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My daughter. My four year old little girl. Where is she. Where is my sweet Fay? I have no clue to my present environment, nor to where my Fay and I were at the time of the shooting. There isn’t even a slight recollection of the event. I only know that I am here in a cellar of some kind, perhaps the feed of rats, as it seems. But my concern is with my daughter, because I don’t know where she is, or if she is …alive. She was with me, I’m sure of that, because I never let her leave my sight.
My last girlfriend and I broke up nearly five years ago. Around the time she got pregnant. She never informed me about the pregnancy, and although we lived in the same town, I never found out she even had a child, my child. The infant was born under the name of Mary, but I didn’t like that, so after her mother was put into rehab for alcoholism, her auntie brought her to me and I changed her name to Fay. That was two years ago. …Which now reminds me that Fay and I were journeying to reside in some other part of the country. An impulsive act, but it hurt me when we would drive by her mother’s house, she would cry asking for mommy, just when it would seem she was beginning to forget the woman.
It may be considered selfishness, but my intentions truly were not. Fay’s mother’s family wanted nothing to do with either of them, and I thought it would be better to erase those first two years of the child’s life the best I could than to allow her infant-to-mother attachment, that shall never have the chance to prosper or resurrect, to hinder the natural growth of a child’s esteem.
Of course I’m aware that it’s irrational to believe it possible to erase, as I said, years from the psyche of a child, but what the psyche hides from the adult mind will always stay hidden unless there is a trigger that discloses it to the conscious. That is precisely why I decided to move out of state, somewhere away from those years, some place so new, that not only would it preoccupy her from the remembrances, but also compensate for the lost years, in some way, as I am her father, I would go through…hell…and back to keep her safe and happy.
I might be forced to do just that.
The rats are about my ankles, at the top of the chair by my shoulders, rubbing their noses through my dripping hair. I don’t know if it is sweat or blood. It must be sweat. It stings my eyes without adding a hue to my vision, and the rats have not begun to scalp me, therefore it must be sweat. One large, almost mutant creature gnaws and shreds the dressing to my wound. I turn away as he serves his appetite with my flesh.
…to be continued…