Do you remember?
Therapists, police, reporters, and my parents have all asked me that same question.
That night is a dark void. Bits and pieces, fragments of memories- but no matter how hard I try, I can't put the remnants back together.
He tells me it's better that I don't remember. He wants me to trust him. But his face is plastered across newspapers, the rich boy who killed my sister.
The public has latched onto the story, watching us behind t.v. screens with handfuls of popcorn and wide eyes.
Rich family. Wild party. Dead girl.
What's not to love?