Chapter 9: The Memory That Never Left
1407 Words
Elara’s POV
I woke up exhausted from the same nightmare I had been having for the past five years.
People call it a nightmare—but they don’t understand. Nightmares fade when you wake up. They dissolve with morning light, leaving only fragments behind.
Mine doesn’t.
Because it isn’t imagination.
It’s memory.
And memories don’t disappear just because you close your eyes.
It happened eight years ago.
I was fifteen.
No matter how much time passes, those days never truly leave me. They linger at the edges of my thoughts, quiet during the day but alive at night, waiting for silence. Waiting for weakness. Waiting for sleep.
For three years, the nightmare stopped.
Three peaceful years where I almost believed I had outgrown the fear. I slept without waking up breathless. I laughed without feeling guilty for it. I thought maybe time had finally done what everyone promised it would do—heal.
That was when Marcus left the country.
My cousin relocated abroad for work and didn’t return once during those years. His absence created distance, and distance gave me peace. Without seeing him, without hearing his voice or feeling his presence nearby, my mind slowly stopped reliving those moments.
The screams in my head quieted.
Until now.
Now he’s back.
And the nightmare returned with him.
I took a slow, shaky breath and forced myself to sit up. My body felt heavy, like I had run for hours without stopping. My chest tightened with every inhale, my heartbeat still racing from the dream.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize where I was.
The soft curtains. The quiet room. The unfamiliar calm.
The mansion.
Reality settled slowly, replacing panic with exhaustion.
That was when I noticed it.
A covered meal placed neatly beside my bed.
I frowned, confused, reaching for my watch.
1:00 p.m.
Shock rushed through me.
I had slept through the entire morning.
Which meant someone had come into my room while I was asleep. While I was crying. While I was screaming.
Heat crawled up my neck at the thought. Embarrassment mixed with discomfort. The senior maid, most likely. She moved quietly through the house, always observant, always gentle.
It had to be her.
I told myself not to think about it too much.
After what felt like forever, I forced myself to stand, freshened up, and ate slowly. My appetite hadn’t fully returned since the hospital, but I finished enough to avoid worrying anyone.
Eventually, the walls began to feel too close.
I stepped outside into the garden.
The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of roses. Red, white, soft pink blooms stretched along the pathways, carefully tended and impossibly perfect. I stared at them for a long time, letting the quiet settle inside me.
Here, time felt slower.
Safer.
“The meal was sent by Mr. Blackwood,” the senior maid said gently from behind me. “He instructed that it be brought to your room.”
Lucien.
I nodded, unsure what emotion the information was supposed to bring. Gratitude? Surprise?
Confusion felt more accurate.
We didn’t talk much. Our relationship existed within clear boundaries. He gave instructions. I followed them. There was no cruelty, but there was no warmth either.
Just distance.
And maybe that was easier.
I sat there for a long time, breathing slowly, letting my thoughts drift.
I don’t even have a phone.
The realization came suddenly.
I wasn’t sure why it felt strange now. I had lived without one for years. Still, something about it felt… isolating. Like existing slightly outside the world.
I don’t think Lucien has noticed.
Not that it matters.
We don’t really talk.
As silence wrapped around me, memories began to creep in—soft at first, then clearer.
There was a time when life was simple.
When laughter came easily.
When I still had my parents.
We weren’t the kind of rich people who chased attention. My parents hated noise, hated unnecessary displays of wealth. We lived comfortably, quietly. A peaceful life filled with books, long dinners, and conversations that lasted late into the night.
I was happy then.
Truly happy.
Eight years ago, Mom and Dad were traveling from Canada—where I was born and raised—to New York for an event. I was supposed to join them, even though I hated formal gatherings. Ballrooms made me uncomfortable. Too many strangers. Too many expectations.
Still, Mom always made it fun.
We would whisper jokes during speeches, rate outfits secretly, and laugh about it afterward. She called me her partner in crime.
That day, my best friend Ciara was hosting an all-girls sleepover.
I chose that instead.
I still remember the laughter in the driveway as they prepared to leave.
“Call me if you need anything, sweetie,” Dad said, pulling me into a hug. “Or if you miss Daddy’s hugs—it’s just a ticket away.”
Mom laughed and tickled my side. “You really want me to suffer alone in that ballroom without my partner?”
I laughed too.
I promised we would FaceTime later that night.
They never made it.
They were supposed to meet one of Dad’s old friends at a hotel before heading to the event together. As they entered the car that would take them there—
The car exploded.
Mom.
Dad.
His friend.
His friend’s wife.
Gone.
Just like that.
The next thing I remember is my phone ringing. An unknown number. I answered without thinking.
And my world ended in a single conversation.
After that, everything blurred together. Funeral arrangements. Lawyers. Voices speaking around me instead of to me.
My father’s elder brother moved into our Los Angeles home with his wife. My father had been adopted, and my mother had grown up without family. There was no one else.
I had no choice.
They became my guardians.
At first, they were kind. Careful. Patient.
Then a month passed.
And their masks fell.
Rules appeared overnight. Restrictions followed. I was pulled out of school under the excuse of “safety.” Friends stopped calling because my number changed. The house that once felt warm became quiet and controlled.
I learned quickly that silence made life easier.
The day my aunt saw me using my phone in the backyard, everything changed.
Her anger came out of nowhere. The slap shocked me more than the pain itself. The phone shattered against the ground moments later, pieces scattering across the tiles.
“That’s unnecessary,” she said coldly. “You don’t need distractions.”
That was the day I became phoneless.
Isolated.
Alone.
But that wasn’t the beginning.
The beginning stood behind her.
Watching.
Smiling.
“This is my son,” she said proudly. “Marcus.”
He looked at me like he already knew something I didn’t.
His smile seemed normal to everyone else.
Friendly.
Harmless.
But something about it made my stomach twist.
At fifteen, I didn’t understand why.
I only knew I felt uncomfortable when he stood too close. When his jokes lasted too long. When his attention lingered in ways that made me want to disappear.
At first, I told myself I was imagining it.
That grief was making me sensitive.
But fear doesn’t grow without reason.
Little things changed. The way he appeared unexpectedly in rooms. The way he laughed when I flinched. The way my aunt dismissed every discomfort as me being “dramatic.”
The house stopped feeling safe.
And slowly, without realizing it, I stopped being the girl I used to be.
I spoke less.
Laughed less.
Stayed in my room whenever possible.
The nightmares began soon after.
Even now, years later, my body remembers before my mind does. The tension. The helplessness. The feeling of being trapped in a place where no one believed you.
That was how my trauma began.
And now he’s back.
The garden felt colder suddenly.
I wrapped my arms around myself, staring at the roses without really seeing them. People say time heals everything, but they don’t understand how memory works.
Some wounds don’t close.
They wait.
Quiet.
Until something—or someone—opens them again.
And last night, when I saw Marcus smiling across that room, I realized something that terrified me more than the memories themselves.
I wasn’t fifteen anymore.
But part of me still felt like that frightened girl.
And I didn’t know how to make her feel safe again.
Not yet.
- Writer
