Exerpt from ‘Stolen’
I don't remember most of it. Anything I know about that day is from fragments and hints I have gathered over the years and scraps of images that I can remember. James refuses to talk about it and has made it clear that I am not allowed to ask. He does refer once in a while to 'the day I came to him'. He makes it sound as though I was a gift that was given to him as reward for his hard work; but, I know that's not completely true. I remember what my life used to be like. And I remember how scared I was when I first got here.
The door to what must be the kitchen opened and a man walked in. his hair was cut short and clean but his face was neither warm nor welcoming. On the other hand it was not evil or cruel; rather, he looked stern like he was taking in the world with a critical eye. He stood their holding a tray of what smelled like chicken soup and I could see the steam wafting up from it. His eyes met mine then fell down across my blanket covered body. Even though it was a thick knit afghan it felt like nothing as his eyes examined my curve-less body. I didn't know what to say or do so I lay their, knuckles turning white as I clutched the edge of the blanket…
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