BROOKLYNN
Come home with me, kitty Kate.
Kitty Kate.
Kitty Kate.
The words— the damn nickname— echo around my brain on a loop. Everything feels different all the sudden. The moment the name slipped from his lips, it’s like a tsunami of emotional trauma bombarded my mind. All of this pain just sitting in my chest with no memories of why it’s there. Not really. Just a single one of the first time he called me that.
“Kitty Kate! Come upstairs with me,” a voice whines. I squint up into a pair of familiar dark blue eyes. Even at four years old, I know that he wants something from me that I don’t understand. I hate going upstairs with him. He always wants to practice weird and painful things and he touches me too much. He tries to snuggle in bed after poking me with the stuff papá gives
