Page 1 of Fragile hearts

Prologue

Alexis

Fifteen years ago.

A man is standing in my bedroom. He’s holding something in his hand. It’s wet, dripping onto the floor.

I’m lying on my stomach in my bed.

Mr. Cow lies next to me. He’s dirty, covered in red paint. The man walks closer, his footsteps loud on the floor. I can see him better now. It’s Mr Monroe, my foster parent. I want to say hello, but my mouth doesn’t work.

“You stupid little brat.”

Brat?

I don’t know what that means. I haven’t learned that word yet. My throat hurts. Maybe I got the cold again. Mr. Monroe has tablets for that. I try to get up to ask him, but my legs don’t work. Mr. Monroe is still there. He is watching me, but I don’t know why. He lifts his hand. The object he’s holding is shiny. I like shiny things.

He moves closer, lifts the shiny thing, and points it at me. And then.

Pain.

My stomach hurts now too. Stop, I want to say. It hurts. You’re not allowed to hurt people. He lifts the shiny thing, but it’s not shiny anymore. It’s red now and dripping again.

He walks over to where Mickey is sleeping. He is lying on his back like he always does. He lifts the thing again. It’s a knife. Why does he have a knife?

“No,” I try to say. You’re not allowed to play with knives. You’ll hurt yourself. Or others. My eyes droop. Why am I tired again? I just woke up.

Mickey is sleeping too. But he’s red now. His whole face is red. His shirt is red. Everything is red.

Who painted us red?

“Why are we red, Mickey?” I want to ask, but no sound comes out of my mouth.

Mickey lies still. He’s sleeping. But his eyes are open. You can’t sleep with your eyes open.

Silly Mickey.

My eyes close again. Just a short nap. After that I’ll ask Mickey about the paint.

I wake again. I’m not red anymore. The paint is all gone. My throat hurts more, I try to touch it. But I can’t. Something is covering it.

I look over at Mickey, but he’s not there. I’m not in my own bed anymore. This one is bigger, and so is the room. But I don’t like the smell. It reminds me of the dentist. A woman walks into the room. She is dressed in white and is sad. She gives me a notepad. I want to thank her, but my voice doesn’t work. She hands me a marker.

Where is Mickey? I write, proud of myself that I knew how to spell that. I want to show Mickey. He likes it when I spell things right.

The woman is even sadder now.

“He’s gone, honey.”

Gone? Where did he go? He doesn’t like being alone.

Then I remember Mr. Monroe with a knife. The red paint.

No, not paint.

Blood. We had blood on us. But why?

I want to ask the woman, but my voice still doesn’t work. “Ssh, don’t talk.”