Katherine King sat up in bed, yawning and stretching her arms above her before letting them plop to her sides. Her hair was a disheveled mess. Her clock glared a glowing red: 4:40 am.

Yawning again, she hopped out of bed, shivering from the cold of the morning and wrapped a blanket around her to keep her warm.

She frowned at a picture on her desk that showed her family, including her mother, all smiling. It had been seven years since that fateful day of losing her to that thing on the rainy night that had ruined Katherine.

Still, she’d be okay. At least that’s what she told herself every morning and night, because who else would she tell since no one believed her about what had really happened. Why would they? It was crazy, right?

Not to her. But it didn’t matter. Why would she talk about things that led to conclusions and diagnoses of a disturbed child with an overactive imagination and other titles she had been labeled and diagnosed with by various medical professionals over the years?

Screw that.

She blew a strand of purple hair out of her face and pulled out a box from under her bed, setting it on the desk and unlocking it with a black key that she wore as a pendant around her neck.

Inside the little box was another picture of her mother smiling. She loved that smile, that face, those eyes. Even if they were sometimes angry with Katherine, she’d do anything to get her back. The glimmer in her mother’s eyes always made Katherine feel safe and warm. Katherine smiled herself, talking to the picture as if talking to her mother.

“Hey, mom,” she said softer than usual as if worried someone might be listening in on the conversation. She brushed her hand across the picture gingerly. “It’s my junior year at Holy Cross Academy, so wish me luck.”

“Oh, Abigail?” She spoke as if answering her mother, her mouth twitching at either side. “I’m keeping an eye on her. She’s still not talking. Dad? What about him. You know him better than I, so I’ll keep it at that.”

She adjusted herself, pulling legs underneath her, and gulped as if struggling to find her voice. Why was this still so hard? “Last year was tough without you. But I made it through. We’re safe, thanks to you. I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are.”

Peace, what a thing. Still, she shouldn’t be depressed right now, should she? Not when she was talking to her mother.

She cleared her throat. “I love you, and I miss you. I wish—” a lump caught in her throat, making it hard to find the words. “I wish you were here.”

She kissed the tips of her index and middle fingers and placed them against the picture, closing her eyes to stave off the tears that had welled up before delicately placing the picture back in the box that was filled with little trinkets of things that her mother use to own that she had given Katherine over the years.

Little gifts, things of remembrance, like the black key pendant she wore around her neck, and even a picture she had stolen from her mother’s keepsake things as a memento before she passed. A picture of Masako in her younger days, before she’d met their father. Katherine always told herself her mother looked happier then, but she knew that was just out of spite.

She locked the box and slid it away, kneeling with crossed arms against the bed, fighting the tears she knew always came at this time, and the futile effort of fighting them back. She always hated crying when thinking about her mother, especially during this little ritual she did at the beginning of every school year. Talking to her mother as if she was still there, beckoning her to go forth and engage the world with wide and welcoming arms.

Why did it still hurt? Why was she so sad? Why couldn’t she move on? Why hadn’t she done anything back then? Why, why, why!? And why didn’t anyone believe her—then and now? Even her father, her cursed father.

She wiped wetness from her eyes and slammed a fist against the bed angrily. Why couldn’t he have died instead? That thought, just like her fear and relief back when her mother told her to run, disgusted her, even if her father infuriated her. She just… needed her mother back. Curse it all.

She steeled herself and wiped her cheek of any remaining tears, the movement frustrated and bitter as this was no time to break down. Her father… What a pathetic man. His deceit. His betrayal. She’d never forgive him. She’d never trust him again.

Even when he tried little gestures of kindness to engage her in conversation, this and that. Never.

She clenched her fists and pushed herself to her feet. It was time to get ready, so she crossed to the bathroom to take a shower, a relieved breath escaping her lips to prepare to face the day with a solid smile and upbeat look on her face. Because it was all she could do to present herself properly even though she felt like crumbling.

Katherine tightened the white ribbon on her high ponytail with a quick and dexterous motion, stepping back to make sure her uniform looked correct, straightening it here and there. She fixed the black ribbon on her gray pinafore plaid-patterned dress, adjusted her white dress shirt, and pulled on her black pantyhose and gray dress shoes. She finished it off by pinning the customary silver cross pin with black outlines on the front of her Holy Cross Academy Uniform, and stepped back to make sure everything was just right. She didn’t mind wearing a uniform at all, nor following specific directions and dress codes.

Things that were orderly and controlled were less likely to fall apart. It made life more manageable and easier to deal with.

She grabbed her blue backpack and made her way out the door.

Katherine tied an apron on, turned to the stove, and began whipping up some breakfast, as was also customary on her first day of a new school year. Just like their mother used to do.

“Keeping up the tradition, I see,” came the voice of her father, Richard King. He had thick brown hair, soft green eyes, and a kind smile. At least that is how their mother described him. But she knew the truth. Behind that kind smile was a liar and a coward. She would forever see through it, though him.

“Somone has to,” she said with a snort as she stirred the pancake batter with vigor. She didn’t hate him. She hated what he held from her.

He shuffled into the kitchen and took a seat, the clinking of the beater against metal bowl filling the silence as he adjusted his glasses. “You know, you don’t have to do that. I’m happy to—”

“Don’t,” she said, plopping a pan on the stove and turning it to medium, the gas stovetop clicking vigorously until fire erupted on the spot. She put the bowl down and poured oil into it as well as plopping a chunk of butter in, then grabbed some eggs and mixed them in another metal bowl with milk. She grabbed a second pan to cook said eggs in, slamming the pan down harder than she wanted.

Why did he have to do this? To pry, to ask questions, to engage in conversation?

“Well, I think it’s great that you’re doing it. Abigail will be pleased to have a hearty breakfast.”

Katherine pulled out some bacon and sausage, oiled another pan, and began to go to work with spatulas, stirring, sizzling, turning, and cooking. She kept everything neat and tidy, wiping up any spills or splattering of oil. She had also made sure the table was set with plates, utensils, placemats, and napkins before cooking.

Her father leaned forward, clasping his hands together, a sigh escaping his lips. “You know, I need to talk to you about something, I—”

Abigail burst into the room, sliding on her socks between the two of them, arms in the air, beaming with brightness as she jumped up and down, her feet plopping against floor. She turned from her father to Katherine, looking perplexed, her smile remaining as she lifted outstretched thumb and forefinger to her chin, rubbing and pondering.

“Hmmmm,” she muttered, as while she hadn’t spoken since the night of the incident, she did make noises here and there.

Her eyes went wide at the sight of the things Katherine was cooking, and she floated toward the stove, but Katherine got in her way, shaking her head.

“Nope.” She pointed a long finger toward the table. “Go, sit. I’ll cook this right up and you’ll have plenty to eat.”

Abigail frowned, puffing her cheeks out and letting out a little growl in her throat, but moved to the table and sat. She snatched up her fork and knife, clenching them in hands as she looked onward in a hopeful manner, her legs kicking playfully under the chair.

She smiled, and Katherine had to look away as it reminded her of her mother since Abigail was a mini version of Masako.

Abigail was everything to Katherine, to their mother, and even to their pathetic father. The sad part was that Abigail didn’t see through Richard’s deceit, his veneer, his misdirection.

Abgail hadn’t spoken since that fateful night of losing their mother. Selective mutism, the doctors had diagnosed it, onset and triggered from the trauma she had gone through. Katherine knew it was because Abigail too had seen that beast, but she had given up on pressing her about it as she was still her sister, even if she was stubborn in her claim about not seeing any kind of werewolf or furry creature. The irony was that Abigail feared dogs, which no one understood why. Katherine knew, though. Still, it was hard not to melt in front of Abigail, even if she was an annoying little pest at times.

Abigail hummed a little tune, which annoyed Katherine as she knew somewhere deep down inside Abigail could speak. Still, she didn’t dare push it as she felt that perhaps some of her anger around the time of their mother’s death had led to her sister’s silence. She had, after all, said and done some things around that time that she regretted. So she had backed off, given in, and given up, at least on getting Abigail to admit the truth of what she had seen.

Katherine couldn’t help but lean her weight on her back foot and smile at the spectacle that was her little sister.

After completing the cooking and serving up the food to each plate in a calm manner, she looked at Abigail in a way only an elder sister could. “Help yourself and eat whatever you want.”

As Abgail made a quick motion to stab some of her food and tear away at the meat, their father cleared his throat. Abigail glanced at him with the tilt of her head that was so adorable that Katherine couldn’t help but shake her head at.

“I think we should give thanks before we eat, don’t you?”

Abigail nodded vigorously, lifting her hands for Katherine and her father to hold them. Richard held his hand to Katherine as if beckoning her forward. He wasn’t going to get what he wanted. “Will you be joining us, Katherine?”

What a silly question for him to ask. Did he not know his own daughter? Did he not realize on countless occasions of turning him down, of explicitly saying she didn’t want to talk with him, to go anywhere with him, to discuss details on anything with him, that she wanted nothing to do with him? And yet, not a moment ago, he wanted to talk.

What a fool. And now, here he was, asking her if she wanted to join for breakfast when she had to clean everything before even thinking about eating.

Clean area first; nourishment later. If any enjoyment was involved in that, it would be knowing that Abigail was properly fed for her first day of school.

“You two give thanks,” Katherine said with a frown before going to work at cleaning the pots and pans and bowls. “I’ll get things cleaned.” Part of her felt like a brat treating her father this way, but it was his own fault for not believing her, for his betrayal.

“We can wait for you,” Richard said. What, was he trying to feign some sort of kindness as if they had a connection? They didn’t.