Hi again! I'm so sorry for the delays in posting. It's coming slowly but surely, promise. Can you please share some love on what you think about the story so far? Pleeeeease?

Standard disclaimers apply.

All emotional trauma have three elements:

It was unexpected.

The victim was unprepared.

There was nothing the victim could do to prevent it from happening.

I sat on the couch and stared out the window.

My small studio-type room was eight floors up, but I could still hear the traffic of cars and people coming and going from 9th avenue. Night had completely fallen, and the darkness was broken every now and then by the headlights.

I sat on the couch, stared out the window, and waited.

Faint sounds of life around me: 92a flushing a toilet from above, 80b moving around furniture from behind the wall, the hiss of heated oil as Ingrid from next door fried tofu for dinner. I barely remembered moving, but my clothes have changed to my old sweats and my hair was damp. My bag and shoes remained on the floor.

I sat on the couch, stared out the window and waited for daybreak.

Numerous things to do. Call Renee. Call the head librarian. File for a leave of absence, probably for about four weeks. Talk to the professors about final requirements and exams. Talk to the building supervisor. Good thing Renee and Charlie paid a long lease....

Charlie.

Charlie's dead.

"Why won't you tell me what happened, Dad?"

I was upset. My head was still throbbing, tubes were sticking from my arms and face, and I have stitches God knows where. I feel, and probably look like, a rag doll just discarded by my owner.

I was missing several months of my life.

Renee tried to intervene. "Bella, please, you have to-"

"No! What was I doing in the first place? Why am I here?" My voice was getting louder.

Charlie sighed loudly, looking at me with a mixture of resignation and despair. I was his daughter. Like him, I wanted my questions answered.

"Doctors said it was just not the wound on your head. You forgot for the reason you wanted to forget whatever happened to you. It was psychological."

Beside the couch stood my only source of comfort whenever I am stressed-an easel, with a large sketch pad and charcoal pencils. I was never good at colors. I like charcoal as a medium, because it's flexible and simple. Whatever you draw comes out looking aged and stark.

I got up and took the pencil.

"You forgot because you had enormous trauma of some sort. If you were forced to remember, they say you might break down completely."

"Completely. So- I was out of my mind for a while?"

"Honey," Renee was crying. "Honey, you jumped off a cliff. "

Art was therapy. Anger, despair, hopelessness translate to lines and figures visible to the naked eye. Images of my dreams and nightmares captured on paper or canvas. I let myself go into a daze whenever I do this, simply letting my fingers move. Nothing was more satisfying than seeing the finished work, and the smudges on my face and hands.

Sleep will not come tonight, I'm sure of that. It never always does.

At around six AM, the phone rang. This time I picked it up and recognized the caller ID.

"Hi, mom. Are you okay?"

"Oh my God, they just called me." She was sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Bella."

That makes it twice now.

"Mom." Really, what was I supposed to say? "Don't even think of flying down there. It's dangerous to your condition."

"The baby's fine." Sniffles came over the line. "I want to come with you."

"No. You almost miscarried, remember?" I was irritated and focused on that emotion-it distracts me. "It's not like Charlie's gonna come back to life if you attend the funeral."

It was mean, I know, but I had to use major guilt. She could be so stubborn sometimes.

"Sorry."

"No, you're right. Like always. It's just so unexpected, you know?"

Now I get it. Dad was barely fifty, and they were the same age. She's more afraid of her own mortality. And with a particularly difficult pregnancy, no less.

"He's a cop, but he's not invincible, mom. We'll all get there in the end."

It would've been funny had the topic been something else. The daughter reassuring the mother. At least that part hasn't changed.

"Please call me when you get there, okay? I'm sorry, sweetie, but I hear so little from you and I just worry so much, and...." She was sobbing again.

"I'm sorry, mom." Closing my eyes, another knife slashed its way in my heart. I've deliberately alienated myself from everything I was, and apparently I was not as subtle as I thought.

"Go back to sleep, okay? Phil's gonna be worried sick about you. I'll probably leave tomorrow or the day after. I'm gonna have to do a lot of stuff around here." Really, the baby was making her more clingy than ever. Good thing she only has one more month.

I've already put down the phone. A few more hours and I can finally go to school and arrange everything. Then I saw the sketch I made. Huh. So much for the subconscious....I stood and tore it out, to be stored in a box deep within my closet. I've accumulated quite a few. My insomnia made me more productive than usual. Part of me wanted a bit of vanity, to let other people see, but I know I never will let them.

Smoothing out the paper, I stared at it once more.

"Are you even real?"

The sketch and everything else was forgotten as I did everything on schedule. FWPD was kind enough to send me a copy of Charlie's death certificate by FeDex, along with a copy of the FHS Yearbook in what I consider a bit of an irony. Maybe somebody was kind enough to remember that I have to have my copy. Or maybe I needed to remember the faces of my former classmates. That makes sense. Wouldn't want to have awkward moments as I shake their hands and accept their condolences.

A hysterical laugh escaped me, and I clamped my hand over my mouth. Do I hear my screw slowly loosening?

Five appointments, six promised essays, and about ten phone calls later, I was at the JFK for the midnight flight to Seattle. Everything went surprisingly well,given my usual luck. Being a police chief's daughter can still pull some strings, apparently. Angie drove me to the airport, despite my protests. But deep inside I was grateful for a bit of friendship.

"When will you be coming back?"

"Give or take a few weeks or more, it depends. Good thing it's almost the break, or-" I caught myself. Was I honestly saying my father's death had good timing?

"I'm sorry, Marie." She reached out and squeezed my hand. We were seated at the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area. "Will you be alright there, by yourself?"

"I'm used to it." I grinned humorlessly. "Really, I don't even think I'll take long."

I stood up as my flight was paged for boarding. From her bag, she poked around and pulled out a thin box.

"I planned on giving this to you at school, but you need a bit of cheering right now." She was smiling a bit shyly. "Don't open it until you're in the plane, alright?"

"Okay." I took it, and accepted an awkward hug. My social skills are getting rusty.

A plane seating about two hundred and fifty passengers. People coming and going, from vacations, meetings, and seminars. People visiting relatives, getting married, buying properties, selling stuff. And people who just lost someone and on their way to bury them. Amazingly enough, it turned out my seat had a duplicate ticket, and the steward apologized profusely before giving the best alternative seat. In first class. By the window. By this time I was so used to the weird day that I merely accepted.

"Anything else I can help you with before takeoff?" The attendant was blonde, bright and perky.

Sure. "Do you have a dvd player?"

"Sorry?"

"Never mind, thanks." I smiled, and looked back at Angie's gift. A dvd of Notting Hill.

(Hyperventilating)

Okay... how was that? I was trying to see how long it would take before her name was mentioned, but dang, it just came up. Along with something else, of course.

M