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It’s strange how the mind categorizes events and shoves them into boxes of archives. Some are forgotten after a day or a week. Others stay there forever. In fact, they slip into subconsciousness and make sure they’re never forgotten. My family home on the outskirts of New York City is a modern mansion that could tick the dream house checklist of most Americans. It even has the white fence cliché my mother probably dreamt of when she was young. It’s huge, personalized to the smallest detail, and fit to be the home of Asher and Reina Carson. As in, the American king and queen who instantly become the talk of every media outlet the moment they’re in public. In this house, I’ve had everything people would consider happy memories. A loving mother, a present father—more than need be—birthday parties, running around like headless chickens with Gareth, Nikolai, Mia, and Maya. And my awakening by hunting and killing those mice. People tend to romanticize the past, I don’t. Because those memorie