Something to Remember: Prequel to Forget Me Not Read online

  Something to Remember

  Willow Winters

  Contents

  Something to Remember

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Forget Me Not

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About Willow

  Join my Naughty List

  Something to Remember

  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.

  The kitchen, the table. Mother.

  This is where she was a few times, I remember it well but I don’t know what brought her here. Maybe it was him. I never thought about it back then, but as my eyes open wider, anger seeps in. Did he hurt her like he hurt me?

  My muscles coil, and I try to sit up
.

  It only lasts a moment and then the pain in my throat makes me wince again.

  Shit. It’s only when I lift my hand to my throat that I realize the pain is only located there. It's no longer focused on my stomach in the least.

  “I had to intubate you,” my father says from the dark corner of the room. My heart thuds hard in my chest as he slowly stands and walks into the light of the room.

  “Stupid fucking boy,” he mutters and stands next to me. So close I can smell the dirt and whiskey that waft from him every day.

  I try to swallow, but it only makes my dry throat hurt even worse. A sickness and hollowness threaten me. I can’t even kill myself. I’m that pathetic.

  I need to find another way then. Something fast.

  “You need to knock this shit off,” my father says as though he heard my thoughts. My heart stutters as I slowly raise my eyes to his. I don’t dare speak though.

  He looks tired up here with the morning light casting shadows down his face. He rubs his beard and clucks his tongue once before lowering his head to mine.

  I instinctively back away as he says in a low voice, a roughness from his throat making his threat sound even more terrifying, “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, you hear?”

  Like the coward I am, I nod. My blood rushing and fueled by fear.

  “I have something for you,” he says as he backs away slowly. One step and then another, giving me space, but I don’t trust it. “Sit up,” he tells me. My body’s stiff and my muscles sore. It hurts, it physically hurts to stay still, but I’m done with this.

  Just let me die.

  “Sit up!” my father screams, pounding his fists so close to my legs and rattling the table. My body jolts as I stare at his face, bright red as he spits, “Sit the fuck up!”

  He grips my shoulders with a bruising force and rips me up so quickly my ass lifts off the table and for a moment I think he’ll throw me off. Maybe into the old walnut cupboards. But he doesn’t. Thump, thump, thump, my heart races, but I push down the fear.

  There’s nothing he can do to me anymore.

  There’s nothing left to take.

  My shoulders shake uncontrollably, making me feel even weaker as he looks me in the eyes and reaches into his back pocket. It’s a wrinkled polaroid picture, and I can’t help how my eyes dart to it and then to his face. I wait, still as stone and cold as one too as he flicks it with his fingers, not showing me fully and teasing me with it.

  I don’t know what it could be. Really anything, I suppose. Whatever it is, it’s a threat and it won’t work. There’s nothing more threatening than simply living at this point.

  He flicks it again and the thwack of the paper just annoys me. My teeth grind together as I slowly turn away from him. It doesn’t matter. Whatever he has to threaten me with, I don’t care. It’ll all be over soon.

  My throat seems to clench, painfully scraping as I take in a sharp breath. The sight of my father’s hand so close to my face prepares me for the inevitable blow. But it doesn’t come. It’s only when he takes a step away that I finally look down at my lap. The photo is face down against my worn dirtied jeans and I almost don’t pick it up.

  Almost. But the curiosity is too strong.

  I flip it over, prepared for the worst, but my forehead scrunches when I realize what it is.

  It’s just a girl. Huddled into a small ball, her t-shirt and jeans are dirty like she’s been dragged through the mud. Her sneakers are still on her as well. It takes a moment for me to understand what I’m seeing, but when I do, my heart stops beating right. She’s in my room. That cement floor is the same floor I was just sleeping on.

  She’s in the punishment room.

  “Get her out,” I say and the words are pushed through my lips the second they reach me as a thought. I will my tired body to move, but my father’s quicker than I am. So fast that the back-hand smacks against my cheek and mouth, splitting my lip open and flinging my head backward. My body flails as I attempt to stay on the raised metal table, but my fingers slip along the smooth metal and I fall. I stumble down on the ground, my side hitting the knob of a cupboard on the way down and my elbow landing hard on the linoleum floor.

  I suck in a breath between clenched teeth, but remain still on the floor. Not daring to move from my awkward position. Another lesson my father has taught me well.

  My heart races in my chest, feeling as though it’s trying to get away. Trying to go to her. But I stay still.

  I need to listen. “Don’t hurt her,” I say the words in a hoarse voice but it’s nothing but a plea. A pathetic plea that will fall on deaf ears. “Please,” I add weakly and hang my head.

  I don’t want her hurt. No one should ever go into that room. It’s a place for nightmares and monsters. Maybe my father should be locked away in that cell. But not her.

  I chance a peek up at my father, watching as he nods slightly and then runs his fingers over his jawline. His knuckles are split from striking me and the knowledge makes me smile slightly. But I hide it. The tip of my tongue runs along the cut on my lip as I look down and away, trying to remember every detail of the girl on the floor.

  “Is she okay?” I dare to ask him.

  “Fine,” he says gruffly, stopping in his tracks and walking toward me. He has to shove the table to the side in the narrow kitchen to bend down close to me. Again his scent drifts toward me, and this time it’s stronger. So strong I nearly vomit, but I hold it back.

  “She’s going to be good. I already know that,” he says and I can feel his eyes on me. Waiting for a reaction and my response.

  Whatever I do, I need to save her from this fate. I take a steadying breath, making sure I don’t react in the least. I just need to get to her.

  “Do you want to see her?” my father asks. “I got her for you.”

  Finally, my eyes reach his and my chest rises with a disbelieving breath.

  “All you have to do is listen. And she’s yours.” I watch as the smile slowly stretches across his face as he adds, “Listen to me and she stays safe.”

  Chapter 3

  I want to get closer to her, but I stay right where I am.

  I can see she’s breathing, and that’s what matters right now.

  Listen to me and she stays safe. My father’s words echo in my head repeatedly as I wait for her to awaken. I was desperate to get in here. I needed to see her to protect her, but with every second that passes… I start to hate her.

  I was so ready to give in. So ready to end all this shit. And now, because of her, my fate is worse than it’s ever been.

  Yet, so much better.

  My fingers itch to push her hair away from her face. She’s young; younger than me, I’m sure. She’s pretty in a traditional sense. Her hair is ruffled though, and she needs to be taken care of.

  There’s a scratch on her cheek, like a scrape more than a scratch I guess.

  My back leans against the cinder block wall, and it’s cold and hard, but it’s giving me stability. The thing I hate most about this situation, is that I’m still helpless.

  There used to be ointment in the medicine cabinet. The mirror has a patina from where you have to grip the edge to open it. But in the old mirror cabinet, there was an ointment for scratches. I don’t know if there is now.

  A weak humorless smile makes the corner of my lip twitch as I pick at the frayed end of my jeans. I can’t even get her something for the scrape.

  Pathetic.

  That hasn’t changed in the least.

  She doesn’t know though. She doesn’t know anything beyond these walls. I lean my head back, tearing my eyes away from her for the first time since I’ve been let back in.

  She doesn’t know. And she needs someone to protect her, even if it is only just enough to prevent a worse fate. Surely, it’ll be enough?

  For her. My teeth grind together and my knuckles turn white as I ball them into fists.

  It better be enough. It has to be. It’s all
I have to offer, and now she’s changed everything.

  Chapter 4

  Robin

  My head hurts so badly. Why does it hurt so much? I try to push myself upright, and the ground is so cold and hard. It’s so uncomfortable, but my head is too heavy and I slump against the ground.

  Where am I?

  I try to remember where I was. The sound of the carousel shrieking as it slowly turned from the wind blowing filters through my memory. The empty swings sway back and forth. The school playground is deserted. I thought everyone would be here today. But it’s empty. The first day of summer and not a soul is here.

  I remember how I looked up and the sun was far off in the distance, but still in the sky. Didn’t they know we still had time to play? I’m younger than most of the kids, only twelve, but even the older ones usually play with me.

  I sat on the swings for a while, I remember that. As the pounding in my head throbs harder I remember how the metal chains twisted and I let myself twirl on the swings over and over. I could wait for the other kids. I was sure they’d show up.

  Did they?

  I squint, trying to remember and I turn my head. My palms brush against the concrete floor, my cheek flat against the hard floor.

  There was a man. He had a golf club and he needed my help. I remember how lost he looked. He said he hit his last ball into the trees and he couldn’t reach into the bushes.

  My heartbeat quickens as I remember, and my body goes still.

  I knew to tell him a lie. I knew to turn around and run when he tried to take my hand in his. But he looked so hurt when I tried to pull away. He was genuinely upset, and all he did was ask me to help him.