"Young lady."

I drew in a shaky breath. Everything in my mind was crashing.

"Please. We're not mad at you. We just want to know what's going on. We want to know how we can help."

You can't help. It's just not possible.

But did I hate my foster parents? No. I didn't want to hurt them. But I definitely didn't connect with them very well, nor did I like them a lot.

But I hadn't shared any of my gruesome memories with anyone. I wasn't ready to share it with two people who hadn't known me for that long.

"It's... too hard to explain."

Of course, they only looked more curious.

"We know your parents are in jail," my foster mother said softly. "But we don't know why. If you have any emotional trauma connected to the incident, as your foster parents, we are obliged to help."

No. No mental therapy. Please.

I really wasn't ready for this. I'd never shared this with anyone. It hurt too much.

I didn't know how long I had been living in the basement. Weeks, maybe even months. I ate nothing but moldy food and drank disgusting water.

I wondered what my life was even about. Doing nothing. Living in fear. And then there was the torture.

The pain that almost broke my back. The pain that tore my skin.

He would visit me every day. Throw things at me. Spit colorful words at me. He did everything he could to make my already miserable life worse.

And then there was Liam.

A boy who only added to my pain. Screaming about how I was a murderer.

I scoffed at the thought of ever forgiving him. It's impossible.