glance in the mirror, I notice that my hair is now ragged from the cleaning and my once flatten curls are lethargically remerging. Grasping a hair tie, I lift them high and pile them loosely so that strewn tendrils fall aimlessly but precise along my jaw line.

I cock my head at the reflection... hmm as good as it gets.

Apprehension begins to itch and ball within my very being, as I make my way down the hall towards the living room. Brooks is standing at the base of the stairs, belly protruding and a childish grin as he lavishly talks to Weston. Still hidden near the entrance, I can't see Weston, but as he engages in a conversation with Brooks, I cannot evade the sultriness of his voice. Each word that exasperates from his throat unearth an ardent need in the sensations along my back... my arms... my throat and I hesitate momentarily, lost amidst the lust that burns within me as I fondly reminisce of our afternoon together.

Brooks' voice breaks me from my hypnotic rivet of Weston's voice.

"Bout time you were done," he says.

I smile shyly as I approach him, feeling flustered as I contemplate if he perceives my moment of yearning, and wondering if he can read my mind. Not to mention my dirty thoughts.

I can see him now, compellingly sexy and gorgeous as hell. Standing there, wholly at ease, in a pair of jeans and tight black grey t-shirt, that accentuates his body. His body, the epitome of our moment together, a moment that I am coveting to explore once again.

"See just like I promised, here in an hour," Weston says smiling and holding his hands out as if giving an invitation to marvel him... which I am of course. But he's alone. Where is she? He promised that he would introduce us, and then the guilty contemplation did she find out, did he tell her, did she leave him? Is that why he was here, because he has no one else now?

"Ava," his voice is inquisitive, and uncertain as he breaks through my musing.

"Percy?"

His chuckle is curt. And I feel a sudden twitch of insult, at his expense. He cocks me his sideways grin again with a look of amusement.

"Okay, but will you please sit down." He solicits motioning to the chair.

"No, I'm Fine."

"Ava, please." He pleads, "It would be much better if you just sat down."

Imprudently this time, I shake my head. Would be much better, what does that even mean? Much better how? I glance up at Weston, suddenly unsure.

Weston reluctantly shows defeat and leans his head back through the door...

"I warned you," he rebukes me before saying her name, with a sweet genuine love to his tone.

This is it. And I wait, preparing for the magnificent blonde that I have been envisioning since I first heard her name, to come sashaying in and destroy me for vandalizing her man and their marriage. The perpetual waiting feels unbearable and I close my eyes, preparing for what is to come and then I hear the sounds of her heels, pounding. But pounding at what? And then it dawns on me, she is coming full speed at me. In simultaneous motion, my eyes pry open and the agonizing blow against my chest come in full force together as one. I don't wince. I can't, the breath has been pounded from my throat to the depths of my gut. I dig within trying to regurgitate the gasp from my body. And then another hit, a sheer solid splice to the back of my head, the breath burns acidy as it groans through my teeth. Pain is radiating from my body, expelling off me like waves of heat. Once more I succumb to weight upon my chest and my breath hinders beneath her, trapped and choking to be released.

"Percy." His voice is firm, but not angry or disapproving. Humiliation builds within me; hot tears begin to perpetuate the lids of my eyes.

"I warned you," he scoffs at me followed by the regaled chuckles of both himself and Brooks.

The audacity of him! Once hot tears now parch my eyes and foster my rage. I want to scream at him, beat him, and disparage him till he is as degraded as I feel. The pain is audacious as I right myself. Pounding ravages the back of my head from its sound bashing with the hard wood. What a psychotic bitch! With knees perched up, I balance my elbow on them to allow myself to rub the achiness from my head.

Hesitantly my eyes begin to slant open... and there starring back at me, are the deepest baby blue eyes I have ever seen. Sparkling gems really. But she's not blonde, she's grey! He found himself a cougar? What the fuck!

Gently rubbing my eyes, I shift my weight over and look again. Yep she's definitely grey.

"Purebred Great Dane," Weston declares, his arms wrapping securely around my waist and lifting me to my feet. Once again a familiar smell beseeches me, and suddenly I feel light headed and I am unsure if it is the alluring intoxication that he transpires from him, or the trashing that my head just took.

"After we found out about the... baby." His voice trails as he mutters the last word under his breath, "you became concerned and suddenly decided that we needed to practice, and well I came home one day, to a puppy that has now grown to be horse."

"Come on you two, foods getting cold." Brooks bellows from the kitchen area.

I stare down at Percy, she's simply exquisite and suddenly I comprehend how relieved I am that she is not blonde.

"I'm famished, let's eat," Weston says softly, with his forehead pressed gently against my hair, and softly caressing my ear with a kiss before he turns towards the spicy aroma that has filled the house.

I nod silently, walking towards the door, "Be right there, I'll just get the door." The words seem to take forever as I continue to stare at Percy in bewilderment.

"Watch out for Jackson."

What! Who is Jackson? The pounding begins again, Percy sits silently in the living room, waiting. I cock my head at her contemplating. Waiting for what? And then I remember the words I had heard earlier as I had eavesdropped on Weston's phone call, resonating the meaning... Now that she's not pregnant anymore. It's too late, the motion is swift. Firmly planted on my ass in front of my door, I watch as Jackson, a pup the size of an ox, and spindly legs slides resonated into his mother, before bouncing off and impervious to anything gathers himself and ambles to full throttle again as he continues his race to the same aroma that has now once again tugged violently at my stomach.

Percy's head appears to shake as if to say he just never learns, as she elegantly shifts to a standing position and trots along side of me as we make our way to the kitchen.

Feeling somewhat sedated and ravishing for something to eat, I pull the chair out that is situated in between Brooks and Weston, who are already dished out and discussing their days. Jackson intensely chases his tail in the corner, playing catch and release, and shows complete shock and contempt that his tail would actually dare to move again after having already been so gallantly snared once.

I try to make some feeble attempt to listen to the conversation going on at the table, but begin to feel overwhelmed as I dish supper on to my plate.

"Reporters were somewhat reluctant and unsure about talking to me. But I was able to find out that two of the cops that were at the drug bust, were the same two that found Ava that night in the alley after the attack. There was an explicit ban put on the reporters, and what they could and couldn't report to the public. In addition all their notes and pictures were seized as part of the investigation."

Their laughter and discussion seems distant, as if my ears are water logged and I can't quite hear them.

My mind perplexed by the days' events, I don't notice the sudden silence. I freeze amid satiating my appetite, mouth stuffed and partially shoveling in another mouthful to find them both staring at me. Awkwardly and ashamed I blink at both of them in bewilderment.

"Ava, did you hear what Brooks was saying?"

Blankly I shake my head, swallow and begin eating again.

"The information and reports from your attack have been seized as part of an investigation, there's only one way that you are going to be able to get access at that information."

I continue to stare at Weston, then uncomprehending turn to Brooks, they both look at me apologetic and the thought doesn't sit well with me or resonate as to why...

"Oh shit," I mutter, as my fork slips from my hands falling to the floor and instantaneously being retrieved by Jackson.

****

Black Silk

The heat of the water feels refreshing as I rinse the last dish from dinner. Brooks has relinquished himself to the couch to berth himself into the National News and Weston has taken the dogs outside for bathroom walk.

My mind begins to wander to what Brooks and Weston had implied. I dread the implications, knowing fully that there is no other way. I have to make an impending trip to see my parents, my father to be more precise and stomach turns and seeing the disappointment on his face again. The utter resentment and hatred, that he has for me... his only daughter.

I rinse the cloth and begin to wipe the table down. Swiftly I feel the warmth of Weston's arms wrap securely around my waste. He face is buried in the hair at the nape of my neck, and once more his alluring smell begins to intoxication my thoughts and body.

"A penny for your thoughts," he says breathing gently into my ear, before turning me to face him. I drape my arms over his shoulders and wrap them around his neck, rag resting limp within my fingers.

I wonder to myself how he got back in the apartment, so stealth like, especially with two miniature horses at his side.

"Do I really have to go see them, I mean are you sure there is no other way," I ask longing for a new answer.

He sighs and holds me tighter to him. "Yes," he replies with low murmured breath, "with records being seized for investigation, there is no other way other than legal, and that can take months, even years."

With reluctant recognition, I lower my forehead against his chest, inhaling his smell in more deeply.

His hand caresses the back of my head against him for a moment, before lifting my chin up towards him, "I will come with you if you like, I'm sure Brooks would love to as well. Quite frankly, I think it was his intention the whole time."

My eyes and heart light up at the thought of him wanting to be with me, it doesn't remove the gnawing disappointment that I still have to go, but I revel in the consolation that he wants to be with me, at my side.

"Yes, please."

"K," he kisses me delicately, "we'll go in the morning then, you ready for bed? It's been a long day."

"You're staying here?"

"Oh, um I guess I had just assumed," my apologies, "I can come back in the morning and we can head out from here." He replies with a "hurt" look on his face.

"No! Stay, please. I want you to stay, I just didn't realize that you had wanted to," I practically begged in a ragged breath.

"Ava, I have been waiting for you for so long. I can't think of anywhere else I would rather be. I finally have my baby girl back, and I don't want to ever let you go!" he squeezes my hands and gently kisses my fingers before pulling me towards the bedroom.

Don't want to ever let you go! The words resonate in my head like joyful music, as I giddily follow him.

As we move through to the living room, I notice the dogs curled up on huge pillow beds by the stairs, the TV is murmuring quietly and Brooks is snoring" plaintively". We have reached the hallway, when Weston suddenly gives my hand a squeeze, a hard squeeze; and suddenly my body begin to fluster. I get to explore the epitome of Weston, of my Weston.

Within my sudden hot and flustered fever over the thought of what was to come, I had forgotten about my earlier escapades in the bedroom. Stepping in to the room, the notion was apparent from Weston's face, as he once again gave me his oh so sexy head cock and smiled at me with amusement. Although not as strong, the room still lurked of the sweet inebriating smell that is my man.

Leaning against the edge of the end of the bed, Weston quickly twirled me into his arms so that I faced him, his left hand caressing the small of my back igniting a wanting deep within me, his right hand gently running the length of my ear lope down my neck and gently around my collar bone, sending my need pulsating through my veins and reminding me of this mornings' affairs.

Weston breathed in deeply, "Why baby girl, you didn't miss me now did you?" His smile, concealing a coy snicker, as he tenderly wrapped one my loose curls around the length of his finger.

My mind hesitates at the right answer. "Well yes, actually it seems that I did, " my hand playfully pushing at his chest and out of his caress, "but technically I was just covering up an unwanted stench in here," and with that I grasp my pajamas that are hanging over the edge of the bed.

As I turn to head to the bathroom ensuite, I notice the slight look of disappointment in his face and suddenly wonder with regret if I had found the right words or not.

"You won't need those tonight," and with one swift motion, the pajamas are yanked from my hands, and I am back in his embrace, my back leaning heavily into his chest. His arms clasped around me, holding me deeply against his body, securely, tight. Familiar satin palms embrace over my hands, fingers entangled and woven together, in a predesigned labyrinth. His lips trace delicate elusively along the nape of my neck and down my shoulder.

"Oh, how I've missed you Ava."

A deep fierce need that had been silently smoldering within begins to rise into my body, my sensations convulsing, as I feel his hunger etching against the small of my back, ravaging firmly with desire... a longing that my own body aches to satiate. From somewhere in my depths I have to wonder, how this is possible... how can I possibly want someone so much, in fact love so much, and yet not be able to remember them.

Untwining his hands from their grasp around mine, his apt fingers cross over and grip the "hem" of my sweater, lifting it softly over my body and twirling me to face him. His desired intentions illuminates in his smile, hands grazing up the bareness of my arms and gliding under my breasts, adorning each of them with elusive demanding strokes, manipulating them to stand to attention of the matter at hand, and sending my body into an irrational escalating fervour. Throbbing scorches within my loins, aching to have him, to feel our bodies pulsate as one.

His hand cups the nape of my neck, and he kisses me deeply, leaving me unaware of how or when we engulfed the bed. Suddenly he pulls away, breath ravaging, "Oh Ava, I love you so much... Every last inch of you," his sideways smile returning as his hand brushes up my thigh. Grasping the scruff of hair at the base of his neck, tangling my fingers into the twist, I pull him down against me and once again deep arousal comes from our violent quakes of passion.

\- § -

Groggily my eyes open. Beckoning for some clarity, my fists gently rub them. How long had I been sleeping? The room is still dark, so I can assume that morning hasn't come yet, and suddenly I feel an excited urgency to bury myself within in Weston again.

Lying back, the bed feels supple against my skin, as I reach over to pull myself against his body, to wrap his arms around me. My reach extends and continues to extend. The sheets are cold from where he no longer lays. Body erect, I brace myself within my hands and scan the room for him. I can't see him. I can't hear him. Maybe he went into the bathroom. I squint towards the door, scanning for light or movement. Black silk glides through the door crack.

Hmm, kinky... What does he have planned, I feel hot thinking of the magic to come.

The silk filters through farther, before dissipating back under the door again. A cool breath blows at me, hair stands on my neck and shivers run down my spine...

Hmmm, hmmm, hush lil baby.... Hmmm, hmmm...

Oh shit! The fog... The fog has taken my Weston, has cut him down with the bullet.

Oh shit, the bullet! Run, I know I need to run, why can't I run...

No! All feeling has left from my body. The fog seethes back under the door, stretching out to me, black wisps brush my cheeks, scratching along them, like ice cutting through my skin.

It's coming... The air whistles its' decent upon me.'

"No!" The word rasp harsh from my throat, sweat burning my skin.

"Sshh" the words wrap around me, embrace me, tightly. "Sshh, baby girl, its' okay I'm here, your safe. Breath. Sshh."

Weston? The fog didn't take him from me. The realization sends my body into convulsing, uncontrolled sobs. Exasperated, I relinquish myself to the clutch of his arms, and let sleep dry my tears.

****

Eradication

"Morning," his voice hums sweet and sincere as he brushes the hair from my face, tucking it softly behind my ear, his head cradled on the knuckles of his propped up arm. Tousled hair, playfully shielding his eyes, dampened from his obvious shower. Although bare chested, I notice that that now "wears" a pair of designer grey khaki shorts. Grasping the corner of the duvet, I shield my stark body, feeling a bit shy at my lack of attire.

"Please don't," his hand loosening my grip, "I love admiring your beauty, every inch of it," as he gently kisses my forehead, and I can't help but feel slightly flustered and cherished.

His disposition seems to shift, hand tentatively pulling at a loose thread on the pillow. Eyes saddened, he's gazing down, but far away, far away from me, from us.

"What?" I softly question, uncertain if I want to know.

He squeezes my hand gently. Without lifting his eyes, he softly brushes my cheek and down my jaw, contemplating his words... his uncertainty. "When did your night tremors return?" The question is reluctant, hesitant, perhaps even fearful; but why?

My skin crawls as I remember the night before, the return of the invasive and illusive black fog, and I find my hand fumbling with the same loose thread. "I can't seem to close my eyes without them haunting me, every moment of rest is stolen by them, every inch within me they seem to lurk. Even during the coma, it was as if they knew I couldn't awake, and they played an incessant round of games, manipulating, then mocking and finally eradicating my sole from within, before they left me frozen and trapped to await their return."

Air around us "deathly" silent, I can't bear to face his eyes, scare of a disgusted revolt from him. Hidden behind my once again fallen hair, I take the moment to steal a quick glance up at him, suddenly realizing that he's not breathing, face hardened as he simply stares at me.

"You knew about the dreams that I have?"

He doesn't speak, but I can feel the bed shake as he nods his head, quietly responding me and still contemplating something in his head that I just can't quiet fathom.

"Did I talk about them? Before I mean, did I ever tell you about them?"

The breath that he finally releases comes harsh and low. Having returned from wherever he had left me too, he lifts my hair from my face again. Hand caressing my cheek, his thumb gently glides away a tear from my face. A tear that until now, I hadn't even realized had fallen.

"You had told me about them before, never in thorough detail, as it obviously pained you to even think about them."

Well that part I knew very much, even without memories, I knew the pain, not to mention fear they brought me just from thought. But if I had never really talked to him about them, then why it is that he seems so fearful of them.

"It was after you found out about the baby when they had first returned," his hand had now shifted to find mine and his fingers delicately played with mine, "at first I had thought it was just part of the pregnancy thing, you know, like the book had said."

My mind recoiled back to the book in the bathroom. Anger cringed in me again at the thought of the stupid thing.

"And then," his voice suddenly dropped and I could sense that he was looking at me, "and then they got worse. Every night you woke up screaming, crying, and violently shaking. Your whole body the sheets, drenched in your fear. Then suddenly you went irate, screaming at me and demanding that I leave, which I did still chalking it up to go ole pregnancy hormones," he chortles the last three words with disgust, though I am unsure if it is disgust at himself, pregnancy or me.

"I tired contacting you. Repeatedly, to be honest. But you had put yourself on shut down mode, and then the accident happen and your dad. I mean at first, I thought he was crazy, but it would make sense. You know, all the ups and downs and your sudden hatred for me, and I had to wonder," he pauses, before quietly mumbling, "Have to wonder! Ava, did I hurt you, did I do this?"

Bewildered I stare at him now, blinking, blinking an abundant of tamed hot tears. That's it, that's the fear... He thinks he hurt me, and that it haunts me. But did he? My head shakes, not at him, but I can feel it inside, shock and uncertainty leave my mind void.

"I don't, I mean no," the room spins slightly, "I mean, no I don't think so." Sobs begin to swell in my chest, "I don't remember," the words are almost mute.

"Sshh, please don't cry baby girl," he pulls me to his chest. Delectable kisses tracing my tear stains as he cradles both sides of my face in the satiny palms of his hands. His thumb resting under my chin, he tilts my face so I have no choice but to look in his eyes, "I don't want you hurting anymore, but I don't want to be what hurts you either."

Engulfed in his arms, I cling to the only solace that I have ever felt since returning to a life of unknown. Sobbing myself into a daze, thoughts strangle my mind. What happen to us? Did he really hurt me; is he the cause of the unbearable straight jacket that I've come to know as the fog? What could he have possibly done to cause me so much pain that it would haunt me throughout my every waking minute, other than in his presence?

\- § -

When I awake, the room is laced with sunlight, and his "ember" eyes are gazing at me, silently smiling. "Hey"

"Hey yourself," my reply is obstructed by the tightness etched in my face, remembrance of where my tears have saturated and dried my skin.

"I'm sorry that I upset you earlier, it wasn't my intention"

"I know." Though deep inside I have to wonder, do I really know anything about him or his intentions for that matter. "I don't know what happen before, but I'm not scared of you. I don't fear that you will hurt me. When I am with you, it is the only time that I feel secure. Happy." I try to reciprocate my words by way of touch, as I gently stroke his cheek. His eyes glimmer.

"Ava, can I ask you something." I nod acceptance. "What are your dreams about?"

An automatic reaction sends a shuddering sensation to my soul, and my body stiffens, fear trifling through the only memories that I have... horrifying recurrent dreams. Weston's fingers trace down the small of my back, softly, securely, breaking the stiffened barrier that my body has only know as a shield.

"I don't know, they feel more like hypnotic trances," I begin, trying to describe the things that I try to forget, the only things that I can't forget, "they usually start off with me feeling safe. I was safe with you, safe when under the influence, safe with the little girl."

Without removing me from his embrace, Weston pulls his face back slightly to look down at me, "little girl?" I nodded at him, trying to remember if she really made me feel safe or not.

"And then it all disappears. I'm always left cold, clammy and yet sweating at the same time. The black fog comes and warps everything from me, binds me in fear, then the perpetuating voice singing some lullaby and ultimately the bullet." Convulsions shudder from within me. "The bullet that always finds me, I can't run, I can't hide... it always finds me."

"You get shot in all of your dreams?" His voice is contemplating, searching.

"Oh, I'm not sure actually," I had never really thought about it till now, "I don't ever know that I get shot, or see a gun. I just know. I know that the bullet is coming, I can hear it and I know the pain that it is bringing."

Silence remnants the room, as we lay there. Weston's seems to be lost in thought, processing maybe. His concern is genuine, and I have to wonder, whatever happen to us. Why would I kick out such a sweet man, whom obviously adored me to some extent, and I to him.

"Well, it's getting late, we better get a move on it, maybe a visit to your parents place can help shed some light on your past memories," suddenly he shifts himself out from our embrace and rolls to the edge of the bed away from me, I can't help but linger at the muscles in his back dancing with his movement, I resign to my back, sighing deeply. I had completely forgotten about our trip today, suddenly wishing I had just stayed succumbed to sleep.

"Oh, one more thing," Weston's voice is low and sultry as he turns back to me, "I also wanted to know if you would do me the honour of wearing this again." Situated lightly between his index finger and his thumb, was the silver ring that had been hidden in the box by my bed. The one that announced his eternal love to me, a promise made from a time before, a time that I couldn't remember.

"Ava, to be in love means to be with you... today, tomorrow and forever," he breathes hastily, his eyes emitting absolute hunger.

Instantaneously, in one swift motion and he has now gathered me into his arms. Embraced beneath him on the bed, his intentions blatantly clear. My hands gather in his hair, pulling him to me, yearning to be a part of him, to be lost again, as two become one.

****

Posed, Poised, Perfect

Weston had given Karl, the driver that brought me home the weekend off, and I had no idea who this driver was, but I felt very grateful to have a chauffeur. Brooks sat across from us nonchalantly engrossed in the sports section of the paper, leaving me to sit opposite of him engrossing myself in the features of Weston. Once again I found myself mesmerized by him. His hand rested on my knee, gently but reassuringly secure, fingers stroking my skin at the back of my knee. His touch escapes me of my breath, leaves my body prepared to unravel at its seams. My gosh how could I possibly have ever let this man go? He's positively dreamy. I recall women, like the likes of Natalie, mentally surrendering to his, unnerving charisma and erogenous features. Their breath hanging on each word that escapes his velvety, pouty lips... warmth pulsates deep in my loins.

The car slowly takes a right, and the blurred scene outside slowly comes together, as we begin descending through a set of wrought iron gates. Trees line along the driveway towards our destination, directing us towards my childhood home. We come to a stop at the highest portion of the driveway before the curve descends its way back out. The house is moderate high class. Double dark red doors embraced by an arch way of soft marble stone, are situated perfectly at the center of the house. Colonial pillars stand at the edge of the deck, elegantly shrouded by two large potted forest green tropical cycads. The structure of the house is perfectly symmetrical, dark wood shutters, with antique brushing caress every window, keeping an authentic fifties look. Neatly trimmed rows of pink Bonica rose hedges nestle below the niche of vast tinted windows which situated on either side of the grand foyer.

In the centre of the circular driveway is a small serene garden. Grey concrete slabs create three layers of steps. The first layer homes an assortment of caladium an ornamental array of foliage, the second layer, slightly smaller than the bottom is full of rows of petite wild flowers, the top layer comprises an ivory ceramic bird feeder with its pedestal sheltered by decorative black lava rocks.

Behind the garden, on the opposite side of the house and driveway is the front yard. Impeccably perfect. Trees line the driveway and along the road, shielding the house from the world, or perhaps vice versa. One single tree stands in the yard itself, at the furthest most corner, a huge aging weeping willow tree, its branches extending throughout the yard, embracing its shade across the massive area. Tethered to the largest branch is a child's wooden swing, aged and frozen in a past time. The grass is groomed, shade precise, length unilaterally even from edge to edge.

"Common, the Chief awaits," Weston utters in a cynical tone, his arm gripping around my waist, and turning me towards the house again. The house really has quite the appeal, quaint and yet powerful. Dropping my waist, he grasps my hand within his. The ring bites, as my skin is pinched between it and his hand, it feels perfect and yet wary and my nerves suddenly feel rattled. Is it the pending confrontation, or did I agree to something to soon? Is it too soon, we were engaged before everything, but do I know him... I don't know myself?

The bell chimes an echo in a cadenced pulse, followed by a prompt greeting from a small aged woman. Her attire fit in well with the house, wearing and outdated fashion of plain black dress, clean starched white apron with her hair tucked below a white bonnet.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Kendrew awaits your arrival in the great room," her tone polite, but flat. One hand clasping the door widely open invitingly, her other hand gesturing the way.

Great room! What the hell is a great room? Weston is ushering me towards the area to the left, that the woman points too, but I find myself marvelling in the entrance. Well not so much the entrance itself, but the huge stairs that lead upwards. Constructed from a bright cherry wood, lined with bright white carpet, one side table against the wall and travelling seamless on the other side, they seem majestic, alluring even. All the walls in the entrance are painted a cream ivory colour, and travel in an almost endless fashion to the high ceiling, and I note that there is not one thing on them. No photos, murals, paintings, nothing, just long sleek walls.

"Ava, baby!" The child shrill to her voice immediately breaks my attention and stills my eyes to her. She stands in the great room, arms extended out in the air to either side of her, not in a format to embrace or greet me, but more towards saying welcome to my home, would you just look at. Go ahead marvel in my nest. She looks the same, heels to high, clothes to tight, breasts floundering beneath her chin and an ear to ear grin. Her eyes are no longer bright though, they now hold a dejected sadness to them as they hesitantly glance from side to side, and I realize that it is due to my lack of interest in her home.

Pathetically I allow myself to begin to slowly twirl myself around the room, taking everything in. I can hear her alleviated breath escape her lips and know that she is now happily resounded that she has establish her higher place in the world.

"Ice tea" the aged woman's words are far too young sounding for her. As I continue to check out the room, I can hear my mother coldly scolding her about what took her so long, that when guests arrive she should be serving them immediately, as that is what she is paid for now isn't it. Instinctively my eyes roll, and my breath sighs low from my lips, already feeling exasperated from being here and I haven't even talked to my father yet.

Realistically this great room that she is desperate to show off to company, isn't anything grand. Expensive yes, but merely designed by the dollar sign, no form, no theme, just plain expensive designer shit everywhere. I felt more grandeur in the entrance way then I do in the all mighty great room, however I notice one thing that does that catch my eye... pictures.

On the walls, the shelves and even the tables, an assortment of pictures. Family portraits, school photos, wedding photo. Mesmerized by them, I find myself flitting between every table and crevice, diligently scanning each of them, hoping for a light to just tweak. Hoping for the flood gates to just open and all the memories to regulate in my head and just come frothing back to the brim. I recognized the faces, all of them, it was simple. Father, Mother, Ava... there were no other faces, and being an only child it wasn't difficult to decipher that much. But nothing was candid. Every photo is posed, poised and perfect. There weren't memories nestled in them, just smiling faces staring blankly outwards to me.

Slowly I continued to saunter through the photo displays, some frames in oversized black hardwood frames, some in glass, a few in antique styled wood, others in steel with intricate designs engraved, even one scrapbooked. Scrapbooked? Glancing back at my mother engrossing Brooks and Weston with tales of her latest shopping venture, I belittled the idea of her scrapbooking with her neatly French manicured nails. The old woman perhaps, but scrapbooking it seemed so precarious for my mother and her standards.

It was difficult to pull out, clutched between and behind other pictures and ornaments, almost hidden. Dust filmed the glass, and obstructed the picture so that I had to wipe it with my fingers. It seemed so odd, so out of place with everything. It was simply stated, a single shiny opal opaque sheet, at the very top of the page in black cut out letters read, Kendrew, below that was a picture that had an uncanny resemblance to the paintings from my apartment. Swirls of black, and white, with smudges of grey splattered aimlessly. The center of the picture was much brighter than that of the rest, angelic almost. That's it, a baby, an angelic little baby. The picture was an ultrasound picture. I recognize it, because I remember mine. Mine, oh. I so remember that feeling. An abundance of them wallowing within me; excitement, fear, joy, contempt, so many still lingering.

"Jonathan," her voice was impeccably low, sullen, like nothing I had ever heard from her. I hadn't heard her come up behind me, but now I watch her fingers gently trace along the blue paint smudge, which I hadn't noticed till now. Below the picture are two handprints, tiniest little things plausible. One captured in blue and one in pink, she smoothed her hand over the blue one, almost clutching it and pulling it to her heart. But who is, was Jonathan?

"Your brother," her response was a veiled whisper, but response to what. I hadn't asked yet. Her eyes are closed tightly as she remembers. "The delivery was fine, and then your heartbeats started to fall, rapidly. Doctors had to do an emergency caesarian section; you came out first, but by the time." She stopped, sighing, "But by the time they pulled your brother out, his heart had already stopped, they tried repeatedly to resuscitate him, but god had already taken the little angel back, now put that back before your father catches you with it." Her fingers gracefully dab at the corners of her eyes, her chest inflating its natural buoyancy with the relief of her breath.

I can't pull my eyes away from the little blue hand as I shovel the picture back in its clandestine spot. Jonathan. My brother, my twin. Yes, I remember it, his uncouth remarks If only it had been you and not my little Johnny. He would have made me proud. You do no honour to the lives that you took from me. The lives!

She's secretly regurgitating her poise back and I can't help my flitting eyes as they dart through her face.

"You're not my mother."

Shock pales her face. But how, I saw it, with my own eyes, the resemblance. I saw my mother in myself, in my reflection. Didn't I?

"Avamarie," her voice gently sweetening her demeanor, lovingly she reaches for and strokes my hand. "Your mother's name was Avamarie. We were sisters. It's where the twin gene came from. She had lost a lot of blood during the delivery, too much. Her body rejected the transfusion, but I had promised her." Her eyes turn to me, her face ashen in memory, "I had promised her that I would take care of you, of your father. You look so much like her. Such exquisite beauty" And for the first time, she makes a motherly gesture, stroking my cheek sullenly and yet blissful.

"Sophia, you didn't tell me that we had guests," he voice is even, flat toned. His hand placed at the middle of her back, not with love, but more possessive, his eyes stare down at me blankly, eyebrow raised in curiousity.

A child chastised from a simple look of disappointment, I look down. My wedges look so homely next to the Jimmy Choos that my mother... that Sophia wears, not to mention the freshly polished black Gucci dress shoes that my father supports.

"Oh pish posh, they just got here, and we didn't want to disturb you," the bubbly voice replies, and she's back, effervescent and full of life.

"So what do we owe for this surprise visit Ava," he quizzes, accentuating the word owe, as if I am expecting money from him. I glance at Weston and Brooks, whom have been sitting idly on the oversized hard, but oh so expensive couch. They talk quietly, but I can sense both of them peering hesitantly and uncertain at me.

James, my father, I ponder the thought, as I watch him. He still has yet to acknowledge that anyone else is in the room. Grasping a chunky crystal glass, he pours himself a shot of scotch. It's rich, dark and the smell allures to Brooks as he watches, but my father still refusing to acknowledge anyone, doesn't take a second notion of offering a drink.

Knuckles white, I watch as he swirls it to perfection, sensing his annoyance with waiting for my response.

Mousy, I respond, "I had some questions that I was hoping that you could answer. Both of you," I quickly alter, casting a quick glance towards Sophia's direction.

"I see." He downs the shot and stares at the glass, contemplating the taste of the aged scotch and my request. "We can discuss your questions in the den. Just you." His eyes stiffen at me, as he sets the glass back on the table with a loud hollow thud.

I nod. Not sure what else to do, I nod, both in acceptance to him and reassuring to Weston, whom I catch shifting slightly so that he is partially prepared to stand in resignation of his disagreement.

\- § -

The den is dark, but clean, meticulously spotless to be precise. The walls are a pale blue, with stained cedar planks laced from ceiling to floor creating a pattern, blue, cedar, blue, and cedar. It has its appeal. His walls are adorned with congressional medals, certificates and pictures. Pictures of him shaking the hands of various people, high society people. To the far end is a large wood desk. Cedar, or maybe oak, I'm not sure, but it's polished and reflects his prim and proper mannerism.

Along the right side of the wall, is a custom made man hutch. Hand built ship after ship line the shelves. Small and big, yachts to sail, every kind of boat. He has a hobby.

"Well Ava, what can I do for you?" he already has another drink in hand, from where I'm not sure. He sits behind his desk, feet propped up on the desk. He intimidates me, like being sent to the principal's office.

"Oh, um," my thoughts stammer from my mouth, and I feel ashamed of myself, for allowing him to make me feel this way, "Brooks, um, he well he was trying to find some more information to help me, well you know, remember things."

"Brooks," he huffs, interrupting me and shifting me from my thoughts to stare at him. "He's quite the pushy old fucker isn't he?" He laughs a hearted disgust.

"He's only trying to help me."

"Geez Ava, how can you be so naïve?" He finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "He's a washed up ex-cop, he's using you to get himself back on top, and then that lawyer."

"Dad don't," the words hiss at him from my clenched lips. His body stifles straight, and I can see his knuckles blanch from a tighten fist.

"Dad don't? You come here and tell me all the shit that that, that little fucker pulled on you. Cry on my shoulder and tell me how he hurt you, and you tell me don't! Who has always been there for you Ava, huh?" his voice is raising with each word, he's bellowing at me, mad. Anger intensifies into a rage in his eyes. "I put up with everything from you, everything Ava, for years," his fist smashes at the desk as he grips his hair in a tense fist. "If your mother..."

His head bends with a heavy bob, and with a sudden low sigh his mood shifts, the contempt washing away from his face, "Ava, you are just so infuriating. I've tried everything with you. You're all I have left, and you push me further and further away. All I've ever wanted to do is protect you, and you consistently put yourself in harms' way and pull away from me. Is it really that wrong for a father to want to protect his daughter?" The presence of his hands is heavy on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him, and I can't help but see the strain in his face and feel guilty. His anguish strains his forehead and caresses the seams around his eyes, his stress and pain evident.

Emotions overwhelm me, and I lay my head against his chest, wrapping my hands around him. My daddy. Against his chest, I feel his breath sigh relief, his heart slowing to a restful rhythmic beat. One hand wraps around my shoulders, his other hand rests at the back of my head, embracing me in a hug, father to daughter. "Oh, daddy's little pooh bear, oh how I've missed you, how about this," he says gripping both my shoulders and pushing me to arm length to look at me, "you have Brooks come by the office tomorrow, tell him to ask for Juanita, she will have the files together. He can't leave with them, it is still an investigation, but he can have a perusal through them. Who knows, maybe he'll have some insight on it himself."

His smile is big and joyous; he seems carefree, like his wife. Graciously, I nod.

"Can I ask you something?" He stares without a word, and I assume it's a yes, "Why do you hate Weston so much, what did I tell you?"

He pauses, wrinkling the corner of his mouth upwards, before standing up straight, wrapping one arm around the top of my shoulders. He squeezes it reassuringly, "How about we leave the past in the past, and focus on the future," as he leads me back towards the great room, towards my future.

****

Unearthed

None, of us talked on the way home. Brooks scheduled arrangements before we left with my father, to meet with Juanita in the morning. Weston received a firm hand shake and a pat on the back, though it held partial sincerity and partial concern, but still I feel a sense of relief that everything just may come together with time and prayer.

Sophia, my mother; I've resounded with myself that that is what she is, she's obviously all I have ever known, sent us home with a box of various mail that they collected over the years. My father said that he covered any of the bills and such that come through, however everything else was put into the box. I'm hopeful and anxious, that maybe the mail will at least give me insight as to who I was, am.

Weston carries the box upstairs and holds it while I unfasten the umpteen locks and deadbolts along my door. I ponder the thought of dismantling some of them, and if I truly feel secure enough to relinquish their security.

Percy and Jackson great us the second the door opens. Percy happily trots around eyeing the box and smelling us to see where we have been, Jackson bounds up and down, tongue hanging in an outlandish angle.

"So happy to see us huh?" Weston babbles as if they have a better understanding, before residing to the floor, playfully roughing up Jackson's face, sending slick streams of slobber to my area rug, the walls and soaking his hands. Percy eyes them like a couple of fools.

Standing, Weston grabs the leashes, "I'll take them for a walk." He leans in, resting his hand against my waist, methodically caressing it. Leaning his forehead to mine, his nose gently runs down along the curve mine, before giving me a quick sweet kiss and sending a pink fluster to rise from my loins to my cheeks.

"Coffee," Brooks calls from the kitchen.

"Yes, please," I gratefully respond over my shoulder as I head to the bedroom to change into my grey fleece pajama pants, with silhouettes of white owls etched into them, a black cotton t-shirt and my soft grey wool sweater.

When I return to the living room, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee satiates the air, pleasantly making the apartment feel like a home. Weston opens the door and both dogs barrel inside, searching for the source of the new smell. Percy renders to the fact of having smelt it before and curls up on the huge pillow that Weston has by the stairs for her, Jackson gets preoccupied after his tail hits him and begins another agonizing chase against the thin twine that rages in sashaying movements through the air. The sight makes me smile, and a feeling of joy fills in me.

"I love seeing that look on your face," his arms are wrapped around my waist, his face buried in the crevice of my neck, "I'm going to jump in the shower, make sure that Brooks saves me a least one cup of coffee." He squeezes my hand before turning towards the hallway.

Everything seems so perfect, and I relish in the thought and feel giddy from the days' events. Brooks hands me a cup of coffee mixed with my new found favourite, Cinnamon Bun Creamer, nods and then drops to the couch and flips on the television, scrolling for his daily dose of the news.

Grasping one of the big throw pillows I settle on the floor cross legged, and open the box. Jackson saunters over to me and circles repeatedly, finally settling and resting his head on my leg, big black eyes gazing up at me, content but curious.

The box is large, but I make the conscience decision that I am going to sort through everything hoping for any type of resurrection of my past personality, enjoyments, anything.

Brooks has settled on a local news channel instead of his normal national, I listen absent minded to the reporters. They talk back and forth, taking jabs at one another and laughing like old friends. The man is clean and orderly. Grey suit jacket, starch white dress shirt with a red tie. His black hair parted to one side, flawlessly laying in a Clark Kent fashion. His cohost's blue eyes sparkle as she talks to him. Her red lips part slightly when he talks, showing an intense electricity between them, before she catches her own grace and elegantly turns to bare her pearl white teeth, smiling back at the camera and her obscured audience. Her bobbed blonde hair is salon flawless, gleaming beneath the station lights. They look perfectly matched, her red blazer coordinating with his tie. Unfortunately the new HD televisions just seriously don't do her justice, and her age shrouds her beauty, showing her crow's feet and faint liver spots.

Jackson notices first, his head lifting at his entrance, embarking me to follow his gaze. Weston stands at the border between the hallway and the living room. Loose black drawstring pajama pants hanging from his hips, his chiselled chest and abs, rippling beads of water. He stares at the news, head cocked and towel drying his hair, his eyes catch mine and I blush like a school girl, looking down into my lap once more. Jackson looks at me questioning. He has sensed a change in the air, a tension. One that doesn't make him fearful, but intrigued and I pat him reassuringly on the head.

Reaching up to the open box, I grasp a stack of papers and the assortment. Without lifting my head, I glance up, meeting Weston's gentle eyes and sultry smile, before he saunters to the kitchen to grab a coffee.

Back in my lap, nestles the stack of correspondence from a life before this, before me, and staring up from the top is another one of those girls made up in ridiculous fashion. Jackson cocks his head and whines. "Ya I agree," tossing it aside.

The next is an envelope that holds a receipt from the Washington States Art Gallery for three of my artwork for ninety three hundred, sold two years ago. Holy shit! Shifting that to the keep pile, I resume my fumble through a few flyers, real estate open house brochures and a department stores spring catalogue.

"Anything interesting," he asks, sitting down behind me, legs stretched out and pulling me against his chest. Still slightly damp, I can feel it through my sweater and shirt. He smells of the cucumber melon shower gel that was on the ledge in there, and I can't stifle my giggle.

"Ya, not quite my normal smell," he says taking a drink of his coffee before setting it on the table beside us.

Brooks changes the channel to the sports reviews, and suddenly Weston's attention transforms to the television, where I presume that he, like Brooks, will most likely begin to scrutinize the abilities of athletes that they could never compete with. Due to the burning that is starting to ravage my loins, I am happy for his distraction, hard to finish my goal of going through the stack of papers when I'm flustered sitting between his legs.

I shift my own attention back to the stack, filtering more flyers to the floor. There's a reminder for me to get a Pap test done, and apparently I have won the lottery by mail, repeatedly in fact, they are just waiting for me to contact them and answer that skill testing question.

Casually I flip through the various magazines that I subscribe to, some Life & Home, one about Travel hot spots, a few cooking magazines and a New Parents magazine, I cast all of them to the floor. Continuing to shift through, I find another envelope. Addressed from the local university, I open it and skim through. They are requesting me to be a guest speaker for one of their intermediate art classes.

Under the mass of newspapers, there's a parcel. Opening the cardboard delivery package, I withdraw a sleek mahogany box, with a small gold clasping lock. Lifting it open, I discover twelve paint brushes. Burgundy handles, shiny against the velvet blackness of their box container. Gently I stroke the heads of the brushes; their hairs are unbelievably soft, feather light.

"They were a gift," Weston says casually breaking my thoughts, "Pure sable hair. Best of the best, or so someone once told me." He laughs quietly and kisses my cheek, "Happy Birthday."

I finish fingering them. The handles are smooth, and cold to the touch. Looking at them closer, I notice that they are actually a burgundy and white marble, each engraved with a number in gold. Quietly I close the lid and set it aside close to Weston's leg. His lips brush my hair as he lays a delicate kiss on my head.

Reaching back into the box I pull out another stack to sort through, on the top in a legal sized manila envelope. It's formally addressed, with only Lab and Techs as the return address, post marked about a week after my accident. I pull the papers out, pressed and crisp in the hand. The letterhead is similar to the envelope, evading information. The first page is a cover letter

August 4, 2010

Dear Miss Ava Kendrew,

Please find attached the results from the tests that you hired our office, Labs and Techs to complete for you.

We are aware that you received a phone call from one of our receptionists last week. It is our understanding that you had been contacting the office to try and get results sooner than later. It is our policy to never review this type of information over the phone, however, contrary to our policy, I am told that you managed to convince a staff member to get the information for you and contact you.

Only our trained technicians are qualified to relay this information properly. At the time that you had been contacted, the formal report had not been completed.

We apologize for any inconvenience, but the results that our reception gave you were inaccurate. Once again please note that you will find our full report included in this package, should you have any questions please don't hesitate to contact us.

Thank you for your business, and all the best in the future.

"What's that all about," his chin is resting gently against my shoulders.

"I have no idea," puzzled, I shift the cover page to the back to look at the report.

My eyes glance over the page, trying to interpret the words, the report. Sample taken... processed against... 100% probability... mother A. Kendrew... sample one W. Myers... sample two Jack...

"Ava, what the hell!" He's up to his feet in seconds, the report in hand. Jackson is up awake from his nap, nervous and confused. My bearings are still shifting trying to make sense of the words and then the report. Baffled my head slowly conjures a memory... his white coat, gentle old hands, his words, "And you insisted right back at me that more risk could await the baby if you waited till after the birth to do the test."

"You fucking cheated on me." This time the noise makes Brooks jump. He's awake on the couch, and dazed, unsure. Jackson mimics his same stare. Confusion and bewilderment shifts between them.

Weston is standing over me, one hand gripping the report, the other clenched tight, real tight at his side. His eyes, they shine, but with what... disgust, hate perhaps.

"No, yes, I mean, I don't know. I don't remember," I feel flustered. My head is clouded with everything, words, thoughts, feelings, even memories; but nothing makes sense, they are entangled and I'm lost.

"Yes, that's right Ava; again with the, I can't remember shit. This is it, this is the reason that you made me leave. This was the phone call you got. I have spent the past three years blaming myself for hurting you, wishing for just one chance. One chance to make it right with you, and here the whole time it was you."

It takes me forever to find my feet. They're asleep beneath me as I get up and fight to find my words. What are my words? How do I defend myself when I don't remember... do I have any right to defend myself?

"Who the hell is Jack, hmm, can you tell me that much Ava?" He's screaming at me now. Brooks has disappeared. Jackson vibrates under the coffee table, his tail tucked between his legs. Percy stands at my side, on edge, but ready. Ready for what?

"I don't know, Weston," tears are streaming down my face now, I reach for his arm, begging him "Please Weston."

"Don't!" his voice is malicious, as he violently shakes me off and sending me backwards, into the wall. The slightest change becomes him in his eyes, and his voice becomes muted, "Don't Ava, just don't"

Head shaking mutely, as he walks back towards the bedroom. Jackson runs to my side, whimpering and crying, staring at me worried. Percy has repositioned herself, allowing herself to watch me and watch for Weston's next actions.

Suddenly he returns, wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and a black leather jacket, he grabs his keys off the mantle by the stairs and walks to the door.

Please," I plead to him through violent sobs. Without looking he stops in his tracks, than shakes his head again, and proceeds out the door. It slams behind him.

He's gone.

Everything in me is shuddering uncontrollably; the tears are hot coursing down my face. Grasping the throw pillow, I pull it into my body and curl up in a ball on the cold hardwood floor. Percy comes over and lies between me and the door. Jackson pushes his way under my arm; his obscenely long and dry tongue licks my face once, before he resides to nestle into me, laying his head across my side so that he has full vision of the door. The weight of his head sends splitting pain into my ribs and lower back, but it is numb compared to the agony that is stabbing through my heart.

Complementing one another's sobs, we cry each other to sleep.

****

Muse

Reflecting in the mirror is another likeness that I don't recognize. Eyes and cheek bones swollen from the effects of inebriated weeping, lips, chin and forehead are marked with vast pink welts and my hair clings in a dingy effect from pools of salty tears and anxious night sweats.

In my somber I have somehow made it to my bed. Both Jackson and Percy lazily relax in the mess of my duvet and clothes. I don't know if I have slept. I don't know if he will return. I know that my stomach has clenched itself into a nauseated knot reeling from despair, my heart screams shrilly from inside as it shatters apart. What have I done? And who is Jack? I can't remember, and I have nothing to give me any further information.

Everything in my room is a strewn. I pillaged every inch of anything that was in sight looking for a clue last night. I removed every article of clothing from drawers and closet, they now lay limply across the bed and posts, drawers are piled on top of one another, empty. On top of my dresser are thickets of jewellery, and cast aside empty boxes. Books scanned vigorously and hurled to their divergence in the corner. I foraged through every corner and crevice for anything, to learn nothing. I have no recollection of Jack; the name means nothing to me. Nothing... perhaps it was a stupid one night stand. But could I do that to Weston? How could I do that, it doesn't make sense?

Against the will of my body to succumb to the soft fluffiness of my bed, I find my mind forcing me to saunter towards the shower. The apartment is uneasily quiet, too quiet. The television isn't on, nor a radio, but I allow my mind to find reassurance that I can smell freshly brewed coffee, and continue to the bathroom.

The heat of the water feels delish to my body, it stings and burns at the welts against my face and I relish in the reminding fact once more, that I am alive. The knowledge is revitalizing and I slowly crank the hot water up further, allowing it to burn my supple and sensitive skin.

Hot steam has fogged everything. It is deadly memorizing, not so unlike the black fog that revels to torture me in my sleep. And yet with this fog, I feel I can breathe, that I grasp life from it... a refreshing sensation that clears my mind.

When I am finally dressed, and open the door, the steam expels out sending rapids of the cold frigidly air that was outside against my skin. The dogs are sitting waiting, whimpering... its breakfast time. Without Weston here, they relied on me, and I felt resounded knowing that I had paid attention to him as he cared for their needs.

The apartment was still resiliently quiet. Even the dogs were silent as they paced behind me. Upon arriving to the kitchen though, all hell broke loose, the kitchen meant food... and Jackson was hungry. Once again his antics of bounding up and down were in full forth. Resounding that it was probably more logical to keep him happy, I picked their dishes up and scooped out fours scoops of their high end dog food from the large container by my kitchen closet. As usual, Percy lies down by the food dish; she always allowed Jackson to finish his and then take a few mouthfuls of hers. Once she was comforted that he was a happy puppy and full and content, she then herself ate.

On the counter the coffee pot was full. A large red coffee mug was rested beside it with a note, and a large silver key ring, with one brass key hinged securely on it, dangling beside a simple gold, letter A key chain.

Ava,

Had to make it to the station to meet with Juanita, had a scheduled appointment.

Coffee is fresh. Thought you may be ready for this key now, it unlocks the door that sits off the small foyer as you enter the apartment.

See you when I'm done – as always, have my cell on me.

Brooks

Room off the foyer, hmm, and here I had just assumed that it was a coat closet. Cinnamon filled the air, as I finished mixing my coffee. Taking a sip, I headed towards the foyer, nodding for the dogs to come along.

The key shifted easily in the door, engaging the lock to open. Sun streaked through huge rectangular windows, blinding the remaining décor from sight. Still tantalized by my coffee, I kicked the door closed with one foot and started towards the openness of the room. It took about 20 steps, well 23 to be exact as for some reason I was counting my way back, the length of my escape if needed. Solemnly I found myself wondering if that was something I did often.

On the twentyfourth step everything became actively clear. The light was bright, but no longer blinding. The area of the room was greater than the rest of my apartment. Easels where perched, erect over various regions of the room, large and small. Canvas's displayed over everything, swirls and arrays of colours dancing around them. Large benches of knotted pine held various kinds of paint... small and large cans, tubes, acrylic, oil based. There were paint brushes, rags splattered with colours, brushes as large as my hand and as fine as a simple piece of hair. A large pink tool box held pencils, once again engraved with numbers, pastels of various colours and different sponges.

Precariously I ran my fingers along the painting that was standing on the easel in front of me. Even after Weston explained it, I still couldn't understand what the painting was supposed to mean, but it did make me feel happy. The edge of the strokes from the dried paint scratched against my skin. Each colour danced within once another, gliding to the next and suddenly I wanted to paint. To twirl my brush and feel those happy strokes, dance and move beneath my fingers, entwining permanently to the stretched white canvas.

I threw on the paint covered overalls that hung neatly on a gold double hook by wall shelf near the door. Dauntingly I gazed at all the paints and tools in front of me, suddenly feeling intimidated and unsure where I should start. My fingers sifted through all the gadgets in the tool box, fingering them gently, caressing them and familiarizing me with their feel, on the top of the tool rack was a remote. Encircling once, it's obvious there is no television in the room. Curious, I finger a button near the top with the flat of my thumb, black with a red icon that resembles a sideways rainbow, large lights above me flicker on as I press it firmly. The light illuminates the paintings and they begin to dance before me, I divulge my curiosity and push the button below it and a hip hop tune begins to sweep through the air, old and familiar.

A wooden stool slides easily to sit beneath a giant untouched white canvas. Blankly and with an uncanny knowing, I pick up a pallet and begin dabbing paint on to it, all colours. Familiar, and yet still foreign to me.

Captivated, I sit and stare into the canvas, my hands glide across it, paint brush in hand. My hand sweeps, twirls, and sways in sweet motions. My fingers pirouette from corner to corner, never halting to create fine line, or boasting thick fluid strokes. My mind is not here, just amble, nimble fingers provoking art with my hands, being one with the paint brush, dancing gingerly to the music and cavorting together on the canvas.

It wasn't until the dogs jumped to attention that my mind ascended back to reality. Jackson growls, deep and throaty, Percy's ear are erect and alert, prepared; and then just as suddenly she resigns and settles back down.

"I had hoped that you may find some comfort in here," Brooks soft comforting voice sets me and Jackson at ease in sync.

His grin boasts across his face. Old trucker style ball cap on his head, his jeans slouching like a pair of typical old man styled jeans, faded from there endured wear.

"And it seems like you found something old and familiar within yourself," he nods approvingly at the canvas in front of me, "you've also added a part of the new you to this, a virgin of paintings from your normal style. Gonna make a fresh pot a coffee, come on out wherever you're ready."

While wiping the paint brush onto a rag, I watch as he saunters towards the entrance, proceeding out the door and back into reality. A virgin of paintings from your normal style? My nose scrunches as I drop the paint brush into the rank paint thinner, contemplating a virgin painting.

Again I fumble to find the remote in the large tool box. Turning the music off, I rotate to scrutinize my new virgin painting. Without the music, I still myself taken aback, breathless as my mind dances within the strokes, but it's different. Brooks was correct it's a virgin painting for my style. All the other paintings that I had done before we merely abstract paintings that you had to discover your own feelings and conclusions in, this was different, or a virgin to utilize Brooks words. The mural was still abstract by all means, but in the center of it rested the most glorious and mesmerizing blue eyes. Shades of grey stroked around the eyes creating an abstract dance of my Percy. The feeling and emotions that her eyes conveyed in the midst of all the dancing strokes left me feeling euphoric and rejuvenated. Painting was my peace, my solitude of mind. What gave me a new measure to reflect myself and my life in, and away from drugs and booze.

"Get it while its hot, brought home some bagels and croissants from the bakery downstairs too." Jackson was at a full throttle run, straight for the sound of Brooks voice, or perhaps he knew it meant food.

"Oh is Percy, momma's little muse? Hmm, yes you are, yes you are." I found myself emulating the same baby tone that Weston had used on Jackson the night before, as I stripped the overalls down my legs and rehung them on the hook from the wall.

Percy responded to the tone change, tail wiggling with content happiness, her eyes bouncing excitement. She barked in glee, echoing her happiness through the large room.

Grasping the remote again I turned off the lights. The windows still lit the room up with an afternoon glow from the sun, its rays touching the canvas that sat before me still displayed along the various easels. I eyed them together, trying to convey a message from them. They all danced for me, though the Percy blue eyes, tugged at my soul, overriding me with a new wondered elation.

Beside my blue eyed painting, is another canvas, covered with a white dust sheet, the corner peeking through, objecting a painted corner to my view. My eyes wandered through the paintings again, my mind probing all notions. The other paintings weren't hidden from view. Why this one? Perhaps it was my latest painting before the coma... the idea percolates my thoughts.

Hastily and out of intrigue, I grasp the corner of the sheet and wisp it up in the air over the canvas. Gently it frolics amidst the air before aimlessly falling to the floor. Percy growls softly, her head bowing slightly as she shields herself behind my leg.

Even on canvas, it mutes my breath. The black fog, alive through art. The strokes grasping at me, heavy chains, entwined with shiny red ribbon weave in the lace of darkness. The black paint cuts through the canvas, cold as ice. In every direction it grasps, strangles, binds to everything and nothing.

Hairs stand on my neck, as the cold whisper blows through... hmmm, don't say a word

Without looking back, Percy and I bolt for the door, away from the dancing fog, away from my dance with hell.

Vibrations radiate along my arm from nerves shattered by the canvas terror that Percy and I had fled from. Trying to overcome them, I snatch up a red mug from the white porcelain tree that sits alongside of the coffee pot.

"Learn anything from Miss. Juanita," I asked Brooks, who casually flipped the newspaper that rested between his hands.

"Nope, pretty much a dead end investigation. Just like your daddy said." His response was nonchalant as he continued to stare at the headlines, digesting them intently.

"Hmm." I replied with a mouth half full of bagel. "I'm going to go relax for a bit. Shepherd's Pie sound good to you for dinner?"

"A home cooked meal, sounds mighty damn fine to this ole' man," his brimming smile made his eyes squint as he looked at me, and suddenly I felt tranquility blanket me from the pure presence of him and bodacious smile. "You all right Ava?"

"Yup, just got caught off guard by a painting in that room," I responded as I clutched up my coffee and bagel and scurried my exit, avoiding any further scrutiny.

With Percy in tow, I made my way back towards to the safe haven of my bedroom. After watching me settle the mug and half eaten bagel on the night stand, Percy disregarded me and laid her huge head against the hardwood as she settled in.

Fishing the warm leather bound book from out of the drawer of my night stand, I swiped the still scattered clothes to one side and of the bed and propped myself against the fluffy pillow that rested on the frame of my wooden headboard, and scoffed another bite of the bagel. My mouth relished in this forgotten fantasy, the creamy, velvety heaven that is cream cheese, melting on my tongue.

Opening the book in between my bent knees, it naturally rested at its middle bind, relinquishing the last page ever written, a poem.

A Dirty Heart

They look in my direction

Some judge, some care

Some want to help, some turn their backs

Yet no one knows.

Everywhere I turn,

They all have answers

But around the corner

There is no understanding

Tears and pain

Will never be able to explain

A smile and a gentle hand

Will never wipe away the sin

They don't know the filth that coats my heart

Or the dirt that's wedged beneath my nails

Self-mutilation may continue

And the secrets will stay hidden.

They may feel the pain

Some may know the loss

But no one will ever understand

A dirty heart

Tears streamed down my face, callous against my skin as they made their journey to rest in the curve that formed between my neck and the gentle dip of my collarbone. I couldn't remember anything but I feel the anguish. So real, it drenched my soul with sullen aching. This was me; it tortured the shadow of which I was now, the lost soul.

Suddenly the realization of hope hit me. Rummaging through my drawer again, I found one single pen. I couldn't remember, but I could feel the memories, their pain. And I let my emotions free...

Does She Know Me

Through the heartache and pain

I sense something familiar

Maybe in her eyes

Or perhaps in what lies beneath her smile

Yet I don't think I know her

Does she know me?

There's a sparkle of hate in her eyes

As they dance with the darkness of hell

Or perhaps its' the story that sits

Waiting to be told, from her protruding lip

Yet I don't think I know her

Does she know me?

I step back

And turn out the light

Her image is gone

She doesn't even say goodbye

****

Jubilena

The smell of a home cooked meal, definitely out ranked the left over stench that take-out food brought with it. It was an endearing fragrance, something that felt homey and familiar. Marble cheese had melted perfectly over the slightly golden brown mashed potatoes that blanketed the rest of our supper.

Brooks sat quietly on the couch, tasting every morsel of the meal that he shovelled into his mouth. Jackson sat across from him, eyes duplicating the shape and size of saucers, as he licked the elastic string of drool from his lips. Percy was once again at my side, sleeping contently. I had to prop one of the couch cushions between my crossed legs, as the steaming meal burned through my plate and onto the thighs of my lap. Eating in the living room, seemed unconventional, but it was relaxing, peaceful.

"So that painting, is that what you dream about?"

Recollection of the painting must have sent tension in me, as Percy suddenly growled in uncertainty. Unsettled, I nodded, but nothing more. The room remained quiet again, but now lacked the earlier serenity that had once been here.

Aimlessly I watched the woman on the news. According to her we were expecting a storm within the next week, supposedly a ghastly one too. It was moving along the center coast and heading inland towards the main lands and then furthermore central, by the time it reached us, it would have had a chance to mix with the suffocating heat that we were now having and create havoc.

"You know about the nightmares that I have."

"Wouldn't have once been a decent cop, if I didn't. Good ole doc told me about them, and then Judith had mentioned them that day that we were visiting her. It's pretty tortured to be able to see what you dream of, what haunts you. You got a lot of demons to rid yourself of darlin'."

"Dr. Swanson," the thought of my angel lightened my mood and the atmosphere once again seemed peaceful, "how is he?"

"Oh he's good as always, talked to him yesterday actually and he mentioned that you need to come in and see him at the office for a checkup, make sure that everything is running fine, no off ticks or such. Also he asked how you were doing and if there had been any changes, or revelations, as he called them."

"Hmm."

"Speaking of changes, you haven't said anything about yesterday Ava, or Weston, or Jack for that matter. Do you remember anything?"

The name made me cringe, not Weston but Jack, and what it had cost me, and I shot a disapproving look towards Brooks.

"That is of course if you even want to talk to this old fart about it."

I smiled at the aged, scolded child that sat before me, and reminded myself that this was why he was here, to help me search through my shit and find myself again. He didn't have to be here, or deal with the manipulations that my life's past kept throwing our way, but he was, and he was always at my side, supporting me.

"I don't know who Jack is, or was. I remember that Dr. Swanson had said that I had come to him to do a paternity test on the baby, but he refused to do it as early as I wanted, due to the dangers." Brooks set his empty plate on the coffee table and shifted to move himself into a more comfortable spot on the couch, becoming absorbed with my talking.

"According to him, I claimed that it would be more dangerous if I waited, and that I'd find someone else to assist me, if he wouldn't. Next thing you know I ended up in the emergency room, baby beaten to death in my womb and coma stricken." Instincts made me want to touch my belly, caress it. Snuggle the barren region that was once holding an innocent life, but fearful of the tears to come, I refrained.

"And you haven't come across any pictures or found anything with his name on it. Something that might be a clue, even the smallest thing could be."

I shook my head as my lips curled up to the one side, disappointed at the comprehension, that we were learning so much and yet so little.

"Dr. Swanson had said that he felt that what had happen to me and the baby, was some form of a mission. That whoever had attacked me had done so with the sole intentions of murdering the baby before it was born. Do you think it's possible that this, Jack, could have something to do with it?"

Brooks huffed contemplating the question, as he slouched back against the couch, "Anything is possible Ava, but right now, he seems to be the only one that we know of to have the motive. That is if he didn't want the baby, and if he knew about it."

I hadn't really thought about that. And it reminded me of how many unanswered factors there really were to unlocking the mystery of my past, my life. Maybe Jack was just a one night stand, and he had never been given the chance to know about the baby. Maybe we were in love, but then how could I feel so much love with Weston, and not remember this guy. So many maybes, and they were all attached to loose strings that lead us nowhere.

"Did you know that I had a twin brother, or that Sophia isn't actually my birth mom?"

"What!" And I had his devoted attention again, literally at the edge of the couch, like a school girl waiting for the dizzy gossip, "How do you know that?"

I set my plate on the table alongside his, suddenly aware at how heavy it had become while I had been yammering on. "There was this picture at their house, one of which was one of those scrapbook type things. It was dusty and hidden, but when I picked it up I noticed it was done for two babies, not one, even had two handprints, one in pink paint and one in blue. Sophia told me just before my dad came in. But I didn't get much. My mom's name was Avamarie, Sophia was her twin sister. My brother's name was Jonathan. They both died. Sophia had promised my mother that she would take care of me and my dad."

"Well isn't that something to learn, hmm," he had slouched back against the couch again, thinking.

"You know what's odd though?"

"What's that?"

"When she told me, it didn't make we remember anything. Like, it still felt as if it was the first time that I had ever heard it. I can remember my father scolding me, comparing me to what Jonathan would have been, but it just doesn't resonate with me as having really been told the truth."

"Do you think that they hid it from you the whole time? You think that you always believed that Sophia was your real mother?"

"Oddly, yes. I mean it makes perfect sense, to create the perfect family, manipulate the world to see only what they want them too, which they both seem so hell bent on doing. It also explains why my father seems so protective, if he already lost his wife and son."

"Yes that is true you definitely seem to have a secluded private family. I think it took a lot for your father to allow me access to the investigation files. It's understandable, any father wants to protect their child, and really he doesn't know me, not that you did either I might add."

"And, I might add, that I don't know myself."

"True enough."

"You've become a good friend Brooks. Someone I know that I can trust and count on, kind of like a grandpa."

"Thanks... Please feel free to remind me that I'm old."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that..."

"I'm just teasing you Ava, relax." His chuckle was low and warm, bringing me to my comfort zone again. "So maybe you need to talk with your parents, see what you can find out."

"I kind of get the feeling that my dad is one for talking, but about what he wants not to answer questions. I don't think he's use to being on the opposite side of an interrogation quest."

"No maybe not. But we know that Sophia loves the attention, and I bet she would just shine if someone coveted her wisdom."

The thought made us both smile, Sophia was a sweetheart, I'd give her that, but she was Barbie through and through. And I mean the traditional Barbie, the one that pranced around the beach with Ken, purely arm candy with all her fancy clothes and shoes. I couldn't imagine many people paying much heed to her opinions on things.

"Have you heard anything from Weston?" I didn't need to respond to his question, my body language did it for me. "Don't worry he'll come around."

Mutely I nodded, and with that our conversation had ended and we stared blankly again at the headlining news. Some sports team logos were flashing across the screens, with suits debating over the playbacks. Numbly I watched. I couldn't grasp the football concept, or why someone would want to play such a thing, a little too rough in my opinion. The golf and tennis highlights were way beyond me. I'd rather sleep in my bed, then sleep standing up. What an exasperatingly boring way to live. NASCAR, that looked intriguing, at least when there was a crash. It reminded me of watching Jackson, chasing his tail in circles until he tripped over his feet and crashed mindlessly to the floor. The hockey I got. Unfamiliar as it was to me, it made sense, just the right amount of action and roughness. The refs were just as big of idiots in this as they were in football, but at least the hockey players weren't slapping one another's asses for a job well done. And it seemed to have structure and players that had skill. I mean really anybody can throw a ball and then dog pile the other team.

The golf highlights had put Brooks into a trance, and now his snoring was becoming louder than the boxing match highlights that flashed across the large screen in front of us. Stretching as I got up, I flipped the TV off, and grasped the blanket from the back of the couch. The blanket was an oversized duvet, that once I wrapped it around Brooks, it engulfed him like a cocoon and Jackson quickly nestled himself a bed in the overhanging fabric that was cast on the floor.

Percy got up and stretched. Her back arched upwards similar to a cat, and then as she bent down, I couldn't help but to notice how much she resembled a praying horse. My how she was huge. She glanced at Jackson and then began to trot to the bedroom, this time not waiting for me, but anxious to get back to the room and find that perfect spot for her to rest her eyes once again.

A praying horse? Hmm, yes I had seen one before. A tall pearl white Thoroughbred, with glistening muscles and sleek long legs and a mane that feathered against its neck, tail flowing to the grown. Jubilena, the ring master called her, the star of the Serendipity Circus and Carnival, that my father had taken me too. I was about 5 I think, maybe 6. It seemed so clear, and such a fond memory. There were little people my size everywhere, but they had cigarettes hanging from their mouths, and crewed rank words spilled from their lips when they thought that they were shielded behind their tents and out of the view of spectators. It was noisy, and the colours and images all seemed abstracted together. Garish laughter fills my ears. Lights from the rides, games and shows glimmer, flickering and flashing. They intoxicate a child into a dizzying sugar high dream. Popcorn, candy apples, cotton candy, corn dogs and small sugar coated donuts.

As we leave from watching the glorious flamboyancy of the circus, my father stops to grab a coffee for the roads home, it smells burnt, but my father doesn't grimace about it. He smiles sweetly at the teenager that stands in the run down trailer, trying to hide her protruding belly.

At a rickety yellow stained picnic table across from us, there is a balding middle age man perched on the top of the table, not sitting like momma and daddy had taught me. He was a bad man. He's watching me. Smiling at me, his teeth are ragged, browning and some are even missing. Excess fat from his tummy rests out from under his shirt, and leans against his hairy legs. He sees me watching him now. He knows he scares me. Grasping his greasy burger he takes a bite, still smiling at me. Ketchup squirts from the bun and runs down his chin and stains his shirt. His shirt, he has it on his shirt, the bullet.

I press my eyes tight, as tight together as I possibly can. Grasping aimlessly through the air, until my sugar sticky hands finds my daddy's and squeezes, he gently squeezes back. I'm safe. We're safe teddy, and I pull my soft brown teddy bear under my chin and cuddle him.

The lights in the living room went off, as I flicked the switch and entered my bedroom. It was dimly lit in the room with only the side table light on, but I easily knew my way around the room now, without hesitation, as long as I wasn't looking for anything too particular.

Fetching my pajamas from the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Was I ever going to know her? Did I want to know her, or would it be better to just start fresh? I had already lost Weston, again. Maybe what I needed was a fresh start, after all Brooks had said that the investigation appeared to be another dead end, maybe I should take the hint and just move on.

The bed felt cozy and warm as I nestled into it. Percy's gentle snores began to lull me to sleep, dazing in and out from my safe haven beside her and into the depths of unknown. Flashes of clowns began to twirl around my head dancing and giggling, weaving my mind into a trance, red ribbon frolicking between them.

Slowly the blackness slithered its way in, cutting me off from the happiness of my circus and vibrant clowns. Slowly they all slip into the profundity of the terminal blackness. Suddenly I am alone. The whistle humming begins to approach me, this time from above, and I can't help but look up. A stream of red satin ribbon, cascades towards me from the nowhere of the black fog. Suddenly it lurches to a stop. At the end of the ribbon, sits a noose, cradling the neck of my teddy bear. But someone has hurt him now, his ear is missing. He is the same teddy bear that the little girl in the poke a dot dress from my dream was holding.

She wasn't my daughter, or my rock, she was me.

****

Delicacies

"Good morning sleepy head." Brooks was overly cheerful this morning as tried desperately to properly make me my sunny side up eggs, something that we had learned was definitely one of my favourite.

"Morning, breakfast smells great. Did you get much sleep?" I asked upon noticing that the kitchen clock sat at five past eight.

"Yuppers, got lots accomplished too," followed by a smile that meant that I wasn't going to be a chipper as him today, due to whatever he has managed to accomplish already this morning.

"What did you do Brooks?"

"Well first off, I got you an appointment with Dr. Swanson today at ten, so you best be eating your breakfast and getting ready to go. Also you are meeting your mother, um, Sophia for lunch at Le Clabeau. Thought she might be able to give you a little more insight about yourself and things if it were just the two of you. You never know what might spark a memory."

As he said it, I started to remember alright, but it was remembering my previous night's dream and the realization that that sullen little girl that I had watched cuddling her teddy so tight was in fact me.

"Also I called that place, the one with the DNA results. Thought that they may be able to give some insight to try and discover who this Jack is. They said that both of the samples that you brought in were hair samples, and that they in turn compared against a sample of fluid that they withdrew from somewhere in your belly button, that whole part kind of creeps me out," he said with a slight shudder as he dished the two rubbery eggs out over top of the buttered toast that was sitting on my plate.

"I thought you had to have people go in and give some swab sample or blood?"

"Yes, well I guess the day an age had changed for both of us, amazing what science has brought to us," his eyebrows raised, and I was unsure as to whether it was a statement or a question.

"So what are your plans for today?"

"Oh you know, just a little bit of running around. Think I might go and see Judith; see if she has any further information regarding your mother or brother that could help us"

"Judith? As in the doctor Judith?"

"Ya. Well you know I've talked to her a few times, just looking for any more insight into things. It's what detectives do."

"Ah, ya so I've heard Brooks," I responded with a smile, as I watched a pasty pink flushed through his cheeks.

Ripping a piece of the toast crust off I dipped into the yoke of my egg, its yellow guts poured out and ran over top of the whites, covering the plate. At this moment, I loved the tranquility of my life, my relationship with Brooks and the happiness that he filled my home with. I loved seeing that he was happy, and that he may even have a little crush. But self-pity kicked in at the thought that if Judith felt the same way, I may lose my Brooks; I may be alone again.

\- § -

I was thankful that Brooks had wrote down Dr. Swanson's clinic address for me, having seen him so much at the hospital allowed me to forget that he was a practicing physician and primarily worked out of his own office not at the Emergency Room or the hospital.

His office building was quaint. He had taken a small old house from the fifties and had it renovated into a medical office. As the taxi pulled up, it appeared to be going to any other generic house, asides from the plain white sign that read Dr. Swanson; in black calligraphy there were no signs that the building was anything else.

The siding was the traditional old wooden planks which had been sanded, refurbished and painted a baby blue. White scrolling trim laced from the roof, matching perfectly with the white wooden veranda and stairs leading to the door. Large hanging baskets sat on top of the porch railing, small yellow flowers delicately hanging along vines that draped down, and had entwined themselves into the planks of the rails.

The yard was maintained, and sectioned off with a white picket fence. Although not huge in size, a sandbox and a few simple toys sat to the left side of the house.

Inside the office was the same, yielding the aspect of a conventional office, and appealed to the eye of having entered someone's home. Immediately I entered into an open area, to the left sat a window veiled in lace white curtains. The receptionist desk had been built partially into the wall, leaving an open concept and keeping it very homey.

"Good morning Miss, can I help you?" She was a kind, gentle looking woman. Middle aged I would assume, but it was hard to tell. She wore very minimal makeup, and hid behind huge black frames. Her ashen brown hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. Freckles spilled beneath her frames and down along the brim of her nose.

"Yes, I have a ten o'clock appointment with Dr. Swanson."

Clicking her computer mouse she stared at her computer screen quietly for a moment, before pushing her heavy frames back in place at the bridge of her nose, and then promptly turning back to face me.

"Please have a seat he should be with you momentarily."

"Thank you," I replied, returning her own courteous smile, as she adjusted the faux pearl button at the top of her peach granny style cardigan.

The seating area contained one forest green corded couch, with a matching lazy boy chair. In the center of them was an ivory shag area rug, with a pine coffee table on top of it. On the wall across from the couch was a large photo, of an old wooden train bridge, long grainy grass growing high around it, and pine trees lurking in the background. It was simple but beautiful, and mesmerizing, convened on either side of the photo were two framed certificates, acknowledging Dr. Swanson's successes.

"Ava. It is so good to see you. You look well my dear."

His voice was an angelic as usual, though he seemed younger then I remembered. Perhaps the hospital has that sort of effects on all of us.

"Right this way, follow me." He led me down a short little hallway to a door that was open to a room near the back of the building on the right hand side.

The room wasn't as homey as the rest of the building. A single plain desk sat centerfold of the room, with a leather chair behind it. A single ivory bone lamp sat on top of the desk, lighting up a small stack of loose leaf papers. Silver brimmed reading glasses were delicately folded and lying on top alongside a gold plated ball point pen.

A patient bed sat at the left aide with all sorts of gadgets that doctors' use surrounding it. I didn't have a clue what they were all called, but I thoroughly remembered seeing them all at the hospital and having had them used on me at one point or another.

Directly adjacent to the bed and towards the front of the house was a door that led to a half bathroom.

Dr. Swanson sat in his chair behind his desk and motioned for me to sit in one of the two chairs across from him as he shuffled his papers to the side.

"So Brooks reports to me that you are doing well. Eating and sleeping good, with a few minor incidents, but how do you feel?"

"Pretty good," I replied truthfully, "I don't feel like I've learnt much about my memories, but have learnt things about myself that I never knew. Kind of coming to grips with myself."

"That's good." He sat back in his chair, hands together and fingers embracing one another, in a contemplating prayer like fashion. "Have you had any memories return?"

"Not really. Except for last night, I had one of those sorts of déjà vu things before I went to bed and this memory relapse of going to the circus with my dad came to me. I didn't really learn much from it, but I remembered the sights, the sounds and smells."

"Good, good. That's very good Ava," he was now frantically dictating on one of the loose leaf papers. "Being able to remember not just a moment, but the emotions and senses from a memory is huge progress. As they come, they may not all feel to be anything of importance but they are good gradual steps, much easier than a sudden violent entry to your memory."

"A sudden violent entry? I don't understand."

"Well Ava, sometimes when your memory had blocked certain things from you, you can go through different stages. Some people never do regain those memories. Some take gradual steps, like you," he said motioning to me again, "and remember things that they allow themselves to feel important, and then sometimes people encounter something that triggers everything. Their entire lives flashback before their eyes and in an instant they relive everything, both good and bad."

"Oh."

"How about we do a quick general check on you?" he said, getting up and heading towards the bed.

Following him, I perched myself up in the center. One by one, he pulled his doctor tools from their sitting place. Scrolling lights into my eyes, playing follow the finger, blood pressure, pulse rate.

"Everything looks good, definitely nothing alarming or concerning to note. Have you had any headaches or vision problems?"

"Other than seeing crazy things in my dreams? Nope."

"Good, that's a good sign. I think everything is running smoothly, and before you know it, everything will be back to normal."

"Dr. Swanson, can I ask you something?"

"Yes of course. Let's sit back down where it's more comfortable. What can I do for you?"

"Why wouldn't you run the paternity test for me?"

"Running a paternity test at such an early stage in the fetal process, well it can be done, but it can be dangerous. It has been known to cause some complications during pregnancy, and after birth. And it's something that I just won't do at that stage. Why do you ask?"

"Well I got paternity papers back, and I know that I went to some clinic and had it done. I remembered that you said that I asked you, and that I thought it was more dangerous to wait. And now I am trying to understand how it could be more dangerous to wait, then it is to put my baby at risk. Just doesn't make much sense is all."

"You were quite adamant, that much I know, but what was nipping at your heels and pushing you so frantically I really can't say. You never disclosed anything about the baby, the possible parentage or your fears. I wish I could have been more help to you then, and now. Did the DNA report help you at all?"

Sighing, I shifted my eyes towards his lamp, which I now noticed had oriental letters for luck, with pictures of elephants carved in the base. "No, just more unanswered questions."

"Well, maybe it's better for you to focus on yourself right now. Allow yourself some time. Don't push yourself for answers just live and let things come to you. The hard you push, the more frustrated you will become."

"Yes your right, Brooks keeps me pretty grounded anyways," I replied with a sincere smile.

"Here, you take this and get it filled. Only take them if you need, they're a sleeping sedative. They may hinder the process of you remembering, especially if your dreams do hold memories for you, but you may find that you need them," he said handing me a small slip of paper, that he had scribbled on, in a format that no coherent person could read.

Slipping it into my purse, I rose from my chair in sync with him. The room was small enough that we reached the door within only a few paced steps.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything that you have done for me, I am very grateful."

"It has been my pleasure Ava, and if you ever need anything or have any questions, you just give me a call. I'm always here to assist you, whatever way that I possibly can. Tell Brooks, he owes me a dinner too please."

"Will do. See you soon," and with that I leaned in a gave him a brisk hug, catching him off guard at first, before he settled to become the resilient angel that I had counted on in the hospital to save me from my hellish nightmares, and bring me back to this world.

The outside fresh air caressed warm against my skin, it was already fairly hot considering it was still midday. It was eleven thirty now, and Brooks had made arrangements for me to meet my mother at the restaurant at eleven forty five. When we arrived the taxi driver had pointed down the road, and said that if I walked two blocks and then took a left and went up a half a block that I would find the restaurant.

The streets here were quiet. Elderly couples walked along the streets and a few mothers pushing strollers. A sign showed that there was a park just up the street to the right, but for the most part I was in an area of little locally owned shops and small businesses. There was none of the big corporate piranhas here like I had seen in the city. It was pleasant, and felt personable. Back in the city I saw nothing but tall buildings, and high end markets; Gucci, Armani, Louis Vuitton, and over hear it was Smith & Son's Pharmacy, New to You Consignment, Ralph's Repairs, real people trying to make a real living, with hard honest work, under generic brand names.

As I glanced from store to shop, it dawned on me that it seemed like an odd place for my mother to want to come. These were not people that slept on sheets with a three hundred thread count. They couldn't careless who she was, or how expensive her outfit was. This was a place so unlike her, so beneath her, but then again maybe that's why she chose it, maybe she liked to be in places where she felt that no one compared to her or her wealth. She had no competition down here.

After walking for ten minutes, and window shopping along the way, I finally came to a small space with tinted glass windows, the sign outside read Le Clabeau. If it wasn't for having a lunch date here, I would have walked right by under the presumption that it was closed. Upon further and closer look, it was apparent that there was the faint lighting within.

A quiet chime sounded as I pulled the door open, and a petite oriental appearing woman was at my side within moments. She never spoke a word, just smiled very sincerely, nodded her head and held her hand out to gesture for me to find a table of my choosing.

The restaurant was much brighter than first appearance from outside, still not vibrant, but it had life. The walls were painted a deep scarlet red. The tables were plain worn wood, with bench style seating. Stained glass chandeliers hung over every table, dimly accentuating the vases that had been placed on each table, holding a single daffodil in them, plastic from the looks.

The walls had various paintings with colourful dragons and fish like creatures, the gold paint that flitted through them illuminated if the lights hit it just right, creating a magic masterpiece. A hallway ran from the door to the back of the kitchen, the side facing towards the seating area, was a half wall with tropical foliage planted along the top.

The oriental lady was at my side again, gesturing towards the seating area, "Yes, yes."

Smiling politely I followed her gaze and found she was directing me to my mother, who had arrived ahead of me and earlier then our date had been planned for. The thought was odd to me, the woman that I had met and come to judge as my mother, was more the, arrive late and with a big entrance type.

She sat quietly sipping on lemon water, and starring at some paper in front of her. Her attire was still outlandish, a sparkly long shirt twenty years too young for her, black high heeled boots three inches to tall for her and skinny jeans, that were at least two sizes too skinny for her, but she appeared as vivacious as always.

"Mom."

"Ava, dear." Her hand went up in the air graciously, simulating the way the rich would behold their hand to be kissed by the lowly servants. I smiled and took my seat. "You look lovely dear. Did you have a hard time finding the place?"

"No," I responded looking around the place again, trying to see if I could see what she just saw through her eyes, "I had an appointment over this way."

"I'm so glad you could make it dear. I've missed you. Couldn't have been happier then when Brooks called requesting a lunch date, I had thought that you may hate me."

"No! Why would you say that? How could I possibly hate you?"

"Well dear, I'm not your mother, as you now know. I wouldn't blame you for hating me now either, after deceiving you like that."

"I don't hate you. I'm gracious that you told me the truth, though I was hoping that you could tell me more?"

"Yes, of course, I figured that you had questions. Let's get our food first though buffet is back towards the kitchen. They cook the most scrumptious food ever, you'll love it. It's a rare delicacy for me."

"Excuse me?"

"It's Chinese food. Your father won't eat it or take me to any restaurants that serve it. He has something against," she peered around, and bent her oversized breasts against the table to lean towards me and whisper, "against, these kinds of people. Been like that ever since he came back from the war. He's not racist or anything, he just thinks they should have stayed in their own country. Common let's eat."

And that's not racist, holy crap. Damn good thing that he was only Police Chief and not some politician. I followed my mother's lead to the buffet. Considering there were only four other people in the restaurant, the buffet was overdone. Huge amounts of food were prepared and stored in the warmers. Two kinds of Chow Mein, Fried Rice, Chicken Balls and Spare Ribs, Sweet and Sour Pork, Breaded Chicken with a lemon sauce, Tangy Orange Chicken, Spicy Sweet Shrimp, Beef Chop Suey, Deep Fried Prawns, Wonton Soup, the labels just went on and on. We both filled our plates high. I scurried my way back to our table, feeling a little ashamed, now knowing what my father thought of the people here, and feeling like they sensed it. That they knew my father was some kind of racist.

My mother came back to the table, caring a plate in one hand and a large bowl of soup in the other. I guess she made sure that when she had the chance to get here, she made the best of it and she enjoyed what was a delicacy to her. Resting into her seat, she immediately started to ravage her food, and almost quiet literally. She was betrothed by the meal, and started making great gestures to her pleasure. Gestures that came short of sexual satisfaction, gestures that suddenly made me forget my embarrassment of my father and once again, fully aware of her in public.

"Um, so you said that my, ah, that Avamarie had died from a rejected blood transfusion. What caused her to need one, was she sick?"

"Your mother, it is okay to call her that Ava, she wasn't sick. After she had the emergency C-Section, she had lost a lot of blood, had some hemorrhaging, and they had to give her a blood transfusion. In that day and age, they hadn't learnt yet about reserving blood from the placenta or such, and so they used a donor sample. At first she had appeared to take to it, and then suddenly her body rejected it, they didn't even have time to try again. Your father was beside himself. She was the true love of his life. Losing Jonathan, and then two days later losing your mother, it was devastating to him. I stayed with him to support him as a promised to your mother, he in turn married me three months later as a necessity to give you a mother and carry on with his dreams in his career. He was a gentle man, but didn't have a clue about children nor did he have the abilities to be a single father. The rest became history."

"So that explains why he detests me so much, he blames me for their deaths. I guess it's the truth too."

"Oh no dear quite to the contrary, your father never hated you. Yes he has said some things in the past, when you've acted out, he has felt that you were disregarding your gift of life that your brother never got the chance to have and that your mother lost. But Ava, he has always just been over protective of you, he couldn't tolerate another loss like that in his life. Losing you would be the end of him in fact it nearly was twice now. First having you disregard him and disown him to be a part of that junkie world, and then when the hospital called us, to find out that someone had almost taken your life. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, letting you leave him and go on your way, but then to know that you got hurt because he had let you go and wasn't there to protect you. You are the spitting image of your mother Ava, it is hard to look at someone and see what you love and have, as well as what you have loved and lost. Even I know that," she paused staring at me, lost in another place that I didn't know, as I wasn't a part of it, she was remembering her own loss, her sister.

"Did I ever mention someone by the name of Jack to you?"

"Jack? Hmm, not that I recall, not that you mentioned much of anyone to us prior to your accident," she smiled at the lady replenishing our water, "though I do remember the time that you brought home a friend during high school, a girl. What was her name, Kim Shun, yes that's right. Ah your dad nearly hit the roof, and I swear you did it on purpose. You loved to push his buttons." She sat smiling, laughing inside at her own memory of the incident.

Suddenly I felt disgusted with myself once more. Maybe I had been lying to myself. Maybe I was just as full of myself as they were. I had no problem with people, any people, but would I have really used someone that way, or was it possible that she just truly was a friend? I was hoping the latter, I didn't want to be like that, be one of those kinds of people.

"Mom, do you remember me having weird dreams when I was younger?"

"Nah, you were a pretty coddled young lady. At least until you hit your early teens. Prior to that though, you were happy and content, a real sweetheart. Good grades, well mannered, a perfect lady and a perfect child. Then you got in with that crowd, and all hell broke loose, such an irate temper. Staying out at all hours, coming home drunk, and sometimes worse. You wouldn't listen to reason, and you suddenly hated us. I thought it was just teenage rebellion, but your father kept pushing that you were into worse stuff and kept prying at you. You were at one another's throat every night, screaming and swearing."

Her eyes appeared so sad, and suddenly the bubbly Barbie that I had come to know, was distant and wounded.

"Growing up, you were a daddy's girl. He made you safe, and scared away all the boogie men, you looked up to him and he would give you the world, you had him wrapped around your little finger. Then out of nowhere, he suddenly lost you to a dark side. The pain from this seemed to be worse than losing your mother, this time he'd lost you, but you were still there."

"I'm really sorry for all the pain that I have caused you, I never meant to. At least I don't think that I ever meant to cause all this."

"Oh, pish posh, the past is the past darlin'. We're here now, a family again," and her carefree nature returned. "So have you checked out any of the stores around here?"

And with that I knew that our conversation about the past was done, she had shopping on the brain, and she had money to spend.

"No, I browsed through the windows, but I never went in any yet."

"Oh dear that's not shopping, can't judge a store by its windows darling."

An endearing smile fell across my face. I had never heard the saying used that way before, but I found it charming and I felt myself yearning to spend more time with her, this woman who was my mother.

"Thank you, and here." She handed the Oriental woman, a credit card to pay, and took the two future cookies from her. The lady smiled and nodded, and without a word left to the till.

"Here, they bring good luck. This is my favourite part," she whispered giddily as she handed me a future cookie.

Opening my plastic baggie, I watched her as she opened hers with excitement at what her future held. I could just imagine the fun that palm readers and tarot readers could have with her. She was overwhelmed with the notion that this little cookie held her life's untold future.

"An abundance of new things are headed your way," she read, "Damn rights because we are going shopping! What's yours say hun?"

With a smile I cracked open my cookie and pulled out the tiny paper, and stared at it.

"Well don't just stare stupefied. Let me see it," and she ripped it from my fingers, with my still stupefied eyes, and open mouth gawking at her.

"Follow the light, and beware the blackness, or forever play with the devil in hell," she glanced at me, both eyebrows cocked in confusion, "What the heck kind of fortune it that? Well maybe that means that the numbers on the back will bring you luck. I know! You need to play those numbers in the big city lights it's a win for sure."

****

The Violent Entry

"Brooks you here? I brought us some fantastic homemade ice cream." Not only had I brought home ice cream, bought I had bags upon bags of clothes and accessories, more than I had ever seen. As I could have imagined, she may not have been an intellectual type, but being the flamboyant woman that she was, my mother was a blast to shop with and to hang out with. It was like being a kid with someone who had a credit card with a huge limit.

"Ice cream! I haven't had that in years," Brooks entered the room from the kitchen, "Whoa somebody went on a shopping spree. Need a hand with that?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

Percy and Jackson suddenly hearing the second voice in the house, came trotting from their sleeping areas, and immediately began to nose around the bags, smelling for any treats.

I handed Brooks one of the Styrofoam bowls of ice cream and a plastic spoon, and we resumed our seats in the living room just as they had been the night before

"French Vanilla and Chocolate Chip." Brooks scrunched his nose at me, whilst raising one eyebrow, "Don't look at me like that, it doesn't sound the greatest, but it is to die for, you're going to love it. Eat."

"So I take it that your day went well," he questioned, before popping a scoop of the succulent ice cream into his mouth.

"Actually it was for the most part refreshing," I smiled back, both in reminisce of my day, and the fact that from the look on his face, I was right about the ice cream, and he was thoroughly impressed, "What about you?"

"Oh, ya she was a good one."

"Really? So I take it that Judith is well?" I asked with an inquisitive smile, bringing the pasty pink flushes back to Brooks' cheeks once again.

"Um, yes she's well. She sends her best regards to you."

"That's good. Dr. Swanson said that you owe him a dinner."

"Oh do I now?"

"Apparently." I nodded, turning the spoon upside down and sucking a huge clump of ice cream off, savouring the taste.

"So did you learn anything?"

"Oh ya, let's see. My father is racist towards Orientals, or at least Chinese people. My mother died because of a rejected blood transfusion, that she required due to blood loss from giving birth to me, my brother died merely because the doctor pulled me out first. Um, Sophia and my father married out of necessity and a dying promise. Apparently I was a daddy's little girl growing up in a perfectly happy childhood, until I hit my teenager years, and then I went haywire and so did everything else from there."

"Wow. Sounds like a lot to absorb. So a relatively typical childhood, if you went haywire upon high school, could be just typical teenager angst, or maybe something happened at school. Bullying, teen pregnancy, something that sent you over the edge, maybe we need to visit your old high school?"

"Ya I was thinking along those lines. Mom said that she always took that my behavior was typical, whereas dad was so scared of losing me like mom, that he took it more personal."

"Did you ask about Jack?"

"Yup, she doesn't remember having ever met anyone or heard me talk about anyone. But I was thinking and we don't even know that this person's real name is Jack. Maybe it's just a random name that I choose, or maybe I was scared that Weston would find out, because it was someone he knew."

"True," he nodded as he scooped out the last bit and then set the bowl down for Jackson to lick out.

"I was thinking about doing some research, see if anything triggered for me. I'm ready to start looking at the media reports from everything. Would you mind if I borrowed your laptop?"

"Of course, its sitting on the kitchen counter, feel free. If you need any help just let me know, otherwise I think I'm going to shower and caller a night with the news, kind of beat today. Hope I'm not coming down with anything."

"I hope not, if you need something let me know. I have no idea what we have in the house for medication, but I can always run out and grab something if need be."

"I'm just old Ava, that's about it," he retorted laughing as he headed towards the bathroom.

After he left I snatched the bowl away from Jackson, who at this point was starting to eat the Styrofoam, and headed to the kitchen. I threw our evening treat reminisce into the garbage and found a bottle of soda from the fridge, before grabbing Brooks laptop from the counter and proceeding to the bedroom.

Once again Percy was at my heels, with Jackson in tow of her, upon reaching the bathroom, Jackson stopped and laid at the door and I suddenly realized how fond he had become of the ole' guy.

Setting the computer on the mattress, I headed to my bathroom to find a ponytail to tie back my hair. I had worn it down today, not sure what look impressed my mother, and for some reason that seemed to matter to me today.

After securing my hair, I climbed up on the bed, sprawling myself out length wise, lying on my tummy, with the computer in front of me. Flipping the top open, I found that it was already booted up and realized that Brooks must have already been on it when I came home from my day with mother.

After searching around the desktop for a moment, I finally found the little internet icon and clicked it open, hoping that nothing had changed since the last time that I had used a computer.

Where to start though, and after a seconds hesitation, I typed in Ava Kendrew, and the computer began to think. It didn't have to think much, before the search screen displayed a varying array of information and headlines.

Saxon Police Chief busts daughter on Cocaine.

Judge gets paid off to release Chiefs daughter.

Police investigate attack on Chief Kendrew's daughter.

Mob connections to Police Chief through his daughter.

Wow, they just kept going and going and never did they get any prettier, and finally I could understand how this sort of publicity could ruin my father's career and professional stigmatism.

I choose to click on the media release about the attack investigation.

Chief Kendrew has confirmed that there is an ongoing investigation on a recent attack of his daughter. At this time the police are releasing limited information. Chief Kendrew refuses to comment on the report that his daughter has lost an unborn child due to the attack, and will not comment on how he feels regarding his daughter being an unwed pregnant woman, something that he has campaigned to the city's youth to avoid.

Chief Kendrew, in a past incident, has also had to arrest his daughter during a drug bust. At the time, Ava Kendrew was arrested on extreme amounts of cocaine, and displayed obscene behavior upon arrest as well as at the station. A judge released her then to a treatment facility and gave her probation, a sentence that had some feeling he was bought off.

Though the police refuse to comment, we have been able to talk to one eye witness, who has stated, that she witnessed two men attack Miss. Kendrew. The witness also claims that the men appeared to have known Miss. Kendrew, and that they were both dressed in plain jeans, jean jackets and had dark ball caps to cover the faces.

At this time, Miss. Kendrew is reported to be in stable but critical condition at the Sinette Grandes Regional Hospital.

If nothing else the media certainly knows how to create a story by bringing up another story. Now the victim has just become another drug addicted user, and the reading public has become indifferent with the innocent life lost.

Scrolling through I clicked on another article about the cocaine bust, seemed like a more appropriate place to start.

This evening, we have got definite confirmation that Chief Kendrew's teenage daughter was one of the individuals arrested during a planned drug bust on a well-known residence to the Saxon Police Department.

Detectives had planned on busting the house, after an anonymous insider tip that a recent huge shipment had come in and they wanted to stop it before it hit our streets.

Chief Kendrew, states quote, "As an officer of the law, it is my duty to uphold right from wrong, however outside of the department, I am also a father, and we as a family are human and not perfect. My daughter has made a mistake and though I am not proud, I will stand by her to see that she gets the help she needs. She will answer to the courts for her misdemeanors and I request that at this time, people please respect her privacy as a juvenile." Kendrew's daughter is currently a student at Saxon High School, she will face her first court date tomorrow morning to have a hearing scheduled and be formally charged.

Nothing like reading media reports or searching the internet to make you feel like shit, it was everything that I had done over the years that had created this. I had made my father into the angry man that yelled his resentment for me back at the hospital. Not only did I give the media the right to scrutinize the department and the justice system, but also the right to judge him as an officer and a father.

Scrolling to the search bar, I typed in Saxon High School.

I clicked on the first link at the top of the page, the official Saxon High School Page. The website opened ornamented in blue and yellow, the school colours, a huge eagle sat in the top right corner of the page, the mascot for the school and all of its competing teams.

The page contained tabs for Teams, Policies, Professional Staff, Calendar, Yearbooks, Contact Us; I rested over the Yearbooks, and tabs for various years fell beneath it. No better place than from the bottom, and I clicked the last reasonable year available.

Freshman after freshman, senior after senior, year after year, even after going through every staff member for every year; and I managed to compile a list of six Jacks, none of which looked familiar. Three hours searching for what seemed hopeless, another dead end.

It all felt never ending, searching for something that was never there. Suddenly Brooks' computer beeped and an icon lit up in the bottom corner, the light blinked over and over again. I remembered the Chinese cookie fortune, follow the light, and curiously I rested the mouse over the icon and an instant message popped onto the screen.

You have a new email from Weston Myers, marked urgent would you like to view now?

I fully knew it was wrong, it was private, but why would Weston send Brooks an urgent email, and why was Brooks still talking to Weston? I clicked okay. The instant message disappeared and an email popped open:

Brooks, I found something. I got it Brooks. I'm on my way over. Look at the link... Don't show Ava!

Infuriating how all these men thought they could control what I did or what I saw. This was my life. I had the right to see and know this stuff first, not them.

Irate I clicked the link and waited for it to open.

The screen shot open. Plain as day, everything, my whole life right there, from one little picture, one little headline, one old article.

Blackness began to weave in, I wasn't sleeping, it couldn't come now, but it did, full force. Choking me. Gagging me. Every last minute of my life came crashing towards me. The pain. The tears. The fear. Everything at once, binding together and lacerating me repeatedly. My breath was lost. My tears plummeted without course, my heart wrenched from within my soul. The room spun uncontrollably. Cold clamminess swept over my skin, as I began to hurl repeatedly to my floor. Shakes violated my body, as the voice began to whisper... this was my sudden violent entry.

****

Brooks and Weston

The pounding was incessant at the door, but it didn't awaken Brooks. Not even the dogs growling awoke him. It wasn't until the violent shaking at his shoulder, did Brooks finally groggily open his eyes. The view was hazy, but he could just barely make out that a shape was standing over him. At that he jumped upright, so that he was sitting on the couch.

"What!" he bellowed in a husky tone.

"Brooks." A voice responded.

"Weston is that you?" Brooks rubbed his eyes, till his vision came clear.

"Ya man, sorry"

"Whatcha doin' here, what time is it?"

"It's a little past ten. Sorry I pounded at the door but nobody answered and then I just happen to try the handle and nobody had locked up, figured maybe you were in the shower."

"Ya I was, but quite a while ago," he responded reaching for the remote and turning the volume down on the television.

Resounded that everything was secure Jackson laid back down at Brooks feet, Percy stayed lying by the door, contrary to how much Weston tried calling her and apologizing. He resolved that she was mad at him still, and was content on giving him the cold shoulder, that she so often liked to do when he had be late coming home in the past.

"Coffee?" Brooks questioned Weston, getting up off the couch and heading to the kitchen.

"Sure, just going to use the washroom quickly."

Weston finished washing, and turned the light to the bathroom off. He looked towards Ava's room, he wanted to talk to her, to see her, but her door was closed and there was no light slipping beneath the frame, he decided it best not to disturb her, it would give him a chance to talk to Brooks first to go over everything that he had found, and figure out the best way to approach the circumstances, not to mention the how they were going to explain it to Ava.

On approach to the kitchen, he noticed that Percy hadn't budged from the entrance, but she also wasn't sleeping, she just kept starring at the door. Perhaps she needed to go for a walk, the thought crossed his mind, but she would have to wait, he needed to talk with Brooks. It was important that they have a chance to talk together.

"Coffee's done, might be a little strong though, I needed the wake up. Something better than the wake up that I just got from you that is." Brooks said pouring himself a cup and sauntering over to the kitchen table, and taking a seat.

"I'm sorry about that Brooks, didn't figure you would both be asleep already. Must have been a long day I take it?" Weston responded as he grabbed himself his own cup of coffee, residing to pour only half a cup and doctor it up a bit, after all he didn't need the same wake up that Brooks did. Hell he didn't know if he could sleep now, so many things rolling through his head.

"Ya, Ava went and had lunch with her mom. She seems to have had a good chance to bond with her too, learnt a few things as well. Did you know that Sophia isn't her real mom?"

"No, I never knew that. Did Ava know before? I mean before her memory loss?"

"She doesn't believe so. She learnt it that day we were at their house, and then she got a chance to ask more questions today. Had a twin brother too."

"What!"

"Ya, poor girl, she's not getting any closer to remembering things, but she sure got a head full of secrets that she never knew. Her mom died after giving birth to her, and her brother died, due to doctors pulling her out first, didn't have time to save him. Sophia is actually her auntie, her mother's sister. Guess she made some promise to her that she would take care of the family for her, and low and behold we have the perfect happy family again."

"How's Ava taking it?"

"Seems to be pretty good, think she is feeling a little better, she got a little more understanding as to why her father acts the way he does. You know his fear and everything over losing her, after losing everyone else."

"What like he's some protective father to daddy's girl?"

"Ya pretty much. Did you know her father was in the army, guess it turned him into a racist son of a bitch too?"

"What do you mean did I know he was in the army?"

"Boy you're a lawyer, how hard is that question to understand?"

"No, no, that's not what I mean. Didn't you get my email?"

"No, remember, when you came in, I was soundly asleep." Brooks responded with a bit of a disgruntled look on his face.

"Oh ya. Sorry, again. Okay, remember when you stopped by this afternoon and I said that I was doing some research on my own. To see if I could find anything that might be more accessible to a lawyer or at least at my research team expense?"

"Yup, so what's your point?"

"Well my team was going through records, that aren't publicly accessible, and they found something. So that in turn led to a new search and we found it Brooks. We found it!"

Brooks sputtered his coffee out of his nose, "Jeez, Weston there's no need to shout, what the hell did you find out?" He asked, wiping his nose and face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Weston scanned around the kitchen. "Where's your laptop, it'll just be easier to show you?"

Brooks followed Weston's scan, and craned his own gaze around, "Oh ya, Ava asked if she could borrow it, she wanted to search the events that have happened, and read the media articles, said she was ready now, and hoped that they would help her."

"What! Where is she? Where's the computer Brooks?" Weston's voice was raised and Jackson scurried under the table shaking.

"Again Weston relax, there's no need to shout. Ava's asleep in her room. I think."

Both men then jumped, fleeing to the other end of the house, towards Ava's room. Percy was already there whining with intermittent barking.

Ava didn't respond when they knocked, and Weston wouldn't wait anymore, he opened the door. The room was dark, and rank. An unbearable stench ripped through the air, burning into their nostrils. Percy fled back to the front door whining.

Brooks flipped the light switch on. Vomit was spewed across the floor, all directions. His laptop still sat propped open on the bed. Weston ran to the bathroom, hoping to find a bug ridden Ava caressing the toilet, instead he remerged to find Brooks in front of the lap top.

"She saw it. This can't be what I think is it?" Brooks asked disturbed.

"Oh god, oh god," Weston ran both hands threw his hair, pulling for an answer, "Where would she have went?"

"Well I got a pretty good idea," Brooks said motioning towards the monitor, "Trouble is we need something better than just an idea."

"Her cell phone, cell phones are all equipped with those GPS things, if it's turned on we can track her right?"

"Right, I'll try and track her through my cell phone," Brooks said rushing back to the kitchen.

Weston sat at the edge of the bed and starred at the monitor. He should have never sent the e-mail; he should have just come and talked to Brooks. How could he be so stupid? The newspaper article sat back staring at him.

Local Home Town Heroes Coming Home

A local division of the National Army are returning home after a two year stint in the Europe and Asian Countries. The platoon of twelve young men, ten of which are from the immediate area, and two of which are from the neighbouring states, are happy to be returning to their families, and proud to be coming home with honours from defending their country.

Captain James Andrew Collin Kendrew says that the platoon, nicknamed the Bullet heads, permanently inked their camaraderie by all visiting an Asian parlor and had bullets tattooed discreetly near their groins. This is a journey that they will never forget, and they are men that we couldn't be happier to call home town heroes. James, better known to his platoon as Jack, will be proceeding to the local precinct to continue to serve his community.

Weston shuddered. It's no wonder Ava had desecrated the floor with vomit. This was utterly sickening, and now she was gone.

"Weston, I found her, her GPS shows her situated at a small vacant warehouse at the edge of Sinette Grandes and Saxon, but we got a problem."

Weston looked at him, vacant at the thought. How could there be a problem, we knew where she was.

"My revolver is gone!"

****

Mine

The warehouse was dark, vacant, completely deserted. I understood now, why my father would choose this location when I texted him that he had to meet me now, that I remembered everything.

I was partly regretting coming here alone now, not to mention that I felt so reluctant to wake Brooks and talk to him, that I had snuck out of the house without anyone knowing what I was doing or where I was going. Not to mention that I had stolen Brooks revolver.

My thoughts prior to getting here had solely revolved around anger, disgust, even revenge. I had never really contemplated how this would all go, or consider the extremes that my, oh so loving father would go to protect his secret.

The building was cold. Shivers ran up my back, as I crept through the darkness, searching. How would I find him, I couldn't even see in front of me, nothing but black laced the way, every way I turned.

Heavy metal creaked and groaned, before smashing closed. He was here! But where was here? There was nothing but silence, and darkness.

Something blew up against my arm, sending my skin crawling. It pulled, aching, trying to cut itself free from its binding with me. It knew this all too well, we knew this all too well. The pain that was to come and the sins that were to be casted upon me.

The breeze picked up, the black lace began to dance around me, entangling me into its webs, pulling at my hair, chastising me in disgust, chains dangling to bind me. But it wasn't me, it was him. Couldn't the darkness understand that? I wasn't the dirty one. He was. His love was dirty.

Footsteps came growing louder and closer. But from where, they were surrounding me, everywhere. I couldn't run, he'd catch me anyways, he always did. My body froze, refusing to move, it was worse if you didn't behave. And then it started, and my soul lurched from my body, not wanting to be a part of it.

... hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna play with you, and if you're a good lil' girl n' don't cry, Daddy's gonna sing you a lullaby... hmm, hmmm... hush lil, baby, don't say a word, Daddy wouldn't hurt his lil' girl

The crying, but I wasn't crying, and he wouldn't cry, he never did. It was her. She was here again. Why did she torture herself like this, she was free of it, I could take the brunt of it.

"Please," I begged, "Please go. Run. He's coming."

She wouldn't move. Little knees bent to her chin, her hair falling around her face. Teddy clutched tightly to her chest, it was the teddy that momma had gave to her, not her momma now, but the special momma that daddy talked about.

... Hush lil baby, don't you cry...

I can't help it now though, and I cry. They tremble from my eyes, slicing through my skin, etching into my soul, the truths of the persecution to come. I don't mind though, I never do, the more they hurt, the less that daddy's game does.

"Why! Why are you doing this to me!" my voice is unsteady and quiet, but I know that the fog will carry it to him, the black fog only dances for him, everything is for him.

"Why, Ava? You know why pooh bear."

The words cut me more than the tears.

"You took your mother from me, you owe me. You owe me everything," the fog whispers as it traces its way up the back of my spine.

I force my body to turn to it, but there's only emptiness. His laugh bellows through the strands, curdling in my stomach.

"This isn't right," I screamed, "Your supposed to protect me, not hurt me."

"I've done nothing but protect you. And then you, ungracious child that you are, you turn your back on me. You fill your body with toxins, and then succumb to the seductions of that boy. You're an embarrassment. You're supposed to honour your momma's life, take care of your daddy. You made sure that she couldn't, so you live up to your obligations. But no, you have to go become some dirty little slut!"

The black fog becomes harsh. The chains have entangled in it and they're slashing at me, demeaning me, reprimanding me. Dirty little slut.

"You killed my baby!" I screamed at him. He already knows that he killed me, he doesn't care.

His fist is firm, and it dazes my conscience, as he repeatedly plummets, it into my head. He has never hit me before, not with his fists, an open hand yes, but never this. My blood is hot as it spreads down my face. I don't like the feel of this, it awakes the sensations that have become numb, and once more I can feel again. His hate. His anger. I try to shield his rage, with my arms, but the black fog entwines its fists into the back of my hair, and pulls my head back deep. They wrap their hands around my throat, squeezing, hard. I try frantically to pull them off, but I can't see, my eye has already begun to swell over and the warmth of my blood begins to pulsate into the socket.

"I told you to stay away from the boy Ava! I warned you! Remember, you tried telling me that you wanted me to leave you alone, that you were happy and going to start a family with him. You don't have that privilege. You took my family from me. And I showed you where you belonged, who you belonged to. And you took it. You enjoyed it, just like you did when you were a little girl. Do you remember it Ava, you were so pretty in your little poke a dot dress? This is all, your fault! Your baby is dead because of you! You had to become a little slut and think that you could have happiness somewhere else."

"No, no, no!" I cried, body violently quivering, barely able to grasp at Brooks revolver.

"Yes Ava. You are mine."

"So was the baby, you sick son of a bitch! Your own grandchild was your child," and slowly, but unsteady I raised the revolver upwards, towards the blackness.

His arms grip mine tightly. He's there, in my face. Gleaming at me, his excitement boils within him and fills his eyes.

"You think you can shoot Daddy? You think that your bullet is more powerful than mine?" his voice is boisterous with outraged laughter, as he pulls my arms down to my sides, overpowering me.

The black drapes shift away, the darkness is gone, and it is time for the dance with devil to begin. His eyes enrage with fury, excitement, hate, desire.

"YOU ARE MINE!"

The sound of the gun is loud, as it ricochets off the steel walls. It pounds as it echoes through my head. The red ribbon begins to weave its way around us, washing over my hands, staining them. The bullet has found its mark.

All the blackness disintegrates there is only the white fog now, bright blinding light. It's beautiful. It holds me and glides me to the concrete of the warehouse floor, caressing me with serene tenderness.

I can hear them now, both of them Weston and Brooks. They found me. They came for me, but she is already here. Standing in the light, her hand stretched out waiting. She's beautiful. It was the only thing that my father was truthful about, my mother was a beautiful angel, and she was waiting.

Her world was not strange. There was no blackness, no chains, no pain, no bullets; just beautiful light, full of forgiveness and protection.

"Brooks, call 9-1-1, now! She needs an ambulance. Ava, please stay with me."

