I looked up, waking from a daze. My cold, pale fingers shook as they held a small black-and-white photo. It was of a small girl, maybe 16-years in age, cuddling a black kitten in her slender arms. He face was scrubby, her clothes looked like they had not been changed in days, or washed in weeks. Dark, tangled hair complemented her soft green eyes.
A smile met my thin lips as I remembered, remembered her touch, her taste, everything about her. I remembered everything about her except for one thing: her name. I could only ever remember calling her “Baby,” or “Princess,” or “Doll,” but nothing more. I could only recall pet names, but nothing else. I know that I had, at one time, knew her name, but now I just could not recall it.