The Pictures We Wish We Never Took

Chapter One

Meet Bailey Slade^^^

For my readers, this will be heavily inspired by The Naturals by JLB. It's my current obsession. However, this IS a secondary story and something to fill the moments where I have a block on my current stories, so it WILL NOT be updated often, but I will update when I can. It WILL NOT be forgotten, it will just take time. So patience for this story, my loves.

xoxo
Enjoy.

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Happy Murder Anniversary Date of My Entire Family! It's such a weird thing to wake up in the morning and remember that six years ago today, September 9th, my entire family was killed. It's even harder to forget what the house looked like when I walked back from the neighbours to see the dead bodies and blood splatter everywhere.

I get really bad migraines sometimes when the memories overwhelm me, it doesn't happen often, but every once in a while, I'll be in bed for days. Every year on the anniversary of my family's murder, the migraines are unbearable. It doesn't help that I bounce from foster home to foster home—sometimes on the day. Today is not one of those days where I can lay in my bed and pretend like the world doesn't exist as my brain tries to crawl out of my skull, not when I live with the Mullers.

A banging on my bedroom door causes my migraine to rattle, "What?" I barely get the word out before the door knob is rattling and my lovely foster dad—Joseph Muller—comes barging in. Technically, as per the foster parents rules, I am supposed to be able to feel safe in my space and have a lock on my door—that doesn't stop Joseph from having and using a key.

"What are you still doing in bed? Mary needs help with the twins! Get your ass up!" The irony of their biblical names has never been lost on me. They missed a good opportunity to name one of their twins Jesus. Sadly, they had twin baby girls almost a year ago, and they only wanted a foster kid to have a live in babysitter and a monthly check.

"Get out of my room, Joseph. I have a terrible headache and maybe you should help your wife." I knew it was a stupid thing to say. I've been to 13 foster homes since I was 10, the most in the past year. Apparently, I'm irritable and hard to connect to. When they find out that I have a photographic memory and I can repeat exactly what they say to me like a parrot mimicking them, they want me out.

Sometimes when I talked back, I got hit. Sometimes when I mimicked, I got pushed. One time when I threatened to tell, I was shoved down the stairs and in the hospital for 3 weeks straight. I didn't tell. I didn't tell, not even when the memory played in my head like a rewind of a movie.

I'm playing with fire by refusing Joseph's request, but I couldn't care less. I'd rather take a punch than deal with the crying twin demons with this migraine. As predicted, Joseph comes barreling in my room. I don't think it's because of what I said, I think with guys like Joseph, it's the blatant disobedience that pisses them off enough to grab a teenage girl by the collar of her worn shirt. His face now inches from mine, I can smell last night's beer binge. "You listen here, Bobby." I swear this guy is stupid. My name is Bailey, but he gets it wrong every time he talks to me. Maybe he does it on purpose? Maybe I care? Just not enough to correct him.

"We let you sleep under our roof, eating our food. You will not be a ungrateful pig. Get up or get out."

Bingo. Bango! We have the ringing bells and my key to grab my already packed trash bag and exit the premises. I do just as he says. I pull the thin blanket off my body, grab my trash bag of old clothing, "About damn time, Joseph. I thought you were going soft on me. Bye bye. Have fun with Demon 1 and Demon 2." It's not that I hate kids. I just prefer them silent and out of sight.