Chapter 21

An unexpected laugh bursts from my lips as I read about Presley dressing her baby brother in one of her doll outfits. The baby was barely three months old, still small enough to fit into the pink tutu and leotard. What makes it so funny is her father's reaction when he saw it. According to Presley's description, her dad nearly had a stroke, and the horrified look on his face made her and her mom laugh so hard they cried. Her dad scooped up the baby, informing his two girls that he was taking charge of dressing his son from now on.

The story continues to tell how Presley's mom went to her dad to apologize for what they did, and her dad's scowl only made things worse. Then she explains how her mom made it up to her dad by kissing him. It's amusing to read Presley's reaction to her parents' affection. She claims it grosses her out when they kiss with their tongues, but she also doesn't mind it. This is because it means they love each other like a mom and dad are supposed to.

I set the papers down on the coffee table with a smile on my face. Presley has been gifting me these stories for years, and every time I read one, I get a surge of love for her. Presley is pure innocence, and it shows in her writing.

I consider my own writing. It's the exact opposite of Presley's. Mine are filled with darkness and pain. While each story ends with a happy ending, the path my characters take before they reach that point is filled with heartache, misery, and hopelessness. I've tried writing fluffy stories. Ones where the characters laugh and smile and enjoy life, but they always seem so stale and boring. I need my characters to suffer horribly, feel lost, and have to fight tooth and nail for their happiness. They need to feel helpless and alone before they see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

The doorbell rings, and I grab my phone to check the camera app. I see a young man holding a small box under one arm and a clipboard in his other hand. Tension stiffens my shoulders. I never answer the door if I don't recognize the person on the other side. A delivery is usually dropped off, and I wait until they leave before I grab whatever it is. This one, however, seems to require a signature.

Getting up from the couch, I cautiously approach the door, as if the person on the other side will hear me and try to break in. I know there's a reason why I'm so afraid, but I refuse to let the thought surface.

When I reach the speaker and screen attached to the alarm, I pressed a button. "Can I help you?" I ask, my voice wobbling as I speak.

On the screen, the man looks down at his clipboard. He must have noticed the camera above the door, because he tilts his head back and looks into its lens. "I have a delivery for Caterina St. James."

"You can leave it on the porch," I tell him.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I need a signature."

I huff out a breath, fearing this might happen. "Would you mind slipping the clipboard through the mail slot? I don't open the door to strangers."

His eyes flash with irritation on the screen. I couldn't care less about whether he likes it or not. He can leave and take the package with him. I'm not expecting anything from anyone, so whatever's in the box, I'm sure I won't miss it.

"Fine," he finally grumbles.

When the edge of the clipboard appears in the slot, I pull it the rest of the way through. On the top of the paper, the logo of the company is displayed along with their contact information. Below that is the size of the box and the address where it came from. A post office box with no name.

I scribble my name on the signature line and shove the clipboard back through the slot.

I press the intercom button again. "Thanks. Just leave it outside."

After setting the box on the porch, the man spins away and walks down the steps. I wait until I hear an engine start and rev as he pulls away. After punching the alarm code, I open the door and grab the square box laying on the welcome mat. It's surprisingly light and small.

I reset the alarm and carry the box into the kitchen. Grabbing scissors from a drawer, I cut the tape. I don't know why, but my hands tremble as I pull back the flaps. There's a bunch of packing peanuts, so I grab handfuls and toss them on the counter. The first thing I see is something pink. I dig out more peanuts and white frilly lace comes into view.

A hollow feeling forms in my stomach as I reveal more of the box's contents. My hands are still shaking as I pull out a pink shirt with lace around the bottom hem. Another pink piece of material lays beneath it. I don't need to pull it out to know it's a pair of sleep shorts. The outfit is small, a size suitable for a young girl. The top has red splatters, like drops of blood, on the front.

When I throw the shirt back into the box, a cry rips through my lips.

Screams fill my ears, and I slap my hands over them, trying to block them out. As images of violence, blood, and pain float through my mind, I slam my eyes shut, trying to force them away.

Painful and anguished cries of a girl. Her broken body lying on the floor unmoving.

A toddler's scream of fear. Blood puddled beneath his mangled body.

A woman's plea to save them both and her wails of grief when she couldn't.

I can't let them in.

I can't remember.

I don't want to remember.

To remember is to relive it all over again.

A return to the past means revisiting the horrors and carnage, and experiencing the hurt of loss and helplessness. To remember that I wasn't strong enough to save them. To watch the brutality with devastation and to wish for death to come for me next.

I back away from the box and my back hits the counter so hard it jars me. The edge scrapes across my skin as I slide down until my butt hits the floor. I draw my knees to my chest. My hands still cover my ears and my eyes are squeezed shut as I scream, hoping the noise will drown out the cries in my head.

I scream so loud and so long that my throat goes raw and I sway to the side with dizziness. Another wail of grief erupts from my mouth.

My babies.

They're gone.

Not just gone, but taken in the most brutal way a child can be taken from a parent.

I couldn't save them. I let what happened to them happen because I wasn't strong enough to stop it. I was weak and unable to protect them as a mother should.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I think I hear whispered right before strong hands grab mine and try to pry them away from my ears.

I fight against the hold. I need to keep them where they are to help muffle the cries.

"No!" I yell when the hands continue to pull mine away.

"Cat!" A voice booms and it sounds familiar. "Tell me what the fuck happened!"

I open my eyes and my vision is filled with a pair of green ones. Hunter squats in front of me with his knees on either side of my feet, only inches from my face. A worried look fills his face. No, not worry. He looks terrified.

I curl my fingers around the top of my ears and a whimper crawls out of my throat. "I can't make them stop," I say, my voice hoarse from yelling. "Make the screams stop, Hunter. Please," I beg.

"I will, baby. I will," he answers in a gruff voice. His fingers gently uncurl my fingers from my ears. "Let go," he says softly.

I do, but only because I know Hunter will help me. He knows what to do. He'll make the screaming stop. He'll make the memories go away again.

The tips of my nails are bloody when I look down at them, and I feel a faint sting behind my ears. Although the sounds are still there, they're quieter, as if the people making them are further away. Hunter stands up and bends down to pick me up under my shoulders and knees. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent.

"I don't ever want to remember," I cry.

"I know you don't, baby," he responds softly. "Shh… It's okay. I'll make them go away."

I hate the way his voice sounds. Like he's on the verge of losing his composure.

He carries me upstairs and places me on our bed. I tighten my hold around his neck, not ready to let him go yet. He lets me hold him for a moment before gently pulling my arms free. I curl on my side and press my lips together, trying and failing to hold my tears at bay. They still fall like a river from my eyes.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he pulls open the drawer of my nightstand. He takes out a bottle of pills and taps one in his hand.

"Take this," he says, holding the pill out to me. "It'll make the screams go away."

The way I snatch the pill from his palm and nearly shove it down my throat makes me feel like a drug addict. He hands me a bottle of water, and I greedily take a sip to wash the pill down.

The drugs will make me sleepy. I don't want to sleep right now, because I'm scared of my nightmares. I just want my mind clear of those awful cries, and I know the pills will help.

Once the pill is washed down, Hunter scoots me over so he can crawl into bed with me. I stay facing him, needing to be that much closer to him for as long as I can until sleep claims me.

His arms wrap around me, cocooning me in his safe embrace. I keep my arms in front of me and turn my face to press my cheek against his chest. His rapid heartbeat is soothing and helps drown out the lingering cries.

"I've got you, baby." His voice rumbles in my ear as tears still slide from my eyes. "Sleep. Everything will be better when you wake up."

I don't know if what he says is true. I can only pray that the walls I've built in my mind will rebuild themselves.

Because I'm not sure I can survive the alternative.