There's this pill lodged in my throat called Disbelief that I've been trying to swallow for about twenty minutes now. But don't worry I finished my burger. I sit at the table with dad on the other side, but all I can do is stare zombily at the one lone dent on an otherwise smooth oak table.

I was already on bad terms with mom, now, I never want to see her again. "Dad, I never knew you were looking for me."

"I thought for sure I'd find you with everyone in the club looking but we came up with nothing. I thought maybe through all these crazy social media outlets I'd get something but..." He pauses then straightens, continuing. "Then I got the divorce papers and the custody ones."

Looking up at dad I take a deep breath. "How could she do that? And how could she just abandon Amber alone in our front yard?"

It's dad's turn to look at the table, his eyes narrowed as if he's trying to either read what he needs to say next on an imaginary piece of paper or simply burn a whole through it.

He rubs his hand in his hair and pulls at it. "I don't know. I know why she left and it's my fault, but why would she do that to Amber? I've never been able to understand."

"Why then, dad? Why did she leave and drag me away with her? Why did she want me away from both of you?" I ask as his nervous fingers scratch his scruff that looks like it's days old.

He's not going to answer.

He looks up. "If it helps, Amber doesn't know either."

I snort. "It doesn't."

I drag my fingers through my curly mane of hair battling whether to tell him about my lack of memory. As I try to jog something out of my brain the walls start to close in on me. Every little thing my eyes touch around the kitchen begins to cause that anxiety to climb all over my skin.

That maddening linoleum flap gains my attention once again and I know what's about to happen. My body jerks up and my chair falls behind me. Dad jumps up as if he needs to catch me.

I wave him off. "No just... give me, I don't know, just don't follow me right now." I whip around to leave, but not before whispering, "please."

I grab my bag and take out my blue latex gloves. My hands hit the garage door hard and it flies open and slams shut behind me. I pray that Adonis took my art supplies out of his car. I close my eyes to count to five Mississippi and realize I'm safe. Dad's not coming and I'm alone since everyone left.

When I open them it's dark out and the night's breeze comes in from the open garage door. The lone dim light bulb sways against the gentle wind making the light move across the walls as if it's playing a game of tag with the shadows.

The fire ants are back at full force, but it's the incoming fracture in my brain that seals my suspicions. My head throbs relentlessly as black dots start at the corners of my eyes. Before my vision goes, I lock onto the empty main wall of the garage and walk over as I start to lose focus.

Sheathing my hands with my blue latex gloves, I tap my fingertips on the dirty white garage wall. Closing my eyes, I spread my palm out until it's flat against it and the wall is cool to my touch. My arm hairs prickle with anticipation.

I start humming to calm myself and swaying as my mind cracks and vibrates through my bones. I can literally feel it break open like a nut being squeezed by a nutcrackers. It's painful as I lose control of my body and my vision goes black. My mind is engulfed in clouded darkness with the shadowed outline that caused my mind to split in half. There's no color, only that dark image needing to be painted and brought to life.

My hands grip the small table in front of the wall and I shove it away as if possessed.

The episode has begun.

I can lie and say I like this, but it scares me and it's impossible to control. My body moves and the only sensations I'm getting are from my fingers dipping in paint, that I somehow opened, and running down the canvas. I lose myself and allow my body to do what it needs to do. The thing about my episodes is I can't see what I'm painting, only feel it.

The brittleness of my gloved fingers glides over some small bumps but mostly smooth surface of the drywall. My skin continues to prickle with goosebumps on top of goosebumps.

I don't know how long I paint for. There's no sense of time. It's only me, the garage wall, and my hands. My fingers scratch down the painting and I feel it. It's earthy and cold. There's also loneliness and it echoes in my heart, squeezing it and making my chest tighten in retaliation. There's something else, but I can't understand it. It's calling to me, but the closer I get the more my heart begins to palpitate. One minute my fingers are dancing and creating life, the next I'm scratching erratically until my arms burn from exhaustion, but I don't stop. It's as if I'm ripping through something to get to... something else.

My arms freeze and my nails leave the wall. Out of the darkness, I see it. For the first time in all my years of an episode I get a small glimpse of what I'm painting.

A little finger.

Carefully I try to touch it. As soon as I'm a hair away my heart seizes up and I snap back into reality and out of the darkness. I stumble back as if someone has shoved my upper torso. I catch myself on my dad's bike and throw my hand over my chest where my heart beats unsteadily. Closing my eyes, I breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth.

When I finally gain control over myself, I open my eyes to see the image before me. My throat swells and I break out in a cold sweat.

Wallpaper.

More accurately torn, old, curled yellow and white rose wallpaper that reveals sections of moldy banged up drywall behind it. There's a hole over down to the right where a little part of that tiny finger has breached through. There are bubble lines like veins around that part of the wallpaper that still remains intact apart from the hole where the top part of the finger sticks through it. The wallpaper curls away from it as the shredded pieces fall down into a scattered pile.

A small silhouette is on the revealed parts of drywall, but not on any of the shredded wallpaper. It looks to be a child's, but I have no idea. Whatever it is... it wanted out, like it's trapped between the wall and wallpaper and it wanted to get to me and something about that terrifies me.

A sharp searing pain shoots in my head making it pound. My fingers grip the roots of my curls and I don't care in the slightest that a variety of paint colors are sticking to my hair.

Turning away from the haunting image, I rip off my latex gloves and let the migraine come. I briskly walk back and forth then sit in front of it, closing my eyes and massaging them with my fingers. I breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth.

The creaks and sound of the wind calms me as does listening to my deep breathing technique. My body relaxes and it feels like I've run a marathon. Once I'm in the right state I open my eyes and look around the garage to see everything is the same, except for the table that had fallen over scattering all of dad's tools on the floor.

My eyes snap back to the image before me and I crawl forward and kneel to where I'm eye level with the tiny figure. My hands go up to touch it and see if it's dry and I swear I can feel a heartbeat hover between me and the painting.

As if it's alive.

It's weird how they always seem alive after I'm done with them. I never go back either or try to rework it because I know it's already completed. My episodes don't end until it's finished.

I retreat and decide not to touch it. Leaning away, my skin tickles as if someone is there next to me and I'm anticipating them to reach out and snag me. Or slide those little arms around my neck and pull me into the cold dark place it lives.

Silence whispers around me along with the wind. As I keep my breathing steady a small voice breaks the quiet night.

"Why won't you remember me?"

Darting away and crawling like a demented crab, my back hits something hard and long. It moves and then something crouches down next to me and fear snakes around me, suffocating me.

"I want to save her."

The shackles break off of me and I tilt my head to see Adonis squatting like a frog right behind me. Now something else grips me. My voice is croaky and rough when I whisper, "How long have you been here?"

Those bipolar eyes snap to mine and that deep forest green one glints against the dim lighting. "I left my phone and I heard someone bust out of the garage door and wanted to make sure everything was alright."

It's as if a seizure goes off inside of me.

He had seen it.

He had seen all of it.