A girl sat in bed, her forehead glazed with perspiration. She looked down at her lap where a long thin blade lay, nestled in the folds of the blanket draped over her knees. She stared at it for a long moment and slowly, carefully, almost reverently, she slid her finger down the flat of the blade, eyes closed as she pondered on some distant memory. Suddenly her eyes flew open and she lifted up her finger. A small scarlet bead of blood quivered at the mouth of the cut on the tip of her finger. Without warning, tears spilt forth, blurring all her surroundings. Almost immediately she found herself remembering, remembering things that were better off forgotten.

--

The screaming wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't.

'Kaye! Kaye!'

She tried to stop it. She really did. She tried blocking it out, jamming her fingers into her ears but it had little effect. She held the mini radio to her ear at the highest volume but the screaming pierced through the white noise.

'Kaye! Kaye! Help me!'

The screaming grew more desperate than ever. It grated on her every nerve, searing though her blood. She was so scared, so afraid.

She scrambled underneath the bed. 'Please!' she wailed, 'stop! Please stop!'

With her hands over her ears, curled up in a fetal position, she murmured to herself over again, the exact same words the now feeble screams pleaded. Together in perfect harmony, they whispered.

'Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please…'

It was the dull throbbing in her head that woke her. She sat up. It was morning. The small bedroom was bathed with the soft glow of the sun and she had almost forgotten what had happened the day before. She looked around. She was on her bed. But she vaguely remembered…something…it just wasn't right. As the throbbing took on a new height of intensity, she got up and left the bedroom. As she descended, she tripped on the last step and fell. But someone caught her. She looked up. A policeman peered down at her.

'You okay?' Kaye didn't respond. She was too tired and confused. There were three others standing at the threshold of the kitchen. They were solemn, talking in low voices. What happened, she wondered, why are they here?

She pulled herself away from the officer and walked around. The entire living room was in a mess. Her mother's favourite chair had been smashed against the wall where it left a deep indentation, like a scar. The dining table had been overturned, one of its legs missing. But it was in the kitchen where distressing signs appeared.

A huge quantity of blood had found its way into the sink, where it formed a crusty layer that caked the bottom and sides. Still uncomprehending, she followed a series of blood splatters across the kitchen floor and she got down onto her knees and crawled, following them as they led her through the kitchen out the back door…

She had barely reached the back door when she was pulled to her feet and led back to the living room without her consent. She struggled a little, trying to break free of the vice-like grip that held her. She couldn't understand why, but she felt that to understand, she needed to open the back door, needed to see what was behind it, what it was hiding from her.

But they didn't allow her to see it. She was steered towards the front door where another policeman was standing. He seemed more senior than the other officers, more weathered and respected. He greeted her with an outstretched hand which she reluctantly accepted. He offered her a seat next to him on the bench where one would sit down to put on shoes. Dazed, she sat down.

Before he could even get a word out of his mouth, she asked him.

'Where's my mom?'

He closed his mouth and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

'Ah, you see…' He had hardly begun when she interrupted him again.

'Where's my dad?'

He leaned forward and opened his mouth, paused and closed his mouth.

'We don't really know… I don't how to tell you this… okay, your father… we don't know where he is but we're trying to find him. But your mother… she…' He stopped, unsure of how to continue. He looked at the girl whose face stared expectantly at his own, searching for answers and was overwhelmed with sadness that comes when one stares young suffering in the eye. He looked down at his hands, searching for a way to break the news to the girl in front of him.

'My mom died, didn't she?'

It was more of a statement than a question.

He looked up, startled. Her deep green gaze met his with an alarming strength behind it. 'Did she?' she asked more forcefully. They locked gazes for a moment, then hesitantly, feeling very unnerved, he nodded. Without a word, she got up and went back upstairs. He heard the door slam and buried his face into his hands.

--

Years had passed. The neighborhood had gotten over the gruesome and shocking murder that shattered the Donnelly household. Before that however, with the rest of the estate looking on, Keisha Donnelly had attended her mother's funeral and before a week was up, her father's. After being chased across three states, he finally gave himself up. Dead. He had committed suicide. Keisha had turned up at both their funerals, dark, silent, strong and armed with maturity far beyond her seven years of age. But that was eight years ago. The world had lost interest; they had more important worries to tackle. Gradually, she was left to cope with the loss alone. The flow of sympathy and fake tears from strangers had ceased.

In the course of those eight years, Keisha passed through the hands of seven orphanages and nine foster homes, half of these stays lasting less than six months. The complaints were almost identical; she was too quiet, disturbed. She was even described by some as 'freaky'. Even the more tolerant ones said she scared the others with her eeriness, her loneliness and the way she talked to herself and burst into tears for no apparent reason. Eventually it was concluded that she was in need of psychological help. But she rejected every counselor so violently that that too was stopped.

No one came looking for her; it seemed that she was alone in the world, the last of her family. Just as she was about to resign herself to being a permanent orphan, a couple turned up. They loved children, had three of their own. After having the third child however, the woman was rendered sterile due to complications during the birth. But they still wanted more. After hearing about Keisha's background, the decision was made; she would come to live with the Mackenzie's.

--

She ascended the stairs as quietly as she could. She wanted to catch her at it, wanted to be sure. She crept up to the door and proceeded to fling the door open. The room was dark; the lights were off again. She heard a drawer slam shut. She groped around for the light switch, found it and flicked it on. As the lights flickered to life, she caught sight of a crouching figure under the study desk.

'Aha,' she thought, 'there you are.' She strode over and stooped so that she was level with the figure. A pair of eyes that were a shade of green that reminded her of the ocean glared out at her from the gloom. 'Come on,' she grunted and heaved her daughter out from beneath. She sat her daughter down next to her on the bed, flipped her daughter's hand over-so that it faced her palm up- and rolled up the sleeve of the pullover. On the wrist were long deep slits oozing blood, blushing an angry shade of red. She sighed; her suspicions were confirmed.

'You don't believe in knocking I suppose.' Keisha said, her voice soft, cold and hard like ice.

'Look, Keisha. This is not good for you. This cutting…thing you do… it just causes you more pain…you've had enough… Don't you think so?' No reply was forth coming as Keisha continued to stare at the ground. Nellie Mackenzie put an arm around her daughter and gave her a little shake as if hoping to jiggle some response out of her. If that was her goal, she not succeeded. Anxiety growing within her, she lifted her hand and ran her hand gently through Keisha's dark hair.

'Keisha… what's wrong? Why can't you tell us how we can help you? It's been ten years already hon. Ten years!' she waved her free hand around vigorously as if it would make her point clearer 'surely you think it's time to get over it…'

It was the wrong thing to say. Keisha leapt to her feet, turning to face her startled foster parent.

'You look here,' she growled. Flames of fury danced about, blazing with outrage. 'How dare you! How dare you tell me that it is time for me to move on. How dare you! How dare you…' Her voice dropped to dangerous hushed tones. 'Did you, for a single moment, think that you could take the place of my parents? My dad? My mom? Did you?' By now, her voice had risen to shrieking. She then threw back her head and let out a shrill cry that didn't stop. She let herself go, not stopping even when her terrified guardian ran out of the room. She finally petered out when she collapsed, exhausted, onto her bed. She stretched out, gasping for air, tears running down her face. Hoarse sobs choked their way out of her.

'Kaye! Kaye!'

She closed her eyes. Whatever she did, she still couldn't block it out.

'Kaye! Kaye! Please help me!

It had happened so many years ago…yet she still could not drown out the guilt… guilt that she hadn't helped her real mother… had tried to shut out the screams even when they called out her name. All she had done was hide under the bed and let her mother die.

'Please! Please stop! Please stop. Please stop…'

And in the end she had given up, had stopped calling for her. Her dying screams were instead for her husband, the man she had pledged to share her life with, to stop and spare her, to have mercy. But no one listened.

Keisha opened the top drawer and fumbled around for her blade. Once she found it, she gripped it tightly, not caring that it cut into her fingers. She pushed her sleeve up and began slashing viciously at her wrist. Each time the blade met her delicate skin sharp stinging pain rushed up her arm and she welcomed it, each cut flooding her with relief from the other pain which the invisible wound brought, a pain that was harder to erase, a wound that was harder to heal. Feeling strangely satisfied, eyes closed, she brought the blade down hard for the final stroke. But right at that moment, her blade was yanked out of her hand and was flung across the room.

Surprised, she opened her eyes.

'Ohmigod!' she exclaimed, 'Who the hell are you?'

She found herself facing a boy, settled down on his haunches, staring at her. Judging from his face, he was about her age, give or take a year. He ignored her question and lifted her wrist, examining it. Still a little stunned, Keisha yanked her arm away from his grasp and pulled her sleeve down over her cuts.

'Erm, I haven't had much experience myself, er, but won't that hurt once it dries up? He grimaced.

'What do you want?' she demanded, trying to regain some control of the situation.

'Miss Krasky asked me to pass this to you.' He held out a sheet of paper. She took it and read it. It was a form informing parents about a field trip overseas to New Zealand. She immediately tore it into halves, then quarters, and threw them into the bin.

'I take it that you don't like field trips then…'

She slanted him a look.

'What's it to you anyway'

'Well… you did rip the… never mind. I think I should get going.' He got up to leave. His hand was on the doorknob. He turned, 'I really think that you should get that washed.' She stared at him blankly. 'Just a suggestion.' He said, did a little bow and left.

She stared at the closed door, glanced at her arm, and headed to the bathroom.

--

--

School was always some sort of problem to Keisha, not academically but socially. She had been enrolled into Macmillian High for a year already, yet she had no friends to speak of. Now a quarter way through the second year, she had doubts that there would be changes in that aspect. The start of a new term never made her excited. It just bored her. Her classmates were all over each other, talking; each clique gossiping about their interests. Keisha smiled. She always had fun with the gossip mill. At the start of the year, just for her own amusement, she had accidentally-on-purpose dropped a box of condoms in the hallway, giving her classmates an eyeful. Rumors about her spread and the tales grew wilder. When she had finally caught up with it, it was said that she had boyfriends from every class in her grade but they never let themselves be seen with her for fear of catching her disease. The disease that leaves you isolated like a leper of the school community.

She sauntered to the back of the classroom five minutes before the bell. No one paid any attention to her; she was rarely visible to them. Without a glance she threw her bag at her usual seat. She heard a 'thump', 'ouch' and muttered swearing. She whirled around.

'It's you again!'