Isabelle's Memory II

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a continuation of Isabelle's Memory.

Updated: 10/10/2015-- original draft is where all comments and statements arise.

Furthermore, please note that any and all parts or events in this story are fictional, and I do not condone the actual practices that take place in this story.


Scared by the telephone call, Diana didn't do anything but weep. Her already pale skin grew more clammy and cold, while mine warmed. I honestly can't explain it, nor do I wish to really try. Nevertheless, my speaking and her growing resentment toward everything was nowhere near the strangest thing to happen. That didn't come until we arrived at Anne’s and Damien's home for the first time. Their home was small and quiet, although strangely familiar. In fact, as I stood there, a cold shiver began to radiate all through me. Each wall was painted with a light shade of violet that allowed them to glow whenever the sun’s golden rays struck it just right.

"Are you coming?"

I nodded, yet my feet refused to budge. I couldn't help it. Memories surged violently into my head, and before either of us realized what happened, I was sprawled out across the landing, trembling with fear.

"I ... I can't. I'm sorry, Mom." I barely managed to squeak between heaving breaths. Startled, Diana staggered back. It was the first time I referred to her as anything other than Yo Bitch, or Hey you, and as I said before, after the telephone call I didn't speak much. Not that I didn't have anything to say, I simply didn't know how to say it. I mean, how does a foster child tell the ones who took them in, cared for them, "It serves your daughter right. She deserved to die the way she did."

And after what felt like an eternity of trembling with indescribable fear, it finally stopped; although, admittedly, I still felt rather unsure about entering their broken home, and the instant I stepped foot inside their door, my knees began to knock together. It was like my childhood was happening all over again. The emptiness of the shadows cast throughout the entire apartment tore at the very essence of my being. From room-to-room, that feeling of dread never truly left me alone. It felt like my tormentors had somehow returned fiercer than when I first knew them, and even to this day, five years later, I still have to have two nightlights on; because out their comfortable glow, I’m afraid of what really hides within the darkest shadows of night; afraid that the horrors of my past will arrive long before I close my eyes and dream sweetly beneath warm covers.

Damn my parents and everyone for what they've done. All I'd ever wanted was to be left alone and cherished by my parents for who I was. Not used as someone's sex toy.


At home, Diana grew rather worried about me and what happened. However, she didn't dare confront me. She knew better than that. She realized in time, if I wanted to discuss it, I would approach her. After all, Diana was the only one I ever spoke to on a regular basis. I mean, spend five-years in a home, where all one girl does is cry, and her mother comes running, you'd begin to soften too, but...I guess it isn't so bad having someone to speak with once-in-while; even if it's about the most stupidest of shit happening in your already fucked up life. Mark on the other hand was quiet and reserved, unless we were discussing work, soccer, or food. None of which, I could personal fault him for. His restaurant was always the busiest of all restaurants on a Friday or Saturday night, and that took up most of his attention. However, when it came to soccer, he even dragged me to a couple matches, although I didn't go for the same reasons he did.

The first time I attended a soccer game was shortly after I was placed with Diana and Mark. He would take both Anne and me with him and say that it was Mom’s time to be alone.

Of course, it was only later that I learned the real reason Mark had taken both of us with him to the soccer fields. Mark had once played for an amateur soccer club in the center of Connecticut, and one of his friends went on to play professionally for the local soccer team, and his daughter who attended all of his games never had anyone to keep her company. Her mother had died giving birth to her and her step mother, who just happened to be Mark’s old, high school sweetheart, didn’t enjoy the outdoors or sports as much as she did.


Over the next two-days, however, Diana left me to my lonesome. Not that she wanted to, according to her, but, because her work load had become too hectic for anything else. Me, I think it was only because she didn’t know how to be a real mother anymore. I mean, any time I would ask to speak with her, she'd quickly shoo me away from her office or out of out the room before closing the door, or picking up the telephone and pretending to start an imaginary conversation with someone who wasn’t really there. Then again, that wasn’t also the only thing in Mark and Diana’s life to start crumbling down all around them.

One day, I was sitting in the living room, downstairs, watching a movie, when I heard a knock at the door. Being home alone, I nervously made my way through the house and flicked on the porch light. Standing there in the shadows were two people. At first, I didn’t recognize either of them; so, I nervously looked through the peep hole and watched as the short of the two men reached over and gave another impatient knock; before reaching down and turning the door knob.

It’s locked, you bastard. What are you going to do now?

“Who is it?” I called, steading myself.

“Police. We received a call…”

“One minute.” I took another deep, steading breath and opened the door. “Hello," I said, hoping my quiet voice wouldn't sound too frightened or, like I was sitting home alone. Yet, I was never that lucky; because the moment my voice escaped my lips, I knew something wasn’t right. They had both turned to each other and smiled a smile I hadn’t seen in the past four years.

"Hello yourself, Dear-y,” the taller of two gentleman said, “Are your parents’ home?" The glistening of the streetlight barely illuminated their torn faces. However, just staring at them those few seconds, I realized immediately that they'd each had a hard life.

"Well, Girlie, are your parents’ home or not?" repeated the smaller gentleman, who just so happened to be wearing a long, black trench coat and blue latex gloves.

"I'm sorry. They're not. May I help you though?" Damn it, you fool. What were you thinking telling ‘em that? “I mean, they’re…” but it was too late.

"Yes," the other hissed violently. "I believe you can."

Frightened, my eyes widened as he reached for my arm and started to tug. However, I was already prepared for something like this, almost as if it were some type of basic instinct. In fact, I didn't stop struggling with them until one of them pulled a pistol from beneath their coat and placed it against my temple and cocked the hammer back.

"You going to continue this pointless battle, Girlie? Or, am I going to splatter your brains against this wall here?"

My body fell limp in his partner's arms. The fight was over. There wasn't anything I could do, but accompany these two strange men into the darkest of nights.

Submitted: April 28, 2009

© Copyright 2021 Fleur Elizabeth. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Will there be a continuation? I expect some more. It's like Isabelle knows Damein's and anne's home...

Tue, April 28th, 2009 11:58am


You'll have to wait. I'm unsure of when I'll be complete Isabelle's Memory. The story has taken a life of its own and when a story does that, it's best for the author of it to listen and stick with it.

Tue, April 28th, 2009 5:02am


Rushing this AM Fleur...I have read it over 3 times and need to read it again to make an intelligent comment. Thanks for sharing, more later. Ty

Tue, April 28th, 2009 1:00pm


I understand that the point is to keep me as the reader intrigued so I will keep reading and finding answers to the questions. You have me hooked with more questions like:
How many rewrites to get the piece to this point?
What is the fine of line of tmi and not enough?
How do you make that determination?
Enquiring minds want to know your secrets.

Wed, April 29th, 2009 2:54am


This is the second time I've touched this piece. The first time I wrote it and the time I posted it here.

As for the fine line between tmi and not enough isn't determined by the author, rather the story itself and the audience. That is one reason many professionals recommend writing a piece and then going through it some time later when you've semi-forgotten what you've written. It allows you to look at your pieces from a fresh light.

The recommendations I always make are based on the knowledge I've gained over my seven years of writing and the couple private writing classes I've taken. Most typically, when I read an individuals work, I am able to point out issues within the first four paragraphs and make notes. If a writer notices errors like punctuation, grammar, flow, and structure within this period, it will be found throughout. However, usually I give a person the benefit of the doubt and read through the first chapter and then make comments and recommendations.

Catching the eye of your audience is the hardest thing to do. That is why looking at the first two or three paragraphs is usually the best suggest I make about writing. Like agents, publishers, and the audience you seek to entertain with your writing, if you're unable to catch my eye within the first four paragraphs I immediately make notes and comment. Rarely, will I actually correct, or make suggestions on how something should be written if the writer/author doesn't have the potential to produce excellent work. Therefore, the longer my comments, the more I like the possibilities and qualities that author posses.

Wed, April 29th, 2009 10:34am


Omgz who's at the door??
I must know x_x
The suspense and thoughts running around my head is killing me
I love this story :)
See lolz I told you, you got me hooked :)
Please keep writing (will there be a continuing? I hope so)


Sun, May 3rd, 2009 3:29pm


so exciting! i wanna know what happens next!!! ^_^
keep it up!

Sun, May 3rd, 2009 6:00pm


Why is it exciting? Something other than intrigue must drive your thoughts. Can you please expand? Thanks.

Sun, May 3rd, 2009 4:45pm


I must know who is at the door. Please write more when you have time because if you leave it for a long time it's going to bother me sooo much. I mean not knowing who is at the door. Great chapters.

Sat, May 9th, 2009 2:26am


Unspeakable horrors were visited upon this girl during her childhood. She is in a safe if somewhat disfunctional family environment at the present time. What would prompt her to open the door to strangers? Hasn't she ever heard of 'stranger danger'?

Also this sentence was troubling:

One day, I was sitting in the living room downstairs watching a movie, when a knock came at the door.

Come on Fleur you have talent and can do better than this pedestrian sentence. Give it more gusto. Tell me how the sunset washed the room in an orange glare or that as dusk decended in the home in her present dark state of mind she could not summon the energy to turn on the lights.

You know and can quote all of the mechanics of writing. Don't be afraid to let me the reader know what lead is feeling.


Sat, May 16th, 2009 2:56am


I know i took the cliché cut and dry end to that paragraph. At the time when, I couldn't think of anything else. Poor excuse on my part. Looking back at it, I kind of wish I hadn't. That one sentence does throw off the complete flow and strucutre of the story because after such high tension, it flops on its face. The climax of the story is the end of Section 3, from there I wanted to break the tension. It happened too soon.

As for her opening the door while strangers were there. You have to remember, she's been through so much already in life. All she's ever really known was strangers in & outside, emotionally & physically. She thought she could handle the situation. Thank about how many times a day you, your children open up the door to a stranger without fully understanding their purpose. Not just strangers, but neighbors, regulars in the neighborhood. Each community, family, has different guidelines and procedures for dealing with people who are unknown to them.

Sat, May 16th, 2009 2:33am

Jamie Rambo

Ouch, this is why I know martial arts and why my daughter, with or against her will, will be learning it as well.

Thanks for the great read and the friendly advice on my own chapter. I think we all have our style and I do appreciate yours.

J. R.

Sun, May 9th, 2010 5:26pm

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