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debate with herself. As much as I wouldn’t wish this curse on
anyone else, I envy Dejana’s innocence. I don’t get the luxury of
being oblivious to the evil that lurks in the dark. Whether I wish
it or not, it’s thrust upon me with one simple touch. Finally, I
see Dejana’s brown eyes come back into focus and her determination
return.
    “A killer? Are you sure?”
    “Yes,” I state simply refusing to elaborate
on exactly how he kills.
    After another brief, stunned silence, I see
the determination arrive in Dejana’s eyes. “Well then,” she states,
“what can we do to help figure out what asshole is killing those
poor girls?”
    That’s my girl . I feel a surge of
pride as I realize that nothing defeats Dejana. Not even someone
like me.
    “The memory was mostly in the dark,” I begin.
“So there’s nothing I could really use to identify him. I saw the
girl’s face, but I don’t know her.”
    “You don’t know anyone, you silly girl,
‘cause you spend all day sulking by yourself,” teases Dejana. “But
maybe I do. Can you describe her? I could draw her. It’s at least a
place to start. If we can get a good enough picture maybe we can
find her in some kind of database or something. That’s what they do
on CSI.”
    Renewed with energy, Dejana jumps from the
bed, almost kicking me off in the process and goes to grab her
pencils and drawing paper from her bag always close at hand. Dejana
is an amazing artist. She’s won so many awards for our school that
I lost count. She, of course, hasn’t. She reminds me every chance
she gets. But I don’t mind, I would kill to be able to draw like
her. Especially since I can’t even make stick figures look like
actual human beings.
    Having retrieved her sketchbook from her bag,
Dejana runs back into the room, her cheeks flushed from running to
her car. She grabs the chair she was in earlier and pushes it as
close to the bed as she can. The dark brown shirt she’s wearing
brings out the sparkle in her caramel eyes, giving away the
excitement she gets every time she has a chance to draw.
    “So,” begins Dejana, putting her pencil to
paper clearly ready to go, “what do you remember about her?”
    “Based on the first two memories, both girls
are light haired,” I begin. Immediately Dejana begins scribbling
and asking questions as she goes. Clearly, she is in the zone.
    “Give me as many details as you can. Were
they skinny girls? Did they have rounder or more angular faces?”
asks Dejana.
    Since I’m not an artist, I really don’t have
any idea what she’s talking about. But I do my best to help her. I
think back on the memories, trying my best to focus beyond the
ugly, red marks on their wrists and ankles from being bound and the
blood soaked bed. They were both so young, so innocent; their only
mistake was trusting the wrong guy. Neither of them deserved what
happened to them. I can’t imagine the horror and pain they must
have endured. I could see terror reflecting back at me through
their eyes as they looked at the killer they never knew existed
among them. It was a horror I couldn’t help save them from. Just
one of the many heinous things I endure as part of my curse. I do
my best to push past my own feelings, to see the girls as they were
before they were so viscously murdered.
    “They were skinny, taller than your average
teenage girl, and I’m pretty sure they both had long hair,” I
finish, proud from remembering something normal from those
nightmares of memories.
    Dejana shakes her head and mumbles ‘uh huh’ a
few times as her pencil flies all over the paper.
    I take advantage of relative silence to think
of anything else that would help identify the girls. In the first
memory before my coma, the girl was already fairly beaten up; most
remnants that made her identifiable were long gone. Their eyes
still haunt me with their piercing looks of desperation and
betrayal. Yet, I sense something more...something I had missed