“Aw, am I hurting your feelings? Well, good.” Pinning both my hands in one of his, he leans back and lifts the hem of my shirt. “The next time you even think about trying to steal from me, you look down at this and remember.” He points the tip of the blade at my side and nicks my skin, causing blood to pool out. “Remember what you are.”

Then he starts cutting, moving the blade over my flesh. I barely feel the pain, though. I’ve become numb to this. Numb to everything.

Memories of my past—of the day my parents were murdered—begin to surface. It sometimes happens when I shut down like this. Although, it’s always fragments of images that don’t complete a full story.

Warm blood covers my hands as I stare down at my parents. Blood is all over them, covering their clothes, their hair.

Why is there so much blood? And why is it all over my hands?

“Mom,” I whisper as I collapse to my knees.

I can’t remember how I got here. Can’t remember where the blood came from. All I can remember is screaming. So much screaming.

“Raven! No!” my mom shouts a plea. “Please don’t do this, sweetie. You don’t want to do this. Just go. Run!”

But I can’t go. Not until I get to her.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I can’t forget.”

She screams—

“You’re quiet tonight,” my uncle says, yanking me back to reality.

Droplets of blood are on the blade of his knife and his hands.

Blood. Just like in my memories.

I never told anyone that I see myself covered in blood sometimes. If I did, I’d be under more suspicion. Maybe one day I can finally talk about it when all the dots are connected. I just hope I don’t end up seeing something I don’t want to.

Not wanting to think about my parents anymore, I focus on the pain in my side because it’s easier than dealing with the emotional pain piercing inside me.

“Got nothing to say?” My uncle stands by my bed, staring down at me with expectancy as his hand drifts downward toward the hem of his pants.

I stare at the ceiling, not moving, refusing to say a word, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a fight, something I’ve learned he wants.

He starts touching himself then and I shut my eyes, pretending like I’m not here. That I’m somewhere else. Like in another world. Hell, I’d take myself being buried alive in a coffin over being here. Perhaps that’s what I deserve.

“Say something you little bitch,” he growls.

When I say nothing, he slices me across the side, causing my eyes to pop open.

His eyes flare with anger as he wipes the blade of his knife across the side of his pant leg, cleaning off the blood. Then he puts the knife away and looks at me again, waiting for something. When I make no effort to even budge, he shakes his head. “Whatever. At least I got you to shut up, you stupid little shit.” He moves to leave when his gaze zeroes in on my wrist. The wrist where the pendant he tried to burn is. His eyes flare with anger. “Where the hell did you get that?”