Chapter 1: The Girl Who Never Remembers

I watched as the prettiest girl in our little Ohio town got yanked into an alley.

The late-summer air was thick and sticky, and the sun cast long shadows across the chipped red bricks of Main Street. I had my arms full of groceries from the Piggly Wiggly, but I saw it all—Aubrey’s hair shining gold under the flicker of the beer sign, vanishing between the dumpsters. I froze, looking around. Folks wandered past, but nobody seemed bothered. A couple of them just turned away, pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.

Didn’t seem like much at first, since her folks were right there and didn’t bat an eye.

Her mom, wrapped up in an old Ohio State hoodie, kept talking to the church secretary like nothing was wrong. Her dad pulled his cap lower and scrolled through his phone, acting like he didn’t notice. Around here, some things happen so often folks just go blank, even when you know deep down it’s all wrong.

Aubrey’s cries rang out from the alley, sharp and raw.

They bounced off the cinderblocks, cutting through the hum of a lawn mower and the hiss of someone restocking the soda machine. Somewhere, a dog barked—restless, like it knew something was off.

The local punk got bored, choked her out, then flipped a couple of twenties to her parents.

That punk strutted in with his busted-up boots and that ratty flannel he never washed, smirking like he owned the whole damn street. He peeled off two crisp bills—enough for a tank of gas or a week’s groceries if you stretched it. Aubrey’s dad pocketed the cash smooth as ever, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Silence settled over the crowd as the punk swaggered off toward the VFW.

A while later, Aubrey woke up and strolled over to the punk, all smiles, telling him not to waste his day on poker and to make sure he remembered his chores.

She dusted off her sundress, voice light as morning sunshine. “Hey, you promised Mrs. Larson you’d help with her porch steps, remember?” she called out, cheerful as ever. Her blue eyes sparkled, like nothing bad had ever happened at all.

Truth was, she didn’t remember any of it.

Her brain just wiped clean, like a tape recorder set back to the start. Folks in town had seen it time and again—one minute she’s in tears, the next she’s humming along to a pop song, like nothing ever went wrong.

Her name was Aubrey. That’s what everyone called her, because she was as sweet as she was pretty.

Aubrey Lee Carter—just saying her name made people smile. She remembered everyone’s birthday, left brownies in the teacher’s lounge just because. Even old Mrs. Hudson at the library liked her, and that woman didn’t like anyone.

After high school, Aubrey stuck around to help folks start new businesses and boost the local farm sales. She was respected by everyone.

She ran every bake sale, organized the new pumpkin patch, and handled the money after the 4-H fundraiser. She’d jot down business plans on diner napkins and teach the older farmers how to sell jam online. If Aubrey was helping, you knew it’d work out.

But during a tornado warning, she ran out to help the neighbors pick apples and a tree branch knocked her out cold.

The sky that day was that weird sickly green, sirens blaring from the firehouse. Aubrey didn’t care—she ran through the orchard, laughing and filling a bushel for old Mrs. Wheeler. Then—crack—a branch came down, a scream, and everything went quiet under the sirens. Blood tangled in her hair, apples scattered in the mud.

After that, her mind was broken. Not crazy, just lost.

The doctors at Mercy General just shook their heads, talking about trauma and amnesia. “Anterograde amnesia,” they called it—she remembered her childhood, her parents, her grandma’s peach cobbler, but anything new disappeared by morning.

She couldn’t make new memories. Every day when she woke up, she’d forgotten everything that happened the day before.

Her mom bought her a calendar and sticky notes, but nothing worked. She’d leave herself reminders in careful handwriting, but after she slept, they looked like scribbles from a stranger. Every morning, she woke up confused, but hopeful.

The accident was on September 7th, so every day she woke up thinking it was still September 7th.

Every morning, her alarm would go off at 6:45, and she’d squint at the date on her phone. “Tornado warning today?” she’d whisper, feeling the same flutter in her stomach as that first time. To her, September 7th never ended.

Still, Aubrey stayed kind. Every morning after getting up, she’d go door to door, reminding everyone a tornado was coming and they needed to pick the apples.

She’d tie a blue ribbon in her hair, slip on her rain boots, and knock on doors with a bright, urgent smile. “Storm’s coming, don’t forget the apples!” she’d say. Kids would snicker behind curtains, and tired moms would nod, even though the sky was clear.

At first, folks pitied her, since every dollar in town had her fingerprints on it.

At the post office, you’d hear, “Poor Aubrey, she did so much for us.” People left meals on her porch, casseroles wrapped in foil, bouquets from their gardens. They helped her parents fix up the porch, painted her fence, all without asking for a dime.

But after a while, patience wore thin. “Nobody can put up with this forever,” they’d mutter at the hardware store, or over burgers at the drive-in. “We’ve got our own problems.” Neighbors started dodging her when she knocked.

As the weeks dragged on, people lost their patience. They didn’t want her knocking on their doors every day.

Blinds got pulled down. TVs cranked up so loud she’d give up and walk away. Kids made up mean songs on the playground—“Tornado Girl”—and her parents’ shoulders sagged a little more each week.

Then one day, the old bachelor with a limp had an idea.

Jerry Masters, living in that peeling blue house past the grain elevator, right leg dragging from a farm accident years back. Kept to himself, always watching.

A girl who forgets everything after she sleeps—means you can do whatever you want, right?

Jerry’s eyes narrowed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. Sitting in the dark with his cheap whiskey, he started plotting. Nobody would stop him—nobody ever did.

That day, Aubrey carved a new crutch and brought it to his house, calling out, “Uncle Jerry, the tornado’s coming! I made you a new crutch!”

She knocked, holding out a wooden crutch with painted apples on the handle. “Figured you might need a spare,” she said, voice warm as a summer breeze. Jerry grinned, lines on his face deepening.

He pulled her inside.

The door slammed shut. TV blaring. The neighbor’s curtain twitched, but no one called out. Just another quiet day in town—so it looked.

Every day, Aubrey brought a new crutch to Uncle Jerry.

Each morning, she’d sand and paint a fresh crutch, carving little flowers or hearts. She thought she was helping. Her mom would beg her not to go, but Aubrey was stubborn—kindness was her habit, and her curse.

Every day, she got dragged into that house by Uncle Jerry.

Neighbors saw it. No one spoke. The same scene, rain or shine—the thump of Jerry’s boots and the scuff of Aubrey’s sneakers were just part of Cedar Street’s soundtrack.

Every day, she cried out in pain in that house, the agony gut-wrenching.

The walls muffled her cries, but sometimes if you were out walking the dog, you’d catch a sound that’d haunt you all day, like a splinter you couldn’t dig out.

How much can a person take before they just shut down for good?

The question lingered. Folks avoided each other at the gas station, guilt hanging heavy as a thundercloud. It pressed down on everyone, as thick as the gray Ohio sky before a storm.

Aubrey had already endured it more than eight hundred times.

Eight hundred mornings of innocence, eight hundred nights stolen. In a town that measured everything—corn yields, church attendance, months till graduation—it was a number that haunted everyone.

Every morning, she was still that sweet girl, hugging a new crutch, hurrying off to Jerry’s house, thinking he’d be grateful.

She’d skip down the sidewalk, humming, arms full of hope. Neighbors peeked out, torn between shame and relief it wasn’t their daughter. Aubrey, in her little bubble, dreamed up new designs for Jerry’s crutches.

Until her belly started to swell, and everything spilled out.

At first, folks blamed her mom’s cooking, then whispered about “health problems.” But soon, there was no denying it. In a small town, news spreads fast. By the time it showed, even the pastor’s wife was whispering after Sunday service.

Her parents broke down, wanting to take Jerry to court—but it wasn’t that easy.

They found a lawyer from the next county, but he just shook his head. “No proof,” he said, eyes darting away. The story was too tangled—Aubrey’s broken memory, Jerry’s lies, and silent neighbors unwilling to step forward.

The victim herself didn’t remember a thing—how could anyone prove it was forced?

Aubrey would clutch her belly, confused, asking softly, “Am I going to be an aunt?” Even at the sheriff’s office, she giggled nervously, unable to answer a single question. No one could build a case without her testimony.

They swallowed their shame and took Aubrey for an abortion. They said she lost her mind that day.

Her parents sat in the waiting room, hands clenched, listening to her sobs echo down the hall. She fought the nurses, screamed for her mom, then finally went quiet, her mind splintering under the weight of something she couldn’t understand.

She didn’t know why she was pregnant or why she had to have an abortion.

For her, it was a nightmare with no explanation. She begged for her journal, for someone to tell her what she’d done wrong, her blue eyes wide with terror.

She broke down, right there in the hospital.

For hours, she screamed, clutching the sheets, her mind lost in a fog of pain and fear. Her parents aged a decade in a single night.

But the next morning, she forgot everything again—back to cheerful Aubrey, calling from her hospital bed that she wanted to take a crutch to Uncle Jerry and warn the neighbors about the tornado. She just thought her period had come, her stomach hurt so much.

She smiled at the nurse, asking for her boots, ready to start her rounds again. Her mother burst into tears, unable to explain why her daughter hurt. Aubrey just patted her mom’s hand and promised to bring her some apples.

Over time, her parents gave up on court—as long as the punks kept paying.

They stayed quiet, taking cash slipped into their mailbox, grocery gift cards, hush money wired to a prepaid card. They told themselves it was better than nothing, that Aubrey was safe as long as everyone pretended.

Because Aubrey woke up happy every day. Even though every night dragged her through hell, one night’s sleep wiped it all away.

She laughed, painted her nails, sang to the radio, chased stray cats off the porch. The pain always came at the end of the day, but it never lasted. Her parents lived in dread of sunrise and sunset, torn apart all over again each morning.