✶ SIXTEENTH OF NOVEMBER 1959

♫ La Bamba, Ritchie Valens

Valerie sat at her window and counted the number of chicks that just hatched from their shells outside her window. It was one of her favorite things to do on the farm, outside of the other mundane activities her life offered.

The air inside was warm, but her window was cold to the touch. Early mornings brought on a chilling draft that froze the wind around them. She bundled herself in her blankets and continued to watch the baby birds yawn and gnaw at their mother.

Life on the farm was boring to say the least. Sleep, chores, eat and repeat. Her routine. All she remembered being on that farm. Sleep, chores, eat, and repeat. Sometimes when she was alone in her room, she pursed her lips together and let out tiny whistles. The glass on her desk moved without her moving a muscle.

It was one of their family's secrets. Well, more like she was their secret.

To the other two neighbors they regularly saw, Valerie was the ordinary home-schooled girl of the Carsons. Timid, well-mannered and hardworking. Never spoke a word to anyone else outside of her parents other than polite greetings here and there.

Life was much more peaceful when you didn't talk. Words felt like cotton balls were being stuffed through your nostrils and into your brain. At least to Valerie. Her head was chronically in a tiny pang of pain. She chucked it up to voices. They ring her ears and linger until she wants to scream.

Footsteps thumped down the hallway and stopped outside of her door. An unnecessary amount of knocks made her ears wriggle. "Valerie Rose."

She sighed and let out a tiny whistle, opening the door for her mother, whose permanent scowl entered the room with her.

"Now I know you got that grace of god in you, but when your mama knocks, you get up and open the damn door." She lectured, for the eighth time that hour.

Never in the mood to argue, Valerie nodded. "Yes ma'am."

Fiona Carson sent her only child a curt nod and exited the bedroom. The woman wasn't built to nurture, she was made to task, to chore and to work. A stubborn-minded mother who ushered her child into the house instead of kissing her scraped knee to help her feel better. Much more of a 'rip off the bandaid' type of person.

Valerie's head shot toward her door again and her posture immediately corrected. She relaxed at the sight of her father.

"You alright, birdie?" His smile made the ringing in her ears stop.

"Yes sir." She nodded politely. Slightly scared of her mother interrupting to hand her a ninth lecture.

"It's Friday, meet me in the kitchen in five, birdie."

Fridays were the best day of the week in the Carson household. In the sweet sounds of Ritchie Valens, they flowed simultaneously in the kitchen. Between making the sauce, seasoning the beef and boiling the pasta for their lasagna in a synchronized fashion that had been in practice for years.

Valerie placed the pasta in the center of the dining table, while her mother shook the garden salad until it was mixed to perfection. Dad sat at the head of the table, placing his hands in theirs to begin Grace.

"Thank you lord for another lasagna Friday with my girls. I couldn't ask for anything or anyone better."

Valerie's mom cooed, endeared with her husband's words.

"I am grateful that we had lasagna left and thank you for my family, lord. Bless." She smiled, mouth watering at the smell evaporating from their dinner.

"I am grateful for my lovely husband and daughter. My most prized possessions. Brave, ambitious, honest ..." She pulled out a piece of paper from her lap and slid it on the table toward Valerie. "Well I'd be lying if I said honest."

Her syllabus. She forgot to toss it once she got her school supplies ready for the school year. Her and Dad planned to break it to her easy, but like always, she was a step ahead of them.

"You know you're not allowed to go to school."

Valerie gulped. "Well, I thought I could give it a try. Leave the farm during the day at least."

"No." She said firmly.

"But Mama—" She cut Valerie off.

"You know how I feel about this already."

"Yeah, we always know how you feel." She muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Honey, I'm sorry. We just thought that—"

Her mom couldn't care enough to deal with her dishonest husband. She would much rather confront her disrespectful daughter.

"What did you say?" She paused between syllables, attempting to be more intimidating.

"I said we always know how you feel," Valerie repeated herself. "Because it's always about how you feel, but no one else's feelings ever matter."

"Now you know that's not true—"

"It was Valerie's turn to cut her off. "Of course it's true, Ma! You keep me holed up in here, so I can be just as miserable as you are. But I don't have to be."

"You watch your tongue, Valerie Rose." Her mother hissed. "Go to your bedroom."

It didn't matter to Valerie anymore. She'd lost her appetite. Following her mothers commands, she stormed into her bedroom. The door slamming shut without her laying a hand on it. The faint sound of Ritchie Valens still seeping through the wooden panels of their house. His voice soothed her as she sobbed into her pillow. The sounds of her own cries nearly deafened her, but she couldn't stop herself until she'd sobbed herself into a sleep.

Two hours later, she woke up. Dazed and congested from earlier, she stared at the clock beside her bed until she could make out the time. Half past eleven. Her parents hadn't fallen asleep from what she could hear. Their muffled voices ushered and analytical of Valerie.

A knock stopped them in their tracks, even Valerie who was on the second floor held her breath. Who would be knocking on their door at eleven thirty at night?

Her mom swung the door open, ushering her quickly out of the room. "C'mon."

"What's happening?" She quiered, she didn't receive an answer but she got an order.

"Get in the closet."

Valerie opened her mouth to ask another question, but her mother stopped her.

"This is no time to argue with me, Valerie Rose. Inside now."

Once she crouched inside the crawl space inside of the hallway closet, she looks back up at her mother. She kept her face stone cold when giving Valerie instructions, but this one was different. It was urgent, and knowing, like she knew this would happen someday, or somehow. She whispered.

"There is a black briefcase in that crawlspace. Take it. It'll take some time to get used to, but you'll figure it out. Okay?"

Nothing about this made sense. "What do you mean, Ma?"

"Just— Valerie I don't have time to explain. I wish I did. I also wish this day wouldn't have had to come so soon, baby. You're too young, but you'll know soon." She grabbed her face and kissed her forehead, letting her face linger on the top of Valerie's curls. "Listen to as much as you can. Listen, take in all the information, okay? Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes. I understand."

Valerie shoved herself through the space and laid there with her arms pressed against the floorboards. It was dark and dusty. She used her arms to guide her until they touched something boxy and leathery. The suitcase.

A small crack in the floorboards gave Valerie a partial view of the first floor. She peered through.

Her father opened the front door to their house, haphazardly peaking his head out to the person at their door. "Is there something we can help you with?"

"Yes." A woman said. Valerie couldn't see her face, just the glossy red of her high heels. "I'm looking for an old friend. Caroline?"

"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong house. There's no Caroline here." Her father stated.

The woman chuckled, giving a lightly embarrassed tone. "Oh, wrong house?" A shot rang out and Valerie's hands shot over her ears. Then, a thump downstairs. She peered through to see her father sprawled out on the ground, bleeding from his chest.

"Dad..." she whispered, covering her mouth.

"I'm sure I have the right house." It was a white woman from what Valerie could see, short gray hair and a menacing smile. Another man followed her, gray hair and beard with a nicely pressed suit on — which was now splattered in her father's blood.

"Caroline." The gray-haired woman cheerfully spoke. Directly at her mother, who now had a shotgun perched in her arms.

"It's Fiona now." She answered. "What do you want?"

"Well, I need something that you so rudely took from me."

Her mom scoffed. "Took. Now that's a word for what I did. She was my family, you'd think I let you take her?"

Who were they talking about? Were they talking about her? Valerie pressed her face closer to the ground, trying to grasp every aspect of this woman's voice.

"Well, where is she?" The woman asked, taking it upon herself to search through cupboards, closets and dressers.

Mom cocked the gun. "She's gone. Away with loved ones for the holidays."

"You're lying, Caroline. You were always quite the trickster. Y'know until you took off." She kicked through different decorations items in their home, taunting her mother as she took a long fingernail and scraped it along the wood panels. This sent Valerie's head into a blistering headache, she plugged her ears quickly.

"What do you want?" Her mother asked again, pausing between each word, just like she'd done with her earlier at the dinner table.

The woman sighed. "The girl. Well, you could say my girl. Where is she?"

"I told you, she ain't here. It's not like you can track her like you do your guinea pigs at the Commission."

The Commission? This puzzle wasn't connecting, she kept her ears glued to that space. Listening and watching as much as she could, it was hard seeing as her father laid there gargling on his own blood.

The click-clack of the woman's high heels had become the most terrifying thing in the room. As she took it upon herself to come upstairs. The sounds of shuffling and rummaging travelled its every room. Valerie shuffled toward the entrance of the crawl space, wood covering her as the white woman opened the door into the closet and peered between the jackets.

Now, Valerie had a perfect view of the woman's face. She was beautiful, except for a scar that extended from the left side of her chin. Lips painted red and wearing the oddest hat she's ever seen in her life.

After shuffling through the closet for a few minutes, she sighed. "Kill Order 742, down the drain. Shame." With that, she shut the closet door. Her high heels clicking as she made her way down the steps.

Another shot rang before Valerie could make it back to her viewpoint. She shuffled as quickly and as quietly as she could, the ringing in her ears making her head spin and her vision blurry.

The woman stood over her mother, the click of her heel became unbearable to listen to. Crimson blood stained her right pant leg and the older man held his gun upright, gunpowder still smoking from his pistol. She sighed, looking down at her mother in disappointment. Like she'd become something she wasn't.

"Caroline, Caroline, Caroline. Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn and so good willed? It's disgusting."

"It's motherhood. Not like you'd understand." Her mother said.

The woman sighed, stretching her neck over and sighing once more. With the snap of her fingers, the older man pulled his trigger again. Instead, now it was at her  mother's head. Her body jerked to the side and fell onto the kitchen floor, blood slowly seeping into the poorly installed wooden panels.

"I actually used to like you, Caroline. What a shame. A great worker too. Let's head out now." Before the woman could leave the house, the man finally spoke up.

"And the girl?" He spoke.

"Don't worry. She can't run around Texas on her own for long."

And with a violent, blue-colored whoosh, they were both gone. The air lingered heavy. Twelve year old Valerie Carson couldn't move. Any moment they could just 'pop' back in, exactly how they left. This is madness. Valerie was descending into madness. Her parents couldn't be dead. She tried to convince herself she was still in her post-argument sleep and having a bad reaction to it. It was all a nightmare.

The nightmare became feeling less and less manufactured by her subconscious as she made her way down the staircase. She placed the briefcase down near her feet where the trail of her mother's blood ended. Valerie sat beside her mother and father, wide-eyed and cold to the touch apologizing endlessly that night.

Whatever this woman wanted, it had something to do with her. This greed to obtain Valerie all ended like this. In the death of her parents and her childhood.

On that fateful night of November sixteenth nineteen fifty nine, Valerie Carson stumbled out of her home blood-stained. A family portrait of theirs reflecting her own state. The Carson's smiling at the home camera as trickles of the parent's blood painted it harshly.

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