Holly sits very still, staring at the television screen as if she didn’t hear a word I said.

“But there’s no story like ours, Mom. People don’t write about what we went through. They don’t write about how we were abducted in the middle of the night by a sick motherfucker, handcuffed to pipes for three weeks, hungry, dirty, and scared out of our damn minds while I was forced to violate her with a gun to my head.

“They don’t write about how I shredded a man’s face with my bare hands until I cut my knuckles on his skull. They don’t write about what the hell we’re supposed to do after something like that, when life goes back to normal and everyone around us is smiling and happy, but we’re still stuck in that hellhole, clinging to each other because we’re all we have.” I lower my hands to my face as I try not to break. “And the real kicker is that I was engaged to her sister. What the hell kind of twisted shit is that?”

Jesus Christ. What a goddamn mess. Part of me is glad my mother has no clue what I’m saying.

I breathe deeply into my hands, my elbows on my knees. I jump when I feel familiar fingers trail up the back of my neck and into my hair, massaging my scalp, quelling the pain that’s tearing me apart inside.

I inhale a shaky breath, sitting up and looking over at my mother. Her focus is still on the screen, but her fingers continue their soothing trek along my scalp, forcing my eyes to close in contentment.

“Every love story is worth writing, no matter how messy it might be,” Holly says absently, still stroking my hair. “I would like to read your book.”

My brow creases into a frown, confused, wondering if she was absorbing my words, after all. My mother used to have many moments of clarity, but they have become few and far between. The last time I visited her—in March for fuck’s sake—she wasn’t at all lucid. She called me Gator the entire time, which was the name of our Beagle who died ten years ago.

Holly reaches for my hand resting on my thigh, clasping it inside her cool palm, still enamored by the pictures on the television. “I had a terrible nightmare once. It was a lot different than yours, though.” She squeezes my fingers and releases a small sigh. “I was all alone.”

I wait for her to continue.

I wait for the story to unfold, the horrors to play out, the nightmare to come to life.

But she doesn’t say anything else and I realize… that was the nightmare.

We sit in silence as her words pinch me. My insides ache and twist with something I don’t exactly understand.

And then my mother lets go of me, smiling pleasantly as she folds her hands in her lap. “I should have the paperwork all filled out by the end of the day. I do appreciate you coming by.”