I don't know these people. I've seen them before, in a store with Dad maybe, but I don't know them. I don't recognize the chubby dad, the pretty mom, or the little daughter. They have pieces of me, though. The dad's eyes are mine, blue like the ocean. The mom and daughter both have my blonde hair that stops just past the shoulders. The little girl has my nose. She and the man have my mouth.

I don't know these people. Maybe I did at one point, but not anymore. The memory is just beyond my grasp. It teases me. They tease me. I don't like being teased. I wanna cry, or scream, or do anything. I don't wanna let them tease me with their familiarity.

I don't want their food. I don't want the grilled cheese sandwich on my plate or the tomato soup in the bowl next to it. It looks good with its perfect golden crispiness and gooey cheddar. It's even cut into triangles. But I don't want it. It smells like a wet and dead raccoon hidden under the porch after a summer rainstorm.

Would they hate me for asking for something else? I can't touch this. It's not what I need, what I crave. They wouldn't understand. I should just keep my mouth shut and go hungry. Or I should stomach it like a good girl. Maybe they'll let me go back to Dad if I eat their food. If I'm a good girl.

"Not hungry, honey?" the mom asks. My eyes are stuck on my food. I can't look at her. I can't disappoint her.

"No, it looks good," I tell her, my quivering hands reaching for the sandwich.

"It's okay, Sissy," the girl says, sweet. "You don't gotta eat it."

But I do. It's this or...

"We know it's not what you want," the dad says. My hands stop, my fingertips caressing the edge. My eyes, filling with tears, rise to meet him.

His throat is gone, the flesh ripped open and gushing down his front. His face, though, is calm. The others are no different. I can feel their blood on my face, dripping from my chin down onto the pure porcelain plate. My red hands stain the tablecloth as I push myself away from the table. They smirk. I weep.

"Time to wake up, sweetheart," he says.

I do.

Dad's head pokes through the doorway, his pleasant smile easing the nightmare still playing in my mind. The wrinkles, light as they are, show in his smile. My face gives something away, and his smile is replaced by worry.

"Did you have the bad dream again?" he asks. I nod. He sighs and comes into my room, sitting on the edge of the pink blankets. "I'm sorry. It'll go away in time, I promise." He offers his smile again.

"Thanks, Dad," I breathe. "Sooner rather than later, right?"

"The less you think about it, the sooner it'll go away," he says with a forehead kiss. "Focus on other things. Like our morning routine," he suggests, getting up and making his way to the door. "Be ready in a few, okay?"

I nod again and he's gone.

Routine. I can do this.

Brush hair. Pick out clothes. Check phone. Answer texts, especially Henry's. Tell him I'll get on the computer after my shower. Shower. Brush hair again. Put my hair in a high pony. Put on a pink tee and jeans. Head down the hall to the computer room. Tell Dad. Sign into chat. Click on the Henry's name as it flashes on the screen. Begin.

Henry and I go through the standard excitement to see each other online again. Within a minute, a face appears on my screen. Bags under the eyes, cheeks with light stubble, a chipped front tooth in his smile. His hair, like always, falls down the sides of his face. The low light makes his hair look darker than it is in the photos he's sent me. His torso is exposed, as usual, showing off his average body.

My own face pops up in the bottom right corner of the screen. The room isn't too well-lit either, but I'm visible enough. Henry never complains about it. I'm used to the compliments he gives, calling me cute and whatnot. He expresses his desire to meet up, as he has done so many times before. I repeat it back.

Henry stands up. I force a smile, bite my lip. He angles himself so I can get a full view, then sits back down. He asks if I like his little present. I fight back bile as I say I do. He presses me to meet. I agree. He gives me the address for a hotel, and we sign off. My smiles and faux excitement evaporate in the instant I slump back against the chair. Dad peeks into the room, a serious look in his eyes.

We're in the car a few minutes later. My eyes can't focus on anything outside the window.

"Does it have to be this way every time?" My voice fizzles. I almost don't want to ask. But if it can change, it must.

"No." It's grave, certain.

The corners of my mouth curl into a weak smirk. A warmth breathes through me for a moment, but all is cold once more in the same second.

"But it's the most effective way."

I shouldn't have asked.

My stomach groans. That regular pain, often subtle, flares. I wince and hug my middle.

"Soon, sweetheart," Dad coos, reaching over to stroke my head. The sound changes him when it comes again, melts his ice. "Just gotta get through the first part, okay? Can you hold on until then? You're so strong."

I take a deep breath and nod. The sting in me fades, but remains in the background. He wants me to say something, to acknowledge his optimism. He wants me to tell him how I'm his good, strong girl and I believe in the Act. He wants me to say anything so he knows I'm alright.

"Okay." It's so soft I wonder if it was even aloud.

He strokes my cheek. Tears blur my vision. Tissues are in my hand as soon as the sharp inhale breaches the silence between us. I wipe away the wetness as best as I can.

I hate the red.

The hotel, or motel as the sign out front says, is in a seedy part of town. A couple lampposts in the parking lot have burned out. A nearby building is boarded up. I hold myself together by sheer force of will and head to number six. The lights inside are on, and the curtain shifts. The door pops open a moment later. Henry waves me in.

The room doesn't look dirty. Then again, they never do. But I know it is. I saw a video on it once. A guy took a blacklight to the bedding, the floor, everything. There were so many stains. I almost threw up when I watched it. I wish I could vomit now. Maybe that would ruin things. Maybe Henry wouldn't want me. Maybe Dad would finally stop making me do this.

But I can't. I have to make Dad proud. I have to be good. I have to be with Henry, if at least for a little while.

My stomach growls again once the door clicks shut. Henry slides the lock on. No interruptions. No escaping. No turning back.

"You didn't eat when you got home?" he asks from behind me. I can feel him taking in all of me. I can feel him wanting me.

"N-no," I mumble. "Wanted to talk to you." I fake a smile as he comes into view. He smells like some kind of wild animal. Dirty fur.

"We'll get some grub in a bit," he suggests with a genuine grin. "If ya want."

He's not as tall as I thought. His hair looks clean and wet. He probably just took a shower. It would explain the bare chest and feet. The thought of his bare feet on the indescribable invisible mess brings a dry bile to my mouth. It's almost rusty, metallic.

I can't look at him. He bends down and tries to meet my eyes, but I find the carpet instead of his gaze.

"What's wrong, Jess?" He can't hide the smirk in his tone, the humor that tickles him. "You seemed so excited earlier."

"I am." I hate forcing this god-awful smile for him, but I plaster it on. "Just kinda shy, ya know? Nervous."

His hand finds my shoulder. The animal scent gets stronger at his touch. I want to rip his damn arm off.

"It's okay. You've never done this before. It's kinda nerve-wracking. But you're so strong, so beautiful...

"You smell like moonlight," he whispers.

Henry's mouth finds my neck. His fingers find the button on my jeans. The bed sheets find my bare skin. My lips find something sweet. My eyes find Henry next to me. His find the ceiling and judgment.

Dad doesn't take long getting to the room once I call. He marvels at how clean it was, how good I did. He allows me to shower while he takes care of the body.

My stomach doesn't hurt anymore.