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“Aye,” I reply, looking into the sad eyes of five-year-old me.
Even though I don’t remember this photograph being taken, I do remember the pools of blood on the white carpet. I trace my finger over one in the background—it was where my ma took her last breath.
“Who did that to yer face?”
“I did,” I reply, remembering drawing each line with precision to reflect the injuries inflicted on my ma. “This is what they did to her, Cian. They took a knife and slit her mouth, ear to ear, to silence her screams.
“And after they were done rapin’ her broken body, they slit her throat,” I reveal, running two fingers over the black paint over my throat.
“Fuckin’ hell, mate. I’m sorry,” Cian says, his disgust clear.
I’ve never told him or Rory the details of what happened that night. I didn’t see the point. But now, they both need to know it all to understand why I’m about to start a war.
“She told me to pretend I was someone else, that I wasn’t really there. But all I could paint was what they did to her. It was my way to help carry her pain because I was locked in the wardrobe, watchin’ them kill my ma.”
“Is that why ya don’t like confined spaces?”
Not much scares me anymore, but being locked up with no escape route is my worst nightmare. I’m awful claustrophobic, but no one knows it. This is a weakness my enemies would exploit.
“Aye.”
Cian is quiet, digesting what I just shared. This is why I don’t tell anyone about my past. I don’t want sympathy or anyone to look at me with pity in their eyes.
“I remember bits and pieces, but I’ll always remember her sacrifice. And this photograph just reinforces what I have to do.
“I think even as a wain, I knew that drawin’ what I saw, a reflection of what they did to her, would help me avenge her death. I remember blood. Her screams. Her body coolin’ as I lay beside her for three days.
“But these three lines”—I slide my finger over the three red slashes on my forehead—“they represent the three arseholes who took her life. I drew them to ensure I never forgot.
“One of them, the one who slit her throat, knew I was there.”
“Away on!” he wheezes, shook.
“He unlocked the door, but left me there unharmed…why? This has always confused me because I don’t understand. If he knew I was there, why didn’t he kill me too?”
“That fucker. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
Returning my focus to the photograph I’ve looked at countless times, I examine every inch of it for anything I may have missed. But nothing looks different.
Frustrated, I close my eyes, trying to transport myself back in time.
“I never wanted this for ya, Cara. But ya didn’t listen.”
Screams and then a gurgle of blood.
What didn’t she listen to?
And that voice…do I know it?
Groaning, I slam my fist against the carpet, angry I can’t recall more. I’ve tried for many years, hoping to remember something I may have missed, a small detail that would help identify who these men are.
But I’m always faced with a black mass that won’t shift. Holes in my memory? Or my brain’s way of self-preservation? I don’t know.
“Fuck!” I curse, angered that this has failed.
Opening my eyes, I replace the photograph and put everything back where I found it, so as not to alert my dad that I’ve been snooping. As I go to close the drawer, something falls behind it, preventing it from closing all the way.
Angling my head to the side to see if I can uncover why it’s jammed, I notice a piece of paper stuck behind the drawer. This is new.
