Page 11 of Pocketful of You

We were reliving our past.

The Capaldis locked Sketch away until he was five, kept him hidden, and treated him like a dog.

In my dreams – memories – Mama called him a Toretto. The enemy.

No, she called him the enemy's son,my mind corrected.

Was it some sort of sick revenge? Or a way to torture their enemy? If so, why did Mr. Capaldi go along with it?

Where the hell had Sketch come from in the first place? And why lie about his true identity? Why keep him at all? Why lock him away on a ship and torture him into forgetting every part of who he was? Why tell the world he was a Capaldi?

Chris figured it out.

That much I was sure of.

He knew all about Jacob Toretto, it was written in his journal, and I'd bet my last dollar that was why my father had him killed.

Was he going to tell Sketch about his true identity?

Was he going to tell me?

Oh god, I had so many unanswered questions and no way of finding the answers.

Unless Presley understood my pathetic hints back at the motel and managed to unearth the journal. Even if I didn’t make it out of this alive, something I wasn't holding out much hope for, Pres just might manage to find a way to save himself and Sketch…

Somewhere deep down inside, I knew I had lost a critical part of my sanity. My reality had turned into one of horror and I was floating away.

Numb to the bone, I continued in the darkness, ignoring the blood trickling down my face and the pain in my limbs, as I stumbled through the brambles and rose bushes. Chris was dead back there and the only feeling I could conjure up was that I should be, too. Something was coming for me and I couldn’t escape it. Fuck!

Leaving his body alone wasn’t something I was proud of, but I'd made him a promise. In the midst of my departure from reality, I knew only one thing. I had to keep his journal safe. It was important to him. His final wish. I would make that happen, no matter what.

Dazed and confused, I forced my legs to push me forward, weaving through the shrubbery and trees until I reached it.

Collapsing in a heap at the base of the old treehouse, I placed my hands in the dirt and remained completely motionless.

Wake up, I mentally willed. Wake up, Romi.

That horrible sensation of knowing that I was already awake sank my poor, deflated heart and caused my stomach to lose its battle with my upchuck reflex.

Vomiting violently, I heaved and gasped for air, still willing myself to wake up from my nightmare of a life. When that didn’t happen, I thought about the only thing that could anchor me.

Sketch.

"Protect my brother…"

A pained sob tore from my throat and I dug my fingers into the dirt, not caring when my fingernails cracked and bled. It didn’t matter to me anymore. None of it did. All I knew was that I had to bury this journal.

"Keep it safe," he'd asked. "Protect my brother."

And I would.

I would protect Sketch Capaldi if it killed me.

"Help me!" the woman in the room closest to mine cried out for the millionth time, dragging me from my memories. "Please, god! I have a family. Please…. don't rape me! Oh, Jesus, I don’t want to die –"

"Shut up!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, unable to listen to another second of her wailing. "Nobody's coming for you." Tucking my knees into my chest, I covered my ears with my hands and rocked back and forth on the grimy floor. "No one's coming for any of us."

I certainly wasn’t getting out of here the same girl I used to be… if I even made it out at all.

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