Frame of Broken Memories

By Carla Stanciu

Along her bumpy road towards discovery, she digs up long-forgotten histories and memories of dead friends. Angel always knew she was a killer, but she didn't know she had a conscience… or maybe not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667824598

Book preview

1

As the girl walked into the whitened landscape, she knew she was doomed. She had brought doom upon herself and she was for sure going to bring doom upon the people who’d dare to stay in her way.

She tried to focus on the snow creaking under her weight as she stepped forward.

Step. Creaking sounds. Labored breathing.

Another step. Another set of creaking sounds. Another labored inhale followed by another labored exhale.

The girl left behind a trail of footsteps. If one was to follow back the trail, they’d get lost in no time. The squall was vicious and quick to cloud the sky with snowflakes and tiny frost bits, which hence to the frozen wind morphed from the beloved and soft harbingers of winter into painful rusted-nail-like things, digging and burning themselves into the skin of whoever was insane enough to be outside.

The girl stopped for a brief moment and struggled to free her leg which had gotten stuck underneath the thick layer of snow. With a grunt muffled by her four-layered scarf, she managed to free herself. The cold was getting worse and worse to bear by the second. Her bare fingers were both frozen and burning at the same time, the tip of her nose was frozen even underneath the four layers of cotton, her cheeks went numb long ago, along with the tongue and lips. She paused again and stumbled into a pile of snow that seemed to have formed around a stone.

It was soft and almost warm in its entire coldness. It felt like the warm embrace of a very old friend she had parted ways with at some point in her past, who was now greeting her once again, determined to drag her along the right way this time.

No, the girl muttered throwing the image of the old friend and of the crossroads where they parted ways away from her mind. Visions of dead friends were never a good sign. It was the last thing she needed. Getting stuck inside her mind. Terrible thing to do.

She grunted as she tried to stand up again. Snow covered her from her head down to her toes. She was sure she even had snow in her boots. She could feel her wet socks and numb toes. Everything was so numb, it hurt.

The girl pushed herself on her feet and stepped forward again. Step, snow creaking, inhale, exhale. Repeat.

Not many sequences later, she saw a building. Up North Cabin read the big red neon sign above the entrance. Motel rooms for rent, starting with $10 a night read a smaller sign underneath. The girl exhaled pleased with herself. Finally, she whispered and gathered all her remaining power in order to sprint through the snow until the entrance in the Up North Cabin motel.

She exhaled happily once she found herself in the safety and warmth of the poorly lit lobby of the Up North Cabin motel. The wind was still vaguely howling in her ears, freezing her fingers and toes.

Hello, she spoke with a hoarse voice as she approached the front desk. The man behind the counter looked at her with wide eyes. I’d like to get a room. I don’t know yet for how long.

The man didn’t look away.

What is it? the girl snapped. Could you please hurry? I am cold, tired and, frankly, very short-tempered at the moment.

Sorry, it’s just … I didn’t expect anyone to come here in this weather, the man stuttered.

The girl clicked her tongue. Well, here I am. Do you have a free room or do I need to go further down the road until I find someone who has?

Yes, sorry, yes, we have rooms. Name, please? the man nodded his head vigorously, placing a form on the counter.

Ashley Rosa.

Ashley, that’s a nice name, the man smiled as he typed the name on his laptop keyboard.

Thanks, but I hope you’re not hitting on me, otherwise things will end badly, the girl flashed a quick smile then took the form off the counter. Do you have a pen?

The man was quick to provide the girl who identified herself as Ashley with a pen.

Do I really need to fill all these blanks? she asked as the tip of the pen hovered over the empty space following the field designated to the home address.

Yes, it’s just procedure though. Don’t worry, no one will actually be interested in knowing all those details, the man chuckled nervously.

The girl clicked her tongue once more, then quickly filled up the form. There, she announced and handed back the paper and the pen.

Thank you. Your room is number 11, it’s just down that hall and to the right.

Actually, can I please get room 15, if it’s free? the girl asked with innocence in her voice. It’s my lucky number.

Three clicks later, the man handed the girl the key to room number 15. Thank you, she smiled and squinted to read the name tag on the man’s blouse, Greg.

The girl entered the room and quickly locked the door behind herself. She let herself fall on the laminated wooden floor and unfolded the scarf covering her face with a grunt. Now that the warmth made its way into her bones and muscles, every tiny part of her body was beginning to defrost therefore making the numbness go away. She could now feel the wound on her abdomen pulsing and burning into her very being. She was in pain.

With a quick move, she unzipped the thick winter jacket and took out a one-liter bottle with a colorless liquid inside of it. She looked for a brief moment at the liquid making tiny waves inside the almost-matte bottle, then sat up and headed to the bathroom. She let go of the bottle in the sink and began to desperately open and close the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom. Shampoo bottles, soap bars, hair conditioners, shaving cream, a pair of scissors, toothpaste, and a brand-new toothbrush covered in plastic. Nothing interesting or even remotely valuable.

The girl lifted off the now-soaked black blouse, revealing a red mess all over her abdomen. She examined herself in the little bathroom mirror before unscrewing the bottle cap and pouring a little bit of the liquid on her hands. Only now did the smell reach her. It felt like it was burning its way through her nostrils and down her throat. She spun the bottle in her hand and read the inscription at the bottom of the label, slightly tilting the bottle to the side: 40% ALC./VOL.

No pain, no gain, she whispered to herself and poured some of the colorless liquid on her abdomen wounds. She hissed at the burn spreading through her whole body but continued to pour some more. After placing the bottle on the sink’s edge, she applied pressure on the newly disinfected wound with her left hand, while with the right hand she reached in the back pocket of her jeans and took out an adhesive bandage.

With her wound now all patched up and clean, the girl finally allowed herself to look around the room. It was small but undoubtedly comfortable and warm. It was obvious that the room was designed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. The girl’s winter jacket still lay on the floor in the entry hall. A few steps away from the entrance – six or seven steps away, to be precise – the laminated wooden floor turned into a cheap carpet, spreading throughout the whole bedroom. The bed was quite low, and the mattress was very soft, as well as the three pillows and the blanket crowding it.

The girl sat for a moment on the edge of the bed and scanned the walls. They were covered all over by a white-and-light-green striped wallpaper that she found horrible and tasteless. Next to the bed, on the right side, was a nightstand that was shortly pulled aside by Ashley Rosa, revealing a vent about double the size of her palm. The girl kneeled next to it and tapped her fingers on the material. Sounded empty. Cheap. Plastic, she concluded and punched the vent.

After removing what was remaining of the plastic vent, she snaked her hand inside the hole dug into the wall. For a moment she just touched around blindly, until laying her fingers upon a box made out of some cold material. She carefully took it out and closed one eye in order to analyze it. No dust anywhere, so it must’ve been relatively recently placed inside the vent.

She opened up the metallic lid of the box, revealing a blue-marine velvet interior and a note on top of something else she couldn’t see just yet. She read the note in a whisper: To my dear Ashley Rosa or however you’re calling yourself these days, I think it’s time we meet. I have Jenna, Hannah, Carmen, Eve, Grace, and Meg here. They are impatient to see you again and talk about what went down, and I must admit I am curious about it too. Meet me at the Art Gallery of Ontario in forty-eight hours or your friends I named above will suffer serious damage, also damaging you in the process. Please accept my token of good faith. I know you adore designer jewelry, so I took the liberty of bringing you one of my favorite pieces, along with a safety piece. There’s no beauty without danger. P

Peter, you sneaky bastard, Ashley chuckled more to herself, her anger levels rising in her blood. She moved away the note, crumbling it, only to reveal a stunning pair of diamond earrings. Gold and diamonds, in a beautiful and delicate combination. Ashley’s fingers carefully lifted them from the box and examined them. Two large diamonds tied together by a barely-there golden thread formed the base from where hung four more smaller diamonds, each by an individual golden thread. As the light hit the diamonds, it looked like a storm was developing inside each of them. A divine, an infernal, a deadly, and an unknown storm. The French hook gave it away: the earrings were a model that was made in the late 1800s in Britain by a jeweler notorious for providing royal houses with the finest jewels in existence at the time being.

Peter gifted her a pair of earrings stolen from the British Museum, which not even the employees of the British Museum knew that the real item was missing.

Ashley looked inside the box again. On the blue-marine velvet lay one more item of black color – not really standing out in contrast with the background color. She put away the earrings on the bed and picked up the last thing still in the box. A pistol. Loaded with ten bullets.

No beauty without danger, huh? the girl shook her head. Toronto, it is.

2

Jenna Lee, Hannah White, Carmen Davis, Eve Martin, Grace Hill, Meghan (or just Meg) Lewis – Ashley Rosa knew them all very well. They were all different names for herself. Ashley Rosa was, too, just another name in the collection of names.

The girl had a name, but not really. She blended in with the crowd most of the times, and when she didn’t, it was only because she wasn’t around any crowd whatsoever. She was a class of her own, created solely by herself, and her multiple personalities correlated with different names.

L’amoureux¹ stood embroidered at the bottom of her leather jacket in a very light shade of yellow, which at a very close look seemed to be blended with tiny threads of silver. At the top of the jacket, the Roman number six, VI, was embroidered in a similar manner. In between the number and the name of the work of art lay the work of art itself. It was a beautiful and delicate embroidery of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by green grass and pretty flowers. They were standing next to a tree, both of them looking up at the fruits. Around the base of the tree was wrapped a snake, tempting the two original lovers to have a taste of the forbidden fruit.

It was the original sin.

From her ears idly dangled the diamond earrings. They were so light that she needed to check on them multiple times whether she hadn’t lost them.

The Art Gallery of Ontario was for sure a crowdy place, so that required blending in. The earrings didn’t provide anything outstanding to an untrained eye, but the jacket, on the other hand, was quite eye-catching. But it was an art gallery! People do tend to dress out of their comfort zone when visiting art galleries or exhibitions of any kind; nevertheless, the girl toned her outfit down by pairing the two exquisite articles of clothing with a simple pair of high-waisted black jeans and a basic white shirt.

The low heel of her boots clicked loudly at the contact with the wooden floor inside the Art Gallery of Ontario. The girl just knew that Peter would wait for her in the European section of the gallery. The Renaissance was his favorite period in the history of art.

She looked at the number at the entrance in the room. 117. On the wall opposite to the entrance stood Giorgio Ghisi’s Allegory of Life, also known as The Dream of Raphael. In front of the painting stood a single man. He was looking up at the work of art, with his hands clasped behind his back. With the man’s exception, the room was empty.

The girl stepped towards the man but abruptly stopped in the middle of the room, next to a bench. Peter, she stated as a greeting of some kind; it was a rather hostile greeting. The man didn’t flinch. The girl stepped closer.

Angel, glad to see you made it in time, he spoke up and turned around.

Give them over, she stated.

Give what over?

Quit it, she cut him short. She was in absolutely no mood for silly arguments with Peter.

Or what? What, Angel? Are you going to kill me too? he asked and straightened his back. The girl always found herself ashamed of raising her voice at Peter after everything they’ve been through.

The girl’s facial expression softened as well as her voice. Peter, why did you call me here?

I’ve been thinking, he started and dug his hands in his pants’ pockets, I am old, Angel. I am going to retire at some point in the very close future. I realized that maybe you are right, that maybe there is a way for people like us to live a quiet and normal life.

Where are you trying to get with this?

If I am to have a quiet life, or what is left of it, I want you to have one too.

But you know I can’t … the girl approached Peter even more. She was within an arm’s length.

I know hate is a difficult feeling to overcome, he started, I’m not going to lie to you: revenge will always call your name – when you’re cooking breakfast, when you’re grocery shopping, in the dead of night – but you, my girl, you are strong. If you want to walk away from this, you have the power to do so. Angel, you have the power to do what no man before you has ever done, and it is all your choice.

The girl looked at the floor for a brief moment before speaking up. I want to know who I am. Angel Wright is a lie. An illusion. A façade I created from scratch so I can at least seem like a normal person. But deep down we both know that I can’t be that. I am ‘the pretty killing machine.’ I am Angel Wright. I am Ashley Rosa. I am Jenna Lee, Hannah White, Carmen Davis, Eve Martin, Grace Hill, Meg Lewis, and so many more. I am whoever anyone desires most but me. I don’t know who I am. I lack basic human skills. I can’t go grocery shopping. I can’t enjoy a walk in the park. I don’t know how to empathize with people. I don’t know how to love. All I know is how to kill, hate, steal, break people and things, create chaos wherever I go. I don’t know how to feel anything except that. No remorse, no feeling sorry. I know it’s not right, morally, but I don’t feel sorry about any of it. Maybe it’s my jealousy because all of those people knew who they were, while I am out here not even knowing my own real name. I want to know my real name and my real history. That’s all. But Peter, I don’t think I will ever be able to settle somewhere, anywhere, unless I know this.

Peter sat in silence for a few seconds, letting the girl’s voice bounce and echo around the room. I know. I did some digging of my own and I found the answers you’re looking for, he started and paused to monitor the girl’s reaction. She was skeptical. If there is any information in this world about you – the real you – I know it. It wasn’t an easy task, but I did it. I don’t think you remember this, but when I took you in, twenty-four years ago, I promised you two things: that I’d keep you safe from danger and that I’d find out the truth about you, no matter how unpleasant the process may be.

What did you find out? she shifted uneasy.

I kept you safe from danger, even though I put you in danger deliberately and now I know all there is to know about you. I can’t give you this information, Angel. Not like this. You need to find it out on your own.

The girl swallowed loudly. She wanted to cry because of frustration and because she was being denied critical information about herself. She wanted to shout at Peter, hit him, call him names, kick him because he was on purpose leading her on, just to leave her hanging. But she couldn’t do it. Peter was the only person in the world she gave a damn about. Peter was the closest thing to a friend or family that she had on this earth.

How am I supposed to do that? she asked, her voice slightly cracking.

Your identities.

I don’t get it, she shook her head as she mentally went over some of her other identities.

I want to take you out of this environment. You’re still young and you can still do so much with your life. You’re smart, determined, skilled; you have some skills that others would kill for.

Peter, the truth …

I put in motion a plan to get you out of this criminal underworld. I hid your paperwork for each of the identities I told you about and of one more identity that I won’t tell you about. Find them. Alongside each of the identities’ paperwork and credentials, you will discover a piece of your personal history. A piece fitting your puzzle of life. When you find them all, you will have gathered all the paperwork that needs getting rid of in order to dump this on-the-run lifestyle that you have and you will also have discovered who you really are. And maybe, just maybe, you will discover along the way who you want to be from now on. A real you. Authentic.

The girl reached inside her leather jacket and drew out a pistol. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t end this right here, right now.

I know your truth, Peter shrugged, apparently unbothered.

You may be the only person I actually care about, but believe me when I tell you that I wish I didn’t. It would make my life so much easier, she growled and put her gun back.

I love you too, Angel, Peter smiled one of his smug smiles that made the girl just want to punch a hole in his face as much as she cared about him. Good luck in your final job and probably the most difficult one.

3

Ashley Rosa was born in the state of Alaska and never left its borders. Her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were all pure Alaskans. They bore the cold, knew how to handle a shotgun, and knew how to face a blizzard. Now, she is allegedly in her cabin at the edge of the woods, trying to light up a fire because the power went out – again.

Jenna Lee was born in Switzerland to an American father and