Chapter 2

I woke up in an uncomfortable position, laying on something hard. People were talking all around me, but I couldn't open my eyes to see. My eyes felt like they were glued shut.

I finally was able to wrestle my eyelids open, and turned my head to the side. I winced at the pain it caused. My whole body felt sore and heavy. Lights flashed in the corners of my eyes, and people were standing behind a string of yellow tape, watching, their faces blending into one another. I tried to sit up, which I found harder to do then I would have thought.

A uniformed paramedic rushed over to me, trying to persuade me to lay back down, but I was persistent. I didn't want to go in the ambulance.

After a few minutes, a cop came over and talked to the paramedic. I looked around at all the commotion, taking in the scene. My third floor apartment faces the road, so I saw the window from where I was positioned on the gurney. The hallway window had no glass in it, as if something crashed into it. On the ground below the window, a lump laid under a blue tarp. The paramedic secured a brace around my broken wrist.

A few minutes later, the officer came over and politely helped me down from the gurney, escorting me to her car.

At the police station, officer Remy led me to a private office, where we could talk. She asked me questions, but at first, I refused to answer. She sighed, sitting in the chair across from me. Looking me straight in the face, she decided to try a new approach.

"He hurt you, didn't he. He did that to you, all those bruises." Her voice was soft and comforting. "Ray did that, didn't he?" I couldn't help but nod. She continued with a little smile. "I won't let him do that to you again. If you answer my questions, I'll be able to help you." I wasn't sure what to do. I was torn. I made a promise to never let myself trust anyone ever again. But this was against Him. He told me not to ever talk to the police, or he'd hurt me even worse. That one thought made my decision.

"Okay." She bombarded me with questions, mostly about His abusive ways. I explained how he beat me when I didn't do something fast enough, or good enough, or just when he wanted to. Then her questions started to get more personal.

"How old are you, sweetie?" Seventeen.

"What's your full name?" Aubrey Night.

"Where are your parents?" With this question, I hesitated.

I looked at her, for the first time since we sat down in this office. "My mother killed herself three years ago, and my father left us when I was a baby." I answered.

"Do you have any other family?"

"None that I know of." I looked out the big window, into the night. I knew what it was like, working at night and sleeping during the day, or not at all.

"Well, then, well have to look on your parent's will to see where to place you." My head snapped back to her, and my eyes narrowed.

"I can take care of myself." I muttered, dropping my gaze when I realized I was glaring at her. It wasn't her fault.

"I sure you can, but it's against the law." She left the room, leaving me to sit in the chair and wonder.

She was gone for hours. Some nice man brought me some hot chocolate and a warm jacket to put over my t-shirt and jeans, saying something about it being the middle of winter. I was pretty used to it already, washing the same pair of jeans and t-shirt over and over because they were the only close that fit me.

I must have fallen asleep in the chair because when I woke up, I looked first at the light slanting in from between the curtains and then the clock on the wall, which read seven thirty in the morning. Yawning, I stood up, heading to the door to go to the bathroom.

The officer met me at the door, a few bagels and cups of coffee in her hands. She directed me towards the bathroom.

We ate in silence. I mostly picked at my bagel and sipped at the coffee. Finally, when she finished and observed I was mostly done, she spoke.

"Today I'm taking you to the person named on your father's will." She said with no-nonsense.

"I didn't know my father was dead." I said indifferently. It really didn't matter to me.

"Yes, a car accident a few years ago. Do you know a –" She glanced down at a slip of paper she had on the desk. "Sara Clearwater?" I shrugged, looking into my cup. "She lives in Forks, Washington." I looked up at her. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place my finger on it. I think it has something to do with my dad. Not that it matters. My life's messed up no matter where I am. At least I don't have to pack. At the moment, I made a pat that no one will ever hurt me that way again.