As he stared down at the trembling girl, a thousand memories swirled through his head. Joan's screams as Matthew dragged her down to the basement. Her back afterward, bloody and covered in welts from the belt. Her hand on his arm, rubbing softly as she comforted him after a nightmare. Her tears as the social worker dragged her into the building, never to let her out. But he had found her this time. At last. He was sure of it. The others were mistakes. He was wrong then. But he wasn't now. He knew it. Bending down, he caught the woman's chin. "Joan. Joan, it's okay. It's okay, Joan. You don't have to be afraid. No one's going to hurt you anymore. I promise." He wiped the tears from the woman's eyes. "Ssh. It's okay."
The girl shook her head, pulling away. "I'm not Joan," she whispered.
"What?" His fingers tightened around her arms. "What do you mean, you're not Joan? Of course you are!"
Again she shook her head. "No, I'm not. I'm sorry. Please, just let me go. Please." She tugs on her arm. "I won't say anything. I promise."
"Yes, you are. You just don't remember, maybe. All the drugs they gave you at that hospital." He spoke quickly, his words punctuated with curses. "You are Joan. Let me help you remember."
The girl shook her head. "I'm not."
"Yes, you are. Who are your voices?"
"I'm not!" The girl's voice rose.
"Who were your voices?" His fingers bit into her arms.
"I don't know!" The girl's voice rose to a shriek.
Bending down, he stared at her, peering into her eyes. She was telling the truth. He could see it. She wasn't Joan. He had failed. Again. With a muffled growl, he struck the girl on the back of the head with a rock. Catching her as she fell, he dragged her down the street.