"Then," I sat up a little straighter, ready to do whatever I could to help, "I can try."

~~~

I didn't sleep much that night, plagued by the memories wrapping my mind in a whirlwind of painful thoughts.

At some point that felt way too early in the morning, I woke up from a pain in my chest finding it hard to breathe. Looking around frantically, I fell out of bed searching for the button to call Sam. In falling, I'd managed to reopen my stitches.

I slept with the guard rails up from then on.

"You woke up from a panic attack." Sam explained the next morning as she checked my wound. She had restitched it late last night, or rather, early this morning after my little incident. My mom was getting a coffee down the hall.

"A panic attack?" I repeated. "But how? I was asleep."

She probed the area around the stitches gently, but I still winced. "Sorry," she said to me. "They can happen sometimes when someone has been through a stressful situation. Like earlier when you were talking with the police. This is going to sting." She pressed a cotton swab that reeked of alcohol into my side.

"Ow!" I cried. A jolt of pain went through my torso. My face twisted, but even that caused tears to sting my eyes. Any facial expression caused pain. I didn't even have the luxury of expressing my pains.

"There," she replaced my bandage and looked at my face. "Sorry. Though this attack was more...subconscious."

"I-" I started, leaning into the pillows. There were so many thoughts bouncing around in my head. So much shouting I wanted to do. So much anger I wanted to release.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Frustration knitted my eyebrows together. "I don't want to remember these things. I don't want to have to deal with all of this!" I threw my hands up.

"Lynette calm down. You're going to tear your stitches again."

Sitting up, I shouted,"I don't want this, Sam! I don't want my life ruined by two stranger who decided they could control me!" My eyes stung with angry tears. "And they are," I crumpled into the bed, pushing my palm into my forehead, hoping for some sort of relief from everything. "They are, Sam."

I saw Sam open her mouth to speak, but suddenly, my mom walked in. "Lynette?" She rushed to my side. "Lynn, what's wrong, baby?" She brushed loose hairs from my eyes.

I sniffed. "Mom I-" But I paused and looked at my mom. Looking at her, I didn't know how much more she could take. I looked at the permanent exhausted worry in her eyes. The dark eye bags keeping her from looking her real age. Instead of 35, she easily looked 50.

Her wide face and sad eyes used to be full of happiness and a bubbling, radiant light that affected everyone when she walked in a room. Her brunette hair was now streaked with grey. Deep smile lines creased her mouth, evidence of all the smiles she used to give away. The easy-going, laid-back mom I knew from my childhood was gone as soon as my father stepped out our front door.

It felt like so many years of just me and her. So many years of her providing for both of us on just a high school diploma and our luck. Had it really been five years?

What else could I do, but protect her from my pain? It wasn't hers to carry.

Trying to pull her into a hug without wincing, I swallowed my anger. "Nothing. It's nothing, mom. The new bandages hurt. That's all."

She pulled me tightly. Over her shoulder, I saw Sam frown and walk away.

***

Later that afternoon, a man introducing himself as Mr. Fredrickson, a composite artist came by my room.

He told me, "Take your time. It's important to get details right. If you can't remember perfectly, that's okay. Ready?"

I nodded and slowly began to describe the men in as much detail as I could remember. I told him it was hard to make out their exact faces because it was so dark. He nodded in understanding and told me to go on.

On I went for half an hour until I recounted every detail I could muster.

"That's very good, Lynette. You remembered more than you thought." He paused, finishing up with a couple of pencil scratches. Looking up, he asked, "Would you like to see it?"

I waited, asking myself if this was really what I wanted. Hugging myself closer, I finally whispered, "Yes."

Slowly, he turned the papers around to show me the faces of monsters.