A bright light is being shined directly into my eyes. Usually, I'd squint. Use my hand as shade against the blinding sun. But not now. Now I do nothing. I'm numb. Completely and utterly numb. They say it's the alcohol I consumed but I know it's not. Gut-wrenching sadness is stronger than any drug.

"She won't tell us her name," one of the officers says. She's in my line of sight but I'm not looking at her. I'm looking through her. Staring at everything but seeing nothing.

They found me curled up in a ball, laying in shards of glass and my own vomit. I don't know when I threw up. Whether it was seconds after I shattered the window or hours. All I know is that time stopped at that moment, and it hasn't started again since.

"You're lucky the homeowners weren't in." An officer pulls a chair over so he's sitting in front of me. It's a man this time. I think he's saying something else. His mouth's moving but I don't hear any words.

It feels like I'm floating in the sea again, all the noises around me turned down to a whisper.

"I am the homeowner," I mumble, letting him lay my hand on his lap. "How can I break into my own home?"

He smiles tightly. "That's what we're trying to figure out."

I see him dab at the cuts littering my palms, but I don't feel it. I didn't even realize they were there until now. The shattered glass they found me sitting in must have broken my skin. The wipe comes away filthy with dirt and blood. I just blink.

"Is there anyone we can contact? A parent, maybe."

"No," I swallow. "He can't see me like this."

He cleans the grazed skin around the cuts with something. An antiseptic, maybe. It blurs in and out of focus every time I blink, making it hard to tell.

"He. Is that your dad?" He asks. His voice is gentle as if he's approaching a fragile animal that could stumble away at any second. Even if I tried, my legs wouldn't let me.

I shrug.

"Listen, we can't help you if you don't tell us your name. You don't really want to spend hours in here with us boring police officers, do you? They might make us look good on the shows, but I promise, a police station isn't a fun place."

He stops patting my hand dry to meet my gaze. His eyes are green, just like my mother's.

"I don't want help," I rasp.

"Are you sure about that?"

When I don't answer, he goes back to focusing on my hand. He wraps a dressing around the broken skin, pulling on it every so often to make sure it's tight enough. All the while, he watches me. For what? I don't know. But staring into his emerald, green eyes feels familiar. Safe.

"Scarlett," I start, swallowing the lump in my throat. "My name's Scarlett. Scarlett Reed."