Forgotten.

It was August 4th. My father's birthday. He was having a huge party and naturally his daughter, me, would be going. The last time I saw him was when I was moving out and into my new apartment located in Queen Anne, Seattle. I wanted to see my father and step-mother and tell them about the classes I was taking and how I'm a waiter at a Chiles. I absolutely did not want to drive back to Sequim, my hometown. Too many bad memories, in fact, I have no idea why my father still wanted to live there after what happend.

I was eight years old. I was in my room playing with my dolls, it was late at night and I was supposed to be asleep. Then I heard the front door open. I was hoping it was my father coming home eary from his camping trip with his friends. I opened my door slowly so I could sneak up on him. But then I heard my mother, "What are you doing in my house, at this time!" My mother's voice was frantic, I then was scared and ran into the living room only to see my mom screaming and being pushed to the ground. Tears poured down my eyes as I hid behind our green paisley couch in fear. But after that, I don't remember anything except for being woken up by my next door neighbor's screaming and the police coming to the house.

My father soon came home after that and I was so glad to see him, that he was okay. I was put in numerous therapy sessions. I was the only person that night to see my mother as she was being murdered. She was stabbed 12 times in the chest. But I can't remember the killer's face. It kills me that I could of helped my mother, call 911, run out the backdoor to my neighbor's house, or look at his face so I could of helped the police put that scum in jail.

I sighed and fought back some tears as I got into my blue stratus. I started the car and began my drive back home.