It is always shocking to see a person badly beat up. It's more shocking when it's you. I should remember this, but I don't. Where did she come from?
"It's my fault she's dead, isn't it?"
She looked so lost and confused. I walked across the crackling plastic and sat next to her.
"What's your name?"
"Julia"
My name.
"What are you doing here?"
All movement stopped. She froze. Had I been too direct? This version is obviously very traumatized.
"A man let me out. He seemed so nice, and that basement was so dark..."
She had come from the basement. That made sense. Over the months I had come here, I locked people away in the basement. Memories and feelings I couldn't handle, put away for storage, regrets mostly. What has this girl done that deserved imprisonment?
"He told me to find a place I felt comfortable. He said he'd be back for me. He made me promise to stay."
Who was this man? This house, this girl, everything was fueled by me. This man was foreign to this place, because he let a memory out without my permission. How did he get here?
"Why were you in the basement?"
"I don't know. But when I came out, that lady," She pointed to the Adult, "kicked that stool out. I didn't know what to do. She just kicked until her face turned purple."
I got off the couch and knelt at her feet. Grabbing her hands I said:
"What do you remember?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Her face never changed as she said those words. She just looked lost, sad, and confused.
Her hands were bleeding. Her nails were destroyed, and had what looked like skin and blood beneath them.