lovely | thirteen reasons why

(10) november

My earliest memory is not the most pleasant. I try to recall my mother in the early days, but it becomes harder the older I get. To the point now where I cannot picture her in my mind. I was never allowed to see what she looked like after we separated. I tried to glance at police reports, tabloids, anything I could get my hands on which could help me paint that picture back. I've always been told I look just like her by my step-mom and father, but I don't even know if they're telling the truth.

But like I said, I wasn't always a part of the Clarke dynasty. There was a time where Giles Clarke didn't know I existed. During those times, I was living under a bridge. Quite literally, she lived with a gang in a carved out home underneath a bridge. My father said she was a sex worker or a drug dealer, but I'm not sure which it is. Maybe it's both. But the point is our lives were not conventional. My life wasn't conventional even back then.

And I only know about the bridge because that's where I was found.

I remember hearing sirens and gunshots and the sound of screams, but that's all my brain can conjure. Sounds. I was in a barrel at the end of a tunnel, that's the first image, and then blonde hair and blue eyes. The eyes of my eldest brother Alden. He was 26 at the time, still young in his career working for our father. But this was his first mission. Finding me. Bringing me home.

He tried to be careful, but I was resistant and he clearly didn't know how to care for children. I cried and wiggled in his grip, but I eventually stopped as his hold tightened to the point I could hardly breathe.

Alden was not very forthcoming, he was not very intimidating. He was a meek man with no discernible characteristics. He had no distinguishing factors either other than a buzz cut. No tattoos, nothing. And yet his quiet and reserved nature scared me. He placed me in the passengers seat of his car as we drove for hours into the early morning. There was no car seat, so I was hanging on for dear life.

The first words I remember him saying to me after everything was, "What's your name?"

My voice was so hoarse, I had been crying this entire time. When I didn't answer and he saw me gripping at my throat, he grabbed an old water bottle from the back and unscrewed it, pulling it to my lips. I had no choice but to do as he said. I hated admitting it made me feel better. He repeated the question. It was still hard to answer, not from the dry throat this time but because of how scared I was. "L-Libby. Libby Jayva Salim."

He nodded. "Unique name. I should've guessed from your skin. But with your first name, you could pass as white." I didn't understand what he meant at the time so I just nodded along. "And how old are you?"

I hesitated because I didn't know. I didn't understand the concept of aging. I was still a child. "I-I think I'm three." I suppose I guess with whatever I heard from my mother.

But that answer did not please him. "You think? What do you mean you think?"

I instantly became afraid. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-I change my mind. I'm three! I'm three!"

He tried to calm me down. "Okay. Okay. You're three. I'll have to double check with our father. You'll also need a blood exam when we arrive."

His words did nothing to soothe me, specifically the word blood. "I'll be good, I promise. I don't need blood. I'm good."

He rolled his eyes. "I should not have to be a babysitter." He spent the next hour talking to himself. "Viktor gets to stay by father's side. Mortimer gets to do whatever he wants. But I have to track down our supposed half-sister and bring her into the family. Yeah, dad. A bastard certainly is the most important mission of our family. Definitely."