I waited, once again, in these cold, hard, uncomfortable chairs. I hated this place. It always reminded me of the past. A past I'd tried so hard to forget, but deep down, I knew I could never forget her. I would never leave her behind. I made her that promise five years ago, and I wasn't going to break it now.

I looked up to someone calling my name, it was the doctor, only the best for my beautiful girl.

"Follow me."

I nodded, slowly getting up, walking next to the older man.

"She's been doing okay."

"How 'okay'?"

"The night terrors have become less frequent, she's become more sociable," A pause, "she's made a few friends, actually."

I smiled, it was was good to know she'd been doing better.

We walked down the long, white, torturous hallway, making our way to the end, making a right to reach her secluded room. I know I mentioned that I hate this place as a whole, but did I say how much I hate this hallway? The walls taunt me, reminding me with each step, each mind-numbing click of the heel on my stilettos, just how much I had walked these halls over the years.

We stopped at a doorway, the doctor used his keycard to let us into my own personal hell.

"It's room one twent-"

I gritted my teeth.

"You think I don't know the room number?"

"No, I just-"

"Listen to me. You are only here because you're the best. Not because I decided that it would be fun to spend my days in this place and certainly not because I like you, you prick."

The dark-haired man, only a few years older than I, looked stunned. I never voiced my opinion on the man; just imagined the many ways I could castrate him as he hit on me or even just tried to be nice to me.

I walked to the familiar room, opening the door, turning off the automatic lock so I could get back out.

I looked at the yearbook that was placed in my girlfriend's lap.

"Hello."

She picked up the book, pointing to a picture, "Hey! It's you!"

"Yeah, it's me."

"You're really pretty."

I smiled, "You're not so bad yourself."

"You don't think I'm pretty?"

I always forgot that there were some things she'd never understand again.

"Of course I do, sweetie. You're beautiful."

She blushed, looking down, "Really? You think I'm beautiful?"

"Absolutely."

"Ashley, right?"

"Yeah."

"You want to color?"

"Sure, can I have the blue?"

"You always ask for the blue."

I let out a light laugh, "It's my favorite color."

She always remembered that one little fact; she never remembered my name or my face simply because she knew me. That damn yearbook was her memory.

We colored for about an hour, talking, until I had to go.

Before I left for the day, I asked, "What's your favorite color?"

She smiled, "Hazel. Weird, right?"

"Yeah," A sad smile came across my face, "weird."

I nodded my head, walking out the door.

I let the tears fall down, wetness coating my cheeks.

When she first came here, after Clay died, the doctors told us that she sent herself back to when she was eight, when Clay first came into their family. When everything was good. When their family was together, no pieces of it chipped away. Before they moved to Los Angeles. Before prom. Before the fucked up drive-by. Before me.