12. TWELVE
TWELVE
brEE
16 YEARS OLD
I never went to school. I never had a friend. My world was small, just my family and Mel. That summer, though, something shifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, we convinced our parents to let us go to the beach alone. They were always so overprotective, they always wanted us close, always within arm's reach, as though letting us go too far might shatter something fragile. We thought it was love, a strange kind that they didn't show but couldn't let go of.
The still morning was suddenly bursting into sound. It was barely six, the kind of early where you felt the world was stuck in a dream. An aged Greek, his raspy voice suddenly shattered the quiet outside, yelling out beneath our window.
"Fresh cherries! Sweet, fresh, buy!" And his voice boomed louder and louder, breaking through the morning fogginess.
"We don't want your damn cherries! Go away!" Mel shouted, leaning out the window. She turned to me, grinning, a laugh bubbling from her chest as she collapsed onto the bed.
"Malaka!" the man barked, shuffling off with a glare, his muttered curses fading as he went.
"You really pissed him off," I said, biting my own laugh back.
Mel looked at me, her face softening into that knowing gaze she always wore, the look that made her seem so much older than fourteen. She was always the wise one, seeing through the world's little tricks when I clung too closely to the stories told to me, trusting too much by half.
She wordlessly crawled to her bed and pulled something from underneath the mattress. The glossy magazine she had taken when Mom wasn't looking. She flipped it open to a page with a model draped across a page in his underwear.
"This," Mel said, poking her finger at the picture, "this is why we're going to the beach alone today." She gave me a wicked grin. "And don't give me that saint look."
I tried to keep a straight face, but a giggle managed to sneak out. "You think anyone will even notice us?"
Mel didn't answer right away, instead tugging my hand to pull me to my feet and spinning us toward the mirror on the old wardrobe. The reflection showed two girls caught in a moment, dark blonde hair falling wild around her face, my lighter locks brushing my shoulders. She rested her chin on my shoulder, her eyes following mine.
"Are you kidding?" she whispered, "Look at you. You're fucking beautiful."
Her words hit me, and I turned to her, wrapping her in a tight hug. "I fucking love you, you know that, don't you?" I murmured against her hair.
"And I love you, malaka, " she said, giggling, the word spilling from her mouth. "Even though I have no idea what it means."
She pulled back and spun us to face the mirror again, her hands clamping down on my shoulders. "This is our year. No more locked doors. No more rules. Just us, and maybe some of those gorgeous men out there."
Her squeal of excitement echoed through the room, her hands clapping together as she bounced on her toes. For the first time, I let myself believe her. Maybe this really could be our year.
The beach was supposed to feel like freedom, but it didn't. Not with our parents at the bar above, watching us from their shaded perch in case we disappeared if they happened to look away.
"Minors need supervision," Dad told us before we left. Their rules clung to us, every step we made.
Mel didn’t seem to mind. Lying on her towel, her arms outstretched, seeking the sun, her skin already a deep pink. But she didn’t move, she lay there, and her body needed to feel it, to leave a mark on it. All I could do was sit and wait, let the rhythms of the sea sway me, like a melody I couldn’t help but hum.
I stood and wandered toward the shore, my feet falling onto the hot sand, and eyes searching smooth cool rocks at the edge of waves. Restless, the sea was crashing into rocks, sending sprays of salt water upwards, through the air. I let mist stay on my skin as it settled from it, closing my eyes to the roaring sound of the ocean.
When I opened them, I wasn't alone.
A woman was standing there, leaning on rocks with the shimmering sea acting as a backdrop, her blonde hair pulled back into some sort of ponytail. She wore sunglasses propped high on her head. Her eyes caught mine, an odd feeling of being stuck in her cool blue-eyed stare. She seemed strange to me, familiar and at once unattainable, like a momentarily forgotten dream.
She took a step closer, again not very sure if she should approach. Her gaze did not waver, nor did it shift to another place. My chest tightened a little because I did not know what to do, whether to leave or stay when she suddenly spoke. "Zara?"
Her voice had cracked and was barely more than a whisper. Then louder, with rising desperation, "Zara, is that you?"
I froze.
The name hit me like an unexpected cold wave. I turned slightly, looking behind me, certain she was talking to someone else. But when I looked back, her eyes hadn’t left me.
She took another step closer, then another, her pace quickening. Something, hope, lit up her face. Before I could say a word, her arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace.
"Zara!" she sobbed. "Oh, Zara, mommy found you!"
I stiffened, my breath catching in my throat. "I'm not Zara," I managed to say, my voice shaking. "You've got the wrong person."
But she didn't let go. Tears streamed down her face as she clung to me, her grip tightening. "Mommy found you," she repeated, words tumbling out like a plea as if she could make them true if she only said them enough.
I tried to pull back, panic rising in my chest. The desperation in her voice made me want to comfort her, but I couldn't. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dad. He was coming down the stairs from the bar, his strides long, fast, his face dark with anger.
In an instant, he was beside me. He pulled my arm, whirled me behind him, and stepped between the woman and me. "Leave her alone!" he shouted, his voice edged, a cutting sound.
The woman took a step back but refused to leave. Her face twisted in anger. Lashing out, she struck the side of his face, leaving a red trail of her palm behind. "You won't take Zara away from me!" she shouted. "Not again!"
I saw Mel running towards us, her bare feet kicking sand. She stopped beside me, her eyes going back and forth between Dad and the woman. "What the hell is happening?" she whispered, her voice low but urgent.
"I don't know," I whispered, the loudness of my heartbeat muddling my words. I turned back to the woman, who by now had streaks running down her face, her chest heaving as she stared at me like the answer to a question that only she knew. "I'm not Zara!" I yelled louder than I intended. "My name is Bree!"
Mel snorted, breaking the tension with a half-laugh. "You're a magnet for lunatics," she murmured in a teasing voice, holding her hand tightly in mine, pulling me away.
Mom was waiting for us at the bar, sitting under the shade of her wide-brimmed hat. She didn't even look up as we approached. Instead, she sipped her drink, as though nothing in the world could disturb her peace.
"What happened?" she asked coolly, her sunglasses reflecting the late morning sun.
"Some woman attacked Bree," Mel said, her voice light, free of the weight of it all.
Mom lowered her sunglasses enough to see me. "Are you okay?" she asked, softer.
"Yeah," I said, sinking into a chair beside her. My voice felt small and shaky. "She thought I was someone named Zara."
"Zara?" Mom repeated, her lips curling into a faint smile. Then she laughed—a quiet, dismissive laugh. "Well, that's a new one."
I forced a laugh, too, but it felt fragile like it might crack under its own weight. "Yeah. It is."
Mom smiled, then set her drink down and stood. "Let's go home," she said, adjusting her hat with a careless flick of her hand. But as she turned away, I could have sworn I heard her murmur, soft as the breeze. "Zara…"
I looked at Mel, trying to read her face for some sign of what she was thinking, but she didn't give anything away. It was just one of those moments that was too weighty, too weird to talk about.
The walk home was overbearingly quiet. Neither of us said a word. The only sounds were the dull slap of our sandals against the ground and the distant hum of waves breaking upon the shore. Every step was like stretching time and by the time we reached the apartment door, my chest was tight, still, I couldn't say a thing.
Mom turned the moment we stepped inside. Her eyes were sharp, her posture tense, like she already knew something had gone wrong.
"There are people out there," she started, her voice wasn't rising above low. "People who will never mean well, people who want to hurt you."
She took another step closer, her hand rising to rest against my cheek then Mel's, the touch was soft though the words weighed as rocks upon both of us.
"Now you understand why your dad and I are trying so hard to protect you," she said, turned, calling us upstairs without waiting for the response.
We were halfway up the stairs when the front door burst open, the force of it slamming against the wall. The sound made us all jump, and we turned to see Dad standing in the doorway. His face was scratched, and his chest heaved as though he'd been running. There was something wild in his eyes, something that made my stomach drop.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice raw. "Pack your things. We're leaving. Now."
The room was silent. Mom didn't ask why, didn't argue. She didn't even flinch. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and she gave a single, curt nod.
And that was all. Another trip cut short, another frantic, frenzied scramble to get packed up and go with no answers. It was always that way—his way, or no way. No explanations, no warnings. Just the command to go. I hated it, that feeling of powerlessness. What could I do?
We never had choices. We did what we were told, swept along in the storm of his decisions.
PRESENT DAY
A few minutes earlier, I had told the doctor my name, the same doctor who had failed to protect me from the police chief not so long ago. His silence was louder than my questions, his eyes heavy with the answers he had never given. All I wanted to ask was why, but the words seemed to evaporate in the sterile air from my mouth. No explanation, nothing.
A nurse came in clutching an old white brick telephone of the type that seemed to belong to ages past. She was really hesitant, her eyes darting between me and the white brick in her hand.
"Miss," she said, almost whispering. "I tried running your name through the system, and nothing came up. No file." Her voice hitched. "Detective Karlsson is on the line. I had to call him. I'm so sorry."
She held the phone out toward me, her hand extended. I stared at it, shaking my head. I didn't want to talk to him.
"Please, miss," she pressed. "It's important."
I took the phone, my hand stiff. I pressed it to my ear and snapped, "What?" It was sharp, bratty , but I didn't care.
"Bree," Thor said, his voice as even as his features. He didn't flinch at my obvious hostility. "We ran your name through the database and found nothing. Is Bree short for something?"
"No," I said curtly, "that is my name."
There was a pause on the other end, and then his voice softened. "You're not lying, are you?"
Something inside me snapped. The anger I'd been bottling up boiled over, spilling out in a sharp burst. "First I'm a delusional, troubled young woman, and now I'm a liar too?" I shouted, my fingers clenching around the phone. "Aren't you the detective? You tell me. Why am I not in your database?"
"Bree," he said, his voice firm without trembling, trying to break into my anger.
I didn't let him finish. It was just too much, and in a surge of frustration, I let my anger boil over. I pushed the phone back at the nurse, turning and burrowing into myself. She didn't hassle me further but took the phone and headed out; the soft ticking of her shoes trailed down the hallway.
I pushed the pillow aside, angry, not at him, but at myself for trusting him, for letting myself believe even for a moment that he could help me. Turning to the other side of the bed, I stared at the wall while my mind was a vortex of frustration and exhaustion.
A soft knock sounded in the room, breaking the silence. I didn't answer, I refused to turn. That was when I saw him, his figure reflected in the window ahead of me. A black hoodie covered his body, paired with blue jeans outlining his legs.
"Isak?" I asked, sitting up slowly before I turned to him.
He came into the room, holding a white rose in his hand. He approached me and reached out to hand it to me. "This is for you," he said softly. "White, just like snow."
Snow.
I took the rose, a smile spreading across my face despite myself. "It's beautiful," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've never gotten flowers before."
Not from anyone. Ever.
For a moment, the walls I'd built around me cracked. The simple gesture—his presence—stirred a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe , someone could save me after all.
"Just a small gift," he said, sitting down beside me.
"Thanks," I muttered, the smile still lingering. "White's my favorite."
I lied.
It wasn't. Red was.
Red had always been my favorite. The color of strawberries, of fire, of life itself. Maybe I loved it because it was something I couldn’t have. My allergy to strawberries had only made their rich, forbidden red more tempting. Over time, the color had attached itself to me, a symbol of everything I wanted but couldn’t have.
But white, white was safe.
"I figured," Isak said, his voice soft, the tips of his fingers brushing my cheek.
I closed my eyes at the touch, leaning into it for the briefest moment before pulling away. My breath caught as I pushed his hand back, shaking my head.
"I'm not ready," I said, my voice trembling.
He nodded, his eyes understanding, but sad. He didn't say anything, just let the moment hang in the air between us.
I had dreamed of this, of someone coming to save me. Of a prince on a white horse, riding in to take me away from everything that hurt. But life wasn't a fairy tale, and closure didn't come from someone else. It came from within. I had to fix myself. Heal myself. It wasn't fair to force my broken heart to try and love when all it needed was time to mend.
I knew that, deep down always had. But sometimes the pain was overwhelming, and all I wanted was an easy way out. I wanted someone else to take it away. To save me. To make it all better. But it didn't quite work that way. And I wasn't ready to let anyone in, not yet.