Chapter Two

Lina... First Memories

    My first memory is of waking up in a park, on a bench, with a worried police officer  talking to me.

    I wasn't dressed for the cold, the world was white with snow, dusting my lashes, shoulders, and lap. The officer said I must not have been out there long, there was not much snow on my bright red, flyaway hair.

    He, the officer, asked me many questions, none of which I could answer. I could not answer him why I was outside in only a tank top, shorts, and thin pink and gray striped leggings. Who my parents were, or where they are. Why there was a pack of lucky sevens and a lighter in my pocket, or why my breath smelled like smoke. I couldn't tell him why the warm drink I clutched as if my life depended on it was filled with one parts coffee and two parts liquor. 

    The only thing I could tell the police was my name, Lina.

     The officer brought me to a hospital, to get checked out, to try and get some other answer from something I could contain. He gave me the name Angelina, a name which felt awkward on my skin, but something told me not to complain, to just stay quiet. My name is still Angelina.

    Later, that man told me that he was afraid I had died, my skin so pale, he initially thought I was made of snow. My bright hair had drawn his eyes, and my stillness stopped his heart. He was certain, when he saw me, that he would have to bring me the morgue.

    It is confirmed that I was approximately nine years old when I was found that fateful winter morning.

    I lived as a ward of the state for about a year before Westin and River adopted me. In their home, there were two little boys, Edward and Samuel Rineheart. Maria had not been found yet, though it was my two adoptive father's mission to find her and complete their little blood family. 

    I did not talk for about two years after being adopted. When put in uncomfortable situations, I would reach for my back pocket, although I never put anything in them. I think it was a habit from before... I lost my memories. For those first few years, my hand was always digging in that pocket, trying to reach for something that no longer existed. That's how I feel about life,when I feel like I'm about to remember something, what I felt slips from my fingers, lost to my abysmal mind.