Asher
There's no such thing as being too young to remember.
I was fifteen years old when everything changes. Blood on the walls. Fangs bared like monsters from a nightmare. Screams that don't sound human. I was small, helpless, and right in the middle of it all—caught between life, death, and the weight of a destiny I didn't ask for.
I am not supposed to survive. But I did.
And I remembered
I remember every hateful stare, every cruel word. I remember the sound of life gurgling out of someone's throat. The way my grandmother's body swings from the ceiling—her eyes wide, bulging, staring straight at me. I see them every night. I still wake up gasping, my heart racing, drenched in sweat, many years later, and I still can't breathe properly. I'm still having nightmares every single night.
Yes, I am adopted. Yes, my parents love me. But love doesn't erase memories. It doesn't erase death. It doesn't fix what was broken.
