Something to Remember (Forget Me Not 0.5)
Willow Winters
Prequel to Forget Me Not
I had nothing left. Only a child, and I’d already given up. My father wanted it that way.
He tore me apart bit by bit until I was nothing. And then he did the worst thing imaginable. … he gave me her.
From USA Today best selling author Willow Winters comes an emotional dark romance.
Something to Remember is a 5,000 word prologue to the standalone, Forget Me Not.
Chapter 1
I used to wonder what I’d done to deserve this. Why he hates me so much.
My stomach rumbles, and the aching pain that used to make me ball up because it was centered in my stomach now shoots through my body. I wince from the pain, but I don’t scream. The stinging in my eyes isn’t from tears. I refuse to shed them.
I’ve made my choice.
This room, in particular, is one I used to be terrified of. Cinder block walls that are damp and cold, and nothing but a blanket to cover me when I sleep on the hard cement floor. The fluorescent lights are horribly bright, and they remind me of the school’s gym lights, but somehow the darkness, when he shuts them off makes the lights unbearable when they’re on.
There’s nowhere to hide when the lights are on.
I lick my dry lips as the pain settles and stare at the steel door until I feel like I can breathe easy again. I’m no longer afraid of the room. The punishment holding, as my father calls it. It will be my salvation. My escape from what fate has offered me.
Even at fourteen years old, I know what life and death are all too well.
I know my mother’s dead. She never hears me when I scream for her. And I always do. I always cry out for her to save me when he makes me hurt and doesn’t stop.
A chill runs through my body, but at the same time my forehead heats and a thin sweat covers my skin. I shudder and think about pulling the blanket up, but the blinking red light in the corner of the room reminds me that he’s watching and I won’t show him that I’m trying anymore.
I don’t want comfort. I don’t want to hope anymore. They’re both useless and make trying and fighting seem reasonable when they aren’t.
Maybe death is an exaggeration. After all I’m starving myself, and he’s thrown me in here with the promise of food if I’ll eat. I don’t want to though. I can’t keep living like this.
This isn’t a life. When my mother died, it was my death sentence to be left in the hands of a monster.
Another spike of pain shoots through me at the same time as I hear the keys jingle on the other side of the steel door. I resist the urge to react to the pain although it’s stronger and more intense than it’s ever been.
I wish it weren’t true, but even as I’ve accepted death as my fate, I’m terrified. I wish it wasn’t fear that ran through me. I wish the adrenaline wouldn’t spike in my blood and my natural instinct wasn’t to cower, but I can’t help it.
I’ve tried hard not to feel anymore, but the fear he’s instilled in me is unbreakable.
Maybe that’s why I hate myself so much. I’m weak and useless. Just like he tells me.
Some days I swear I don’t feel anything anymore. Even the fear. It’s as if it doesn’t matter, like I don’t matter anymore. How can I? How could I even be sane staring at the same walls each and every day? I barely move anymore. It must be days since I’ve decided not to eat. And since that day I’ve been in this room. Unmoving, unchanging other than the pain.
It’s only a matter of time before he’ll let me out of this room. It’s just for punishments, or at least that’s what it used to be. I don’t know how many consecutive days I’ve been in here. Maybe it’s my new home.
I scratch my fingernail against the cement, creating a mark. There are dozens of lines just like it. I think I started them to count the days, but it’s turned into something else. Each one is the same as the last. Maybe I’m waiting for something to change them. Something inside of me or inside of this room to break up the monotony. Maybe I’ve just stopped caring.
I think Father’s easier on me when I’m pathetic like this. It makes me feel even worse knowing he’s the reason, he’s the motivating factor behind it all.
I blink slowly and my thick lashes blur the faint light from the small window as the door opens with a protesting groan.
I expect the door to close just as fast as it opens, but when I chance a glance, he’s left it open. His large body stands in the doorway, and his dingy off-white shirt and faded jeans are dirty from working outside on the farm and in the dirt.
His boots sound as if they’re crunching against the ground as he walks. Each step getting louder and my heart racing faster. I stay perfectly still, resisting every instinct to run or to fight. Both are useless.
“Get up,” he says and his voice is deep and rough. No room for negotiation.
My body flinches out of instinct, and I prepare for him to kick me when I don’t react quickly enough. He always kicks me in the stomach and as I close my eyes tightly, disobeying him, I pray he does it hard enough to end this.
But nothing comes.
With the thin coat of sweat over every inch of my body, a chill goes through me, making my body stiffen. I nearly vomit from the intensity of the change, but I hold back.
“I’ve had enough of this, boy!” my father screams at me and I curl into myself. Embarrassment and shame flow through me from how weak I am, but I don’t give it much thought. I already knew I was pitiful.
“I won’t fucking tell you again!” he yells and leans down to haul me up by my shirt, but I scoot back and resist. If there’s one thing I’ve learned never to do, it’s to resist.
But I’ve wanted this. I have to remind myself of my death wish as the fear cripples me and the years of conditioning settle in and make my body tremble.
The back of his large, dirty hand whirls in front of my face, blurring from the speed as he snarls at me. The scowl on his face is only made more terrifying from his exposed yellowed teeth and the coldness in his dark gaze.
The last thing I see are his knuckles.
The last thing I hear is the crunch of my nose.
The last thing I taste is the metallic blood in my mouth.
The last thing I feel is nothing. So long I’ve waited for it. And it’s finally here.
Chapter 2
Fuck.
My neck is stiff, my jaw hurts and I know it’s bruised. But what really fucking hurts is my throat. It’s worse than a sore throat, raw and like it’s on fire.
A groan slips out and I instantly regret it, my body squirming on a hard sheet of metal. I blink slowly, barely opening them and letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
I know in an instant where I am. The kitchen.
The dusty plaid curtain on the window above the sink is the first thing I see, and that’s all I need to know.