My family locked me in the basement to give birth. Days later, they returned to find a dark red liquid seeping from the door. As my mother screamed, a voice whispered behind her, “Looking for me?”
Seeking a momentary escape into a fabricated past, I flipped it open. The first dozen pages were innocuous—sepia-toned memories of my parents’ youth, Samantha and me in matching holiday dresses. But as I turned past the midway point, the oxygen rushed out of my lungs.
David.
He wasn’t smiling at me. He was standing on continue reading …
