The photo album lay open on my bed to a picture of me when I was a young girl. I was years old, sitting on my knees, with my back facing the camera. I was dressed in a large, puffed up, cream colored gown. My mom had just caught my attention, so you could see that in my arms I was squeezing a chocolate Labrador pup, the same color as my eyes-which tears spilled from endlessly.

When mom took the picture, she had just told me that they had discovered that the puppy had fleas. I was crying because I thought that it meant the puppy was going to die. We had just gotten back from my Aunt Terrell's wedding, so originally I was in a great mood, and this news had affected my mood monstrously. Mom thought the moment was so sweet, she snapped a picture as fast as she could and placed it in this album.

As I looked at the picture now, I saw a whole different story. The little girl version of me may have been crying over the puppy, but this wasn't really the matter. I unconsciously used the puppy as an excuse to let out my real emotions. I was sad-almost depressed despite my age-and this was just a photo of my true self, exposed.

It was how I felt, all the time; then and now. I reached up and clutched my heart, attempting to squeeze the pain away. The little me in the picture was pleading with her eyes. I could hear her muffled screams, coming from a little place in her little heart.

A high pitched, squeaky tune broke my train of thought, and directed my attention over to my nightstand to my cell phone going ringing. I quickly reached over and snapped it up, turning it over to look at the caller ID. It was my mother. I flipped it open, and brought it to my ear.

"Hello? Mom?"

"Annabel? Oh hello, how are you?"

"I am great, mom. What do you need?"

There was an odd silence for a couple of seconds. I asked if she was still there, and she mumbled something unintelligible.

"Annabel, do you think we could have lunch?" She asked, an almost uncertain tone in her question.

"That sounds great, Mom."

"I'll pick you up around 1:30."

When she hung up, I was instantly curious. I went to my kitchen and looked at the date. It was June 16th, nothing special.

Suddenly I gasped, grabbing hold of the counter to support me as my knees weakened. A certain memory hit me harder than a ton of bricks, throwing me into a spiraling nightmare. I had forgotten this dreadful date, and I had done it because I'd chosen to.

The screech of shattering glass, a broken lamp, the slamming of the front

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