Cassie: The little dead girl who lives in the attic.

She wore a summer print dress. It was brown and orange with specks of yellow throughout. Her hair was all curls. Thick, black curls that framed her face and rose on her head like a crown. She stood looking down at me. A small window behind her flooded the room in light, shadowing her features. I could not see her face clearly, but I knew it was a gentle one.

Her skin was dark, an olive-brown tint.

There were no shoes on her feet.

She stood above me, on the next landing. Her out-stretched arms on the bannister, she looked down at me, as I stared back at her.

The first time I saw her, she said nothing to me.

The second time I saw her, she wasn't so quiet.

"The problem is", I said, looking at my therapist, "is that I don't remember what she said".

"You don't remember anything?", she asked.

"No, I don't", I answered. "I know that we talked for a while...A long while."

"We talked about uncomfortable things", I continued, "...we talked about things that were important."

"like what?', she encouraged.

"That's just it. I don't remember. All I have is this vague recollection that she was pointing-out things that I didn't want to face, but had to, if I was to move ahead."

"And, you don't remember what those things were?"

"Not a one."