My short story Burnt Memories serves as a prologue to this chapter, though it isn't absolutely neccesary that you read it. It might just help make some things more understandable.
XxxDo
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Amy leaned forward, her elbows resting on the smoothly painted windowsill before her, and rested her heavy head in cupped hands. The skin of her right hand was rough against her chin, as it bore the marks of an old burn. She was exhausted, barely able to keep her eyelids from slowly drifting shut. Despite the almost nauseating fatigue she couldn’t bring herself to take a shower, or even change into her pajamas.
Nine years after the night her father died to save her life she still suffered anxiety episodes, fearing that if she fell asleep, she’d awaken in the smoldering heat of a fire, and that this time it would be her who succumbed to the fire’s many treacherous attributes. There had been many months during which she slept soundly, the fear pushed aside into the farthest corner of her mind, nearly but not quite forgotten. And then there had been many nights like these, where her apprehension pushed her over the edge, keeping her mind awake while her body begged for rest.
Amy remembered every detail, every smell, and every scorching wave of heat from that night. However oddly, the fire itself was etched more deeply into her mind that the moment where she was told she’d lost her father. It seemed somehow distant, as though the nurses held the hand of another little girl, explaining why her pleas to see her Daddy had gone unanswered. It almost felt like she’d drifted over the situation, watching as the heart of a child was ripped right out of her chest. The apologetic, maybe pitiful frowns of the nurses, their hushed, friendly voices, and their promises that it would all be all right stayed with her in her memory, but most of all she saw the child. The expression filled with incomprehension and fear, the wide eyes set in a soot-covered, and the tears that cleared pale paths down her cheeks.
The child was the work of her imagination, as she hadn’t seen herself in the mirror when it happened. It was what her mind filled in to make the even feel less confronting, to create a barrier between her and the reality of his death. To separate her from the child whose misfortune was so real. The hospital staff had been kind enough to hand her the photo her father kept in his pocket during the fall. The snapshot of her deceased mother, snatched off a burning bookshelf by her father’s strong hands. Amy had fully understood the concept of death, remembering immediately the vacant space in her heart where her mother had once resided, and was inconsolable for three days. Lying in a hospital bed, small against the white covers and pillows, she’d stared at the ceiling without eating, drinking, or responding to anyone’s presence.
The doctors had hooked her up to an IV, keeping her hydrated and healthy, as they treated and bandaged her burnt hand thrice a day. Finally they’d decided she was ready to go home, and their desperate search for relatives uncovered her estranged grandmother on her mother’s side. A cold woman, she was, ruined by the death of her daughter. Eight days after the tragic death of her Daddy, Amy was sent into the foster care system. It had taken Amy years to forgive Elle Tenney, her grandmother, for giving her up. The woman was bitter, but financially and physically able of caring for a child. Maybe Elle wouldn’t have been able to provide her with the love a young child needs, but at least she would’ve lived with someone she could call family. She wasn’t mad any longer, but that was because it was rather complicated being mad at the dead.
She sighed, her tired eyes scanning the silent street outside her window. The streetlights threw puddles of daytime onto the pavement, the bright circles contrasting strongly with the darkness above. With mild interest she let her gaze follow a figure that staggered along the sidewalk opposite her, his mobility definitely impaired by either alcohol or drugs. The person bent over and emptied his stomach onto the street tiles, right before the front door of the Rogers family. Amy crinkled her nose in disgust, though a hint of a smile played around the corners of her lips. Mr. Rogers, a man she wasn’t very fond of, wouldn’t be too pleased when he opened his door in the morning.
“Amy?”
She turned, straitening up. Despite being dressed in silk blue pajamas, her brown hair tangled and her eyes half-closed, Amy’s foster mom still looked like the kind of person you’d run to for refuge. A mother bird who could keep you warm and safe under her wings. Her tired face radiated kindness, and the green, drowsy eyes were affectionate and sincere. “Sweetheart, it’s one in the morning… what are you doing?”
“I can’t sleep.” Amy shrugged, leaning her back against the windowsill and folding her arms. She glanced down, hoping Elizabeth wouldn’t comment on the fact that she still wore her daily dress. “I keep thinking about… about that night…”
“Oh honey…” Elizabeth moved into the room, softly shutting the door before walking over to her stepdaughter. Amy was as much a child of hers as her biological son Myles, and she couldn’t bear seeing the fair, sixteen-year-old face torn by grief and fear. She knew exactly what the girl had been through, and had done all she could over the years to allow Amy to express her feelings and mourn her parent’s deaths. On the wall above her bed hung an enlarged version of the only picture she had of her mother.
Amy knew there had been more, and was certain her father planned to reveal them to her when she grew older, but they’d all been lost in the blaze, reduced to ashes by one of nature’s cruelest destructive elements. She kept the original snapshot in her diary, tightly positioned between the cover and the first page, to protect it from damage. It was, after all, the only physical connection between her mother, father, and her.
Opening her arms wide, Elizabeth ushered Amy into a loving embrace, rocking gently from side to side. Amy rested her head against her stepmothers’ shoulder, allowing her arms to fall into place around Elizabeth. She couldn’t say that she wasn’t lucky with the way her life turned out, because she’d ended up in the best foster home she could have ever wished for. After three years of trial and error, of being shepherded into and out of countless homes, they’d decided to let her live with the Moore family. When it had dawned on Amy that she wouldn’t be shipped off again, she began to connect with her new ‘mother’ and ‘father’, building up a strong bond of love and friendship with them and their son, who was only five months older than she was.
Elizabeth released her and stepped back, her gaze drifting across the spacious room. “Amy, dear, please do not torture yourself any longer. Change into these-” she stepped aside to retrieve Amy’s pajamas, handing them to her. “Go to bed, Amy, it’s late. Or, technically, early in the morning. You need your sleep, you’ll make yourself sick by staying up so late all the time.”
“I know, I just…” Amy fell silent, furrowing her brow into an anguished frown. “I prefer standing here staring out the window to lying in bed watching the ceiling. I know I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Sweetheart, with that mindset your brain will keep your body awake.” Elizabeth said, sinking down onto Amy’s desk chair. Amy gave a short sound of amusement. “Actually, I think my body will fall asleep soon, out of sheer exhaustion, and force my brain to rest.”
“Possibly, but either way it isn’t healthy. I hope you understand that you’re going to have to handle this situation. We can’t have you being fatigued the time, it isn’t good for you, and it isn’t the way a teenager is meant to live. At your age you’re supposed to be filled to the brim with energy.”
“Yea.” Amy folded her pajamas over her arm, staring down at them. “I guess I’ll go to bed, then.”
“Good choice, Amy.” Elizabeth rose to her bare feet, dragging Amy into another comfortable hug before heading for the door. “I’ll leave you sleep for a while in the morning, and tell the boys to be quiet.”
Amy smiled at her, never ceasing to be amused by her stepmother’s tendency to call her husband and son ‘the boys’. No matter how many times she heard it, it always made her wonder if Elizabeth still saw her husband as the young man he’d once been. As soon as the white door swung shut in Elizabeth’s wake, the smile faded, and Amy blinked her tired eyes to keep back unshed tears.
Sometimes when she saw Myles she envied him, feeling profoundly jealous of the life he had with both his amazing parents alive. She watched in amazement as he argued with them, occasionally, yelling at his father as hard as Tom yelled at him. Amy never fought with them, save from the occasional mild disputes that any teenagers was minimally expected to have with their guardians. She couldn’t help but fear that if she became too much for them to handle, they’d send her away, like those families had done when she was still a child. She’d been largely nonresponsive and silent, and after a month or so, her stepparents would call the foster care bureau, and they’d come to pick her up again. She’d demanded to see her file last year, and had been shocked by the countless reports that had been written about her, claiming she was “distant and cold.” “possibly mentally troubled.” and “not a suitable addition to the family.” , to mention a few of the remarks.
Being brought to the Moore’s house was what saved her from a miserable life, bouncing from home to home without really settling in. They’d seen through the shield she’d built around her heart. After all, her parents had died on separate occasions, and with a childlike logic it wasn’t difficult to figure that those you love will die and abandon you. Elizabeth had talked to her, even when she didn’t say a word in return for the full length of the conversation, and finally became the key to unlock Amy from her self-imposed emotional prison.
There weren’t words to describe what she felt about Tom, Elizabeth and Myles, as she’d been accepted so faultlessly and lovingly that she doubted anyone could have ever done it better. She could recall exactly how Elizabeth’s face had lit up, and how her eyes had sparkled with pride as Amy called her ‘Mommy’ for the first time. She’d found a woman who loved being her mother, and essentially lived thanks to this unrelenting love and care.
She was well aware that it could’ve ended up being far less like a fairy-tale. It was only days ago that CNN news showed the photo of a smiling teenage boy called Zachary Wilde, a troubled child who’d been stabbed to death on the streets during a drug battle. The moment she saw his face a jolt of recognition fired through her nerves. Despite the age difference, she was certain that it was the friend she’d had for several months at one of the foster homes, whom she had lovingly called ‘Zacky’ when they were seven years old. The old friend she’d lost contact with when she was once again found ‘an unsuitable addition.’
She’d made a run for her room, finding his photo on the CNN website and saving it on her hard drive. There she’d sat, staring at the full-screen photo, shedding hundreds of tears over a boy she’d known for only six months. Elizabeth had the sense to wait until the sobbing diminished to heavy breaths, and came in to ask what was wrong. At the story she’d shaken her head sadly, her eyes taking in the boy’s warm smile.
The next morning, as Amy arrived at the breakfast table, a sheet of paper lay on top of her plate. She’d bent over it, examining the photo of two children who stood, their arms around each others shoulders, on a grass field, a soccer ball at their feet. It only took her a second to realize that it was Zachary and herself, and she lifted her eyes to meet Elizabeth’s. Her stepmother explained that she’d looked through Amy’s file and found where young Zachary’s life had crossed hers, and phoned the foster parents in search of a photograph.
Amy unbuckled her belt, dropping her jeans to the floor and kicking them off before pulling on the pajama pants. As she pulled her t-shirt over her head, she sensed someone’s gaze on her bare stomach, and struggled out of the fabric. She wasn’t sure what the odd sensation had been, but she knew what it had appeared to signify, and rapidly covered herself in a clean shirt. Walking to the window, she glanced outside, freezing in her tracks. A man stood in the center of the street, looking up at her, his hands dug into the pockets of his long, black coat. His face was lit only slightly by the streetlights, and she watched, her heart pounding in her ribcage, as he smiled and walked away.
I read the top wher eit said short story and my twin said "there's nothing short about it" lol
