Mrs. Thompson found her daughter while putting the laundry away that night. The girl was in the closet, red-wristed and vacant-eyed with her father’s pocket knife teetering off the edge of her limp and lifeless hand. The police said she bled out in the closet all day while her mother cleaned the house, unaware. The girl died without a warning or a reason. She didn’t even leave a note. That night, Mrs. Thompson sobbed in her husband’s arms until the sun came up. They had their daughter’s funeral that weekend. Nearly two hundred of her classmates and family members gathered in remembrance of her. Months later, Mrs. Thompson struggled to go into her daughter’s room, but she was drawn to it. She never wanted to walk in, but she dreamt about it. One night, Mrs. Thompson crept out of her bed and sat in the dark in front of her daughter’s bedroom door, staring. After an hour, she got up and started back to her bed when something stopped her where she stood. A feeling, not curiosity but something unnatural, pulled her hand to the doorknob. She twisted and pushed the door open. From the dark room, the scent of a pleasant memory, now unobtainable, flooded into the hall. The door closed behind her, and she flipped the lights on. Her daughter lived within those walls. She lived in her tennis racket mounted above the shelf of trophies, in the pictures of her with her closest friends wrapped in each others’ arms, and in her worn white converse with doodles sharpied on them. Mrs. Thompson stopped in front of her daughter’s vanity and twisted off the cap of a bottle of perfume. The aroma brought her melancholy tears. When she put the bottle back, she noticed a note folded up among the other bottles, and grabbed it, not knowing what it was. Then she read: “I’m sorry, Mom. I tried to hide this somewhere Dad wouldn’t look. I need you to know… so many things. I need you to know that I love you, that I’m sorry, and that I had to get away. He beat me when you weren’t around. I wanted to show you the bruises, but I never could, and now he’s making me do this. He said if I didn’t, he’d kill us all, and I know he meant it. You should've seen his eyes. I'm doing this on my own terms now. I’ve been living this life for too long. It’s time for me to leave, and I suggest you leave too. Wherever I am now, it’s better for me. I love you. -Kayla” Mrs. Thompson stood paralyzed in the bedroom. Her heart pounded in her chest, but it stopped for a second and her blood ran cold when she heard a knock on the door. “Honey, is everything alright?” Mr. Thompson asked from the other side.