Roxanne Grace Forrest once dreamed of reuniting with her family and reclaiming the life she was meant to live. But no amount of hope could erase the scars of her past. Kidnapped at eight, she endured a decade of unimaginable horrors that would haunt...
Today I woke up and thought, what better way to spend the day than stay in my room watching reruns of Gossip Girl?
The end.
I smirked, satisfied, at the pink notebook Ms. Amber, my therapist, gave me to "open up." Big deal. There's absolutely no way I'm putting my true feelings in here for someone else to read. Nope, nada, and hell to the no.
Speaking of hell, I pushed myself off the bed and wandered to the window. Snow had started falling outside, a perfect first snowfall. Ignoring the fact that I was still in pajamas—gray shorts and an oversized gray shirt—I slid open the balcony door and let the chill rush over me, goosebumps prickling my skin as I stepped out into the icy air.
Snowflakes drifted down, beautiful and delicate. Reaching out to catch one, a flash of memory hit me: I'm in a car, dizzy, something warm trickling down my cheek. I press a finger to it, pulling it back to see blood—no wonder my head's pounding. I turn to the driver's seat, but my vision blurs; all I can tell is that it's a man beside me. I reach out to tap his shoulder, but a cold metal presses against my temple. "Get out!" a voice barks, and I'm yanked back to the present by the sound of my bedroom door slamming open.
"Roxanne! What are you doing standing out in the cold? Get inside now and close that door!" Miranda Forrest—the bane of my existence—barks, striding into the room. As always, she's impeccably dressed, today in a pristine white suit, diamond studs and a matching bracelet glinting as she crosses her arms.
Miranda Forrest: my mother, the richest woman in Alvandalr, who looks exactly like me but taller, with the same platinum blond hair pulled into a sleek bun. Her steely blue eyes narrow as they scan the mess in my room.
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I close the balcony door behind me and run a hand through my long messy, platinum hair as she kicks at a shirt I left on the floor.
"What a mess, Roxanne!" she says, gesturing around the room. "I was fine letting you wallow in here for a while, but it's been six months. Six months, Roxanne—you need to move on."
The words twist in my chest, and I look away, unwilling to meet her gaze. It feels surreal, even having this conversation with her. Just hearing her say my name makes my heart ache a little. I spent months trying to convince myself I was home, here with my family again. After being kidnapped at eight, I never thought I'd be back here. I'm grateful to be alive, but that doesn't stop the nightmares. I'm back, yes, but my mind still remembers the pain.
"I know you're still hurting," she says softly as my eyes fill with tears. I clench my fists, determined not to let her see my weakness.
"But you need to move on," she repeats, and I turn away, climbing back onto my bed.
"No, absolutely not," she snaps, grabbing my comforter before I can pull it over myself. "No daughter of mine is going to hide away like this! Roxanne!" She yanks on the comforter, and I hold onto the other side.
