“Miss Fern, can you state your full name and date of birth for the records, please?” Detective Richard Collins asked the seventeen-year-old sitting across from him. The seventeen-year-old in question, Abigale Fern, watched him warily as he nodded to the other side of the room, where a tripod with a camcorder mounted on it stood. A small, beady red light blinked on the device, indicating that it was recording. Her fingers curled into fists. She’d had more than enough experience with cameras and recording devices to last her for the rest of her life. The fact that the detectives didn’t realize what grief seeing another camera could cause her didn’t give Abigale faith that they were truly trying to help her. Pull it together, Abigale, she told …show more content…
Her mind had flitted elsewhere. More specifically, to the darkest night of her life. Her fingers dug into the arms of the chair as a vision came rushing back to her. Her hands tied to a chair, the zip ties cutting gashes into her wrists. The picture glaring down from above as she experienced terror and loneliness she never thought possible. It had been of a swan in flight, its elegant white wings extended to catch the air under the tips of its feathers. She remembered wishing she could be like that bird; free to do anything she wanted instead of feeling trapped like she was then. Like she was …show more content…
“I’ve seen guys like this. He will never rest until you’re either his or dead. Then he’ll take his own life in an attempt to be together with you again. It’s all a part of their twisted fantasies, and you happen to be the star of his. Please, don’t let him win, Miss Fern. Let me help you.” Inside, the detective had broken Abigale. In her mind, she cried. She cried for someone to help her get rid of all the memories, of the pain. On the outside, however, she tried to make it seem like she was fine. She couldn’t speak of what happened, not after what he had done to the people she cared about. When she didn’t answer the detective for the fifteenth time that day, he stood up. His face contorted in frustration, and he paced the room like a man making an important decision. Instead of saying something, she lowered her gaze and followed the intricate patterns of the grains in the worn table. Abigale felt the tears that threatened to surface, but she did her best to stop them from sliding down her cheeks. The burning sensation in her throat didn’t help matters as she tried to suppress the urge to break down, but neither did the detective’s burning