On a seemingly normal street in old suburbs of Toronto, a door of a seemingly normal house slowly creaked open. After some form of hesitation, a small form came out, shut the door silently behind it, then bolted.
            Quillan Penn, barely nine-years-old. Had never been outside before, she had never tasted fresh air like this…freedom like this….she let it turn into the hot air that burned her lungs as she ran farther and farther from the house.
                " One hour, Forty-Five minutes, and Thirty-two seconds." She murmured frantically to herself. "He will be home in One hour, Forty-Five minutes and…..Twenty seconds. Until then I can be free….I'm not there, I'm not cleaning his mess…I am not letting him…." But she didn't waste any more of her breath. She just continued towards the one destination she was heading for.
She had figured out where the park was in fifteen minutes. She had only seen it's name on a map that she found in her house. It was much more beautiful to her then words on a map ever could. It wasn't a grand park. Just a single swing set, some monkey bars and two slides all on a block filled with sand. The play set was surrounded by trees and soft grass. Quillan liked the feel of the grass. She had never walked on grass before, she let her bare sore feet drag themselves over it. Eyes shut, just savoring the feel of the grass and the taste of the air. She didn't notice the stares that she got from parents there with their children. She didn't realize that her appearance. A frail, skeleton of a girl with dark circles under her eyes. Raven black hair choppy around her thin pointy face, wearing a dirty t-shirt too big for her, so large that one bruised shoulder was always exposed no matter how much she tried to hike up the shirt to hide it. The shorts she wore just covered half her thighs, exposing her cut and bruised skin. Most of these parents talked amongst themselves. Not sure whether they should try to talk to the girl, or just look away. Quillan kept on in her trance like walking until she came to a tall oak tree. She opened her eyes, her deep gray blue eyes gazed up into the shady green leaves. Then she dared to let a small smile cross her lips and she let herself lie down in the grass underneath the tree. Then she shut her eyes again, and folded her arms across her chest…like a corpse. That was how she always slept. She wasn't planning on sleeping though, she just wanted to close her eyes, and listen to the world….
\"….Are you alright?" a voice suddenly spoke. Quillan's eyes shot open. There was someone standing over her……warnings screamed through her mind. Someone over her…almost on top of her…not good. Bad. Very bad. Quillan yelped out in pure horror and rolled herself in a little ball away from the figure.
There was a silence, then Quillan heard the figure move around so that they were now sitting in front of her covered face.
\"Are you alright?" the person asked again. Quillan carefully lifted her head up so she could peek at whoever was trying to talk to her. Only just realizing that it was a voice of another child…a boy.
When she first looked at the boy, she could have sworn he had a halo. The warm afternoon sun shone off of his curly yellow hair. His eyes were a bright green, full of curiosity, his lips were formed into a small pout. He was looking at the bruises and scars on Quillan's wiry arms. When she finally peeked out he looked right at her, his eyes now full of concern and worry. It was an expression that a boy so young should not have for someone as equally as young as him.
"Did someone do that to you?" He asked pointing at one rather ugly bruise. Quillan glanced at her injury, but didn't reply. She was still examining the boy, trying to figure out whether he was trustworthy.
      His face seemed nice enough, Quillan had already concluded on that. He defiantly wasn't a skinny lad. He didn't however have that chubbiness that came from the boy himself stuffing his face, more like the chubbiness caused by a loving parent feeding him so to make it clear to themselves that they are not starving their child. He was wearing a green t-shirt and blue shorts. His knees were dirty, probably from playing since his shoes were also caked with sand and mud. Quillan looked up into the boys eyes again, still saying nothing.
    The boy suddenly stood up. Gave her another look, then rushed off. Quillan watched him leave. Feeling a bit disappointed, did she scare him off? Or did he just get bored? Quillan kept her eyes on the bouncy yellow-headed boy and watched as he stopped in front of a woman, his mother. It was obvious since she had the same yellow hair. Quillan looked like her mother…she remembered, she missed her so much. When she was alive, her father didn't hurt her as much…but then he had to kill her…why did he have to kill her? Why did he have to do all those things…
     Quillan's thoughts were suddenly cut short when the boy started coming back. He had something in his hands. Cautiously, Quillan sat up and lent against the oak tree she was under. The boy grinned when he saw her move.
    "You moved! Bein, I was worried you were dying." He said sitting down across from her. He held out what he had in his hands to her, it was a large cookie. Quillan stared at it like it was the Holy Grail itself, filled with chocolate milk. She looked up at the boy, confusion contorted her frail face.
      "Ma mere….my mother." The boy corrected seeing her confusion deepen, "She made this! She said I could share, here." He said holding out the cookie closer to Quillan. She stared at the cookie, thoughts of poison suddenly filled her mind, or drugging. Something that made you fall asleep…and wake up full of pain. She cringed. The boy frowned, and then he took the cookie, and started to split it half carefully.
         "Here, I'll eat it too! Look!" He bit into the smaller half of the cookie he created; he munched on it slowly then swallowed, then took another bite.
       "See? No poison or nothin'!" The boy said with his mouth still full, but politeness could be spared among children. Finally, convinced, Quillan took the other half of the cookie and started to nibble on it. The moment its sweet taste filled her mouth, she could have swallowed the rest of the food whole. She didn't though; she knew she had to savor it as much as she could. The boy watched her eat thoughtfully, half done his half cookie already.
       "…Il est mechant." He suddenly said,
        "What?" Quillan said before she could stop herself. The boy raised his little eyebrows at hearing the girl speak. They were both silent for a moment.
       "…Who ever did this to you, he is a man yes? Is est mechant….he is wicked." The boy explained. Then he finished his cookie and stood up and left again.
         "Can't stand still." Quillan muttered to herself. "That boy with the halo can't stay still." She then tried to repeat what the boy said. Mechant…wicked…such weird words he said. She looked down at the rest of the cookie. Unable to resist anymore she wolfed the rest of it down, sucking on her fingers when she was done to get every last bit of the taste from it. When she looked up again the boy was coming back. He was holding two new things in his hands, but Quillan knew at once that they weren't any type of food.
       They were flowers. One was bright yellow, almost like the boys hair, but not as nice in Quillan's opinion. The other had small white petals and a yellow centre. Then Quillan realized that he also carried one more flower, it was the smallest, had the smallest and most delicate petals. They were also white, but had tints of yellow or pink on them. The boy smiled, and held out the big bright yellow one first.
        "Know what this is?" he quizzed. Quillan narrowed her eyes slightly in concentration, looking at the flower.
        "…It's a dandelion…it's a weed." She answered. The boy nodded.
        "Uh-huh! Une mauvaise herbe!   " He agreed in his strange language. "And this?" He asked holding up the second flower.
        "Daisy." Quillan answered immediately. She reached out and touched the petals gently. Then she took both flowers and placed them on the ground.
          "Don't you want them?" The boy asked pouting again.
           "No, I don't deserve flowers." She said quoting something that her father had told her before.
         "Well, at least take the clover flower!" the boy said suddenly holding out his hand, the movement made Quillan yelp and cover her arms. After a moment she peaked between the crook of her arm, and stared at the small flower offered to her.
        "…Clover?" She repeated weakly. The boy nodded
         "I want you to have it, please take it." He pleaded. Reluctantly, the girl reached out and took the flower between her thumb and forefinger. She twirled it around carefully.
       "…Thank you…for the clover…and the cookie." She mumbled, the boy grinned and was about to say something when suddenly someone called from behind them.
       "Claude! Il est temps de rentrer a la maison!! Claude! Laissez-nous aller!"
       The boy looked back at who called him and called something back. Then he looked at Quillan and smiled sheepishly.
        "Claude isn't my actual name, it's my middle name, ma mere just likes using it more." He tried to explain.
        "…Then, what's you're real name?" Quillan asked. The boy was about to answer but the woman called again. He sighed.
         "Au revoir, I hope that man doesn't hurt you again." He said and before Quillan could say anything, try to stop him to stay. He was off, running towards his mother. Then they together left the park. Quillan stared at nothing, then she looked down at the tiny clover in her hands.
          "…Claude Clover." She mumbled to herself. Then she stood up and headed over to the swing set. The sand was warm, but when she dug her bare feet into it a bit, it was cooler, she found this very amusing. Yet she still seemed a little saddened at the boy with the yellow hair leaving, almost lonely. She plopped herself down on a swing and started to swing slowly. She still had the clover clenched in her hands.
         "Hello." A voice said, Quillan turned sharply to look at the child who spoke to her. It was a girl this time.
         The boy, Claude, would have been 2 years younger then her, but this girl looked two years older then her. She had dark black brown hair, and deep brown eyes. She seemed like an earthly solid creature compared to the flighty haloed Claude. Yet still Quillan felt comfortable with her. She nodded as a greeting and continued to swing. The girl started to swing as well. Slowly and surely they also began to chat.
          "What's your name?" The girl asked
          "Quillan."
           "I'm Gretchen. Where are your folks?"
           "My what?"
           "Your parents."
            "Oh…not here."
           "Oh."
           Silence between the two girls.
          "Do you know that boy with the yellow hair?" Quillan suddenly inquired
           "Who? Where is he?"
           "He already left, he was wearing a green shirt.."
           "Oh, not really, he only comes every other week. I think his parents don't live together." The girl had added this with a whisper, as if it was a scandalous comment to say. Quillan wanted to say that her father slit his wife's throat. Then decided it wasn't the best thing to add to the conversation. They continued to talk, Gretchen doing most of it while Quillan just listened. She was having a great time…forgetting the time.
           "Say, do you know that man?" Gretchen suddenly asked "He's been looking over here ever since he came into the park." Quillan looked up, and her blood went cold, and her heart felt like it stopped.
            Derek Penn was standing in the shade of a tree, staring at his daughter. When he saw her look up, he raised his hand, and made coaxing movements with his forefinger, the command to come. The command Quillan had to obey. Silently, Quillan stopped her swinging, then muttered a barely audible good bye to the other girl and walked slowly towards her father. For a brief moment in her mind, she tried to will herself to scream. To yell and cry, to tell the world of the monster that she was walking towards. When the words swirled in her mouth though, they wouldn't come out. She gulped them back, because she knew, that saying a single word, meant death. She finally made it over to the tree, she stared at the ground. Her father was at first silent, then, he only said one single thing.

              "…What are you doing Quillan?"


         The girl couldn't help but shudder at his voice. Whenever he said that, she always knew. Always, that what quickly followed was a beating…or worse…
      Not here, she thought to herself he wouldn't do it here…would he?
         "I…I…" Quillan began. Her father let out a sigh and shook his head, he was hiding his anger, with a mask of calm expression, and smooth words.
          "If you really wanted to play Quillan, you should have asked." He knelt down so that he could whisper into his daughters ear. "…We could even bring your new little friend over to play…if you want." He cooed.
          "NO!" Quillan suddenly screamed, heads turned but she didn't notice. "You won't! I don't want her home! Don't you DARE bring her home! You'll-you'll"
        "Enough, Quillan." Her father interrupted grabbing her roughly by the wrist. Her other hand still had the clover gripped and hidden in the palm of her hand. Derek Penn sighed and even let out a little chuckle.
      "I think…when we get home, I need to teach you yet another lesson on how to behave properly…my little girl." He whispered. Then he started to pull her out of the Park. Back towards the house where he kept her. There, it was going to happen, the beatings…the rape…and it would happen again…and again…and again….


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             Quillan Penn woke up with a start from her dream. Shooting right into a sitting position and letting out a cry of distress as the dream went to its horrible conclusion. Causing cuts across her arms and torso to rip open anew from the sudden movement. Her yelp of horror turned into groans in pain as she fell back down onto the bed. She just laid there for a long moment; staring at the dark ceiling, letting the blood seep from the wounds and onto the sheets.
             "….Dreams." Was all she said to herself, to the nothing and early morning darkness that filled her room. She finally got up, not wanting to ruin her sheets entirely with her blood. She pulled them off and walked out of her room. She tossed them into the washing machine before heading to the bathroom to have her shower. She made the water almost unbearably hot, and let the water pound down on her, washing away all the blood, but not the dream.
After drying herself she got dressed. Black pants, a dark violet shirt…and of course the bandages. She was happy to see that she had to use less amounts this week. Only on her arms and some parts on her legs and torso…and she actually felt that she slept. Some mornings she just opened her eyes thinking she only closed them seconds before, feeling even more tired and hurt. Today however started out good…except for the dream images that wouldn't go away.
           "Haven't dreamed of that bastard in over two years." Quillan grumbled to herself as she poured herself some orange juice from the fridge. She stared at a half full vodka bottle that was on the counter. After about five minutes of inner debate with herself she decided to only put a small dollop of the vodka into her juice. She hardly tasted it when she took a sip. She looked over at the kitchen clock.
           "Alright, I have One hour, forty-five minutes and thirty-two seconds until….." she suddenly stopped herself. That statement was just too familiar. She cursed to herself, finished her orange juice, refilled it (No vodka this time) and started making herself French Toast.
           Quillan got to work at her usual time. She parked her car, the vodka from that first glass already long forgotten as she walked into the police station.
          "Bon Matin Quill!" Walter said cheerfully walking past her with a bunch of reports ready to show to the Chief Inspector Jon DiMiro. Quillan watched Walter walk by, the lighting of the building shone from his curly yellow hair…like a halo.
           "Claude Clover." Quillan suddenly gasped to herself. Walter stopped and looked back at her, his bright green eyes showed confusion and concerned.
           "Woman-in-Top-Hat-say-Wha?" He asked, giving her an innocent smile. Quillan was just silent, and stared at him.
            "Nothing…" she mumbled "…Did you speak a lot of French when you were little?" She suddenly asked
            "Oui, my mother being from Quebec, and me living with her half the time, gave me lots of practice. I'm afraid to go to France though; apparently they don't like our amazing Quebecois accents!" He said with another smile and a shrug before heading off. Quillan sat down at her desk. It was covered in cases but she hardly even noticed them. She was deep in thought.
It was him, he was in her dream. Of course it was him. Gretchen, she was in it too. It didn't make any sense. Was it some whacked out dream or….a memory?" Quillan spun slowly on her chair, her frown deepened, the daisy on her hat turned a perplexed purple.
              "Impossible. I never left that house. Ever. I was too afraid, I never would have done something like that at that age…would I?" She mumbled still spinning. She tried to figure it out, it would have been so odd, to have known her two closest friends even when she was a child. During a time when the word 'friend' had absolutely no meaning to her. She tried to think of what Gretchen would say, she wasn't in yet, but she was sure she would think of something smart that only a psychiatrist would say.
              …A person whom had a traumatizing childhood and who later develops a (boarder line) normal and (not very) healthy life and who grows strong ties to certain people may fall into having dreams where the psyche tries to place said people into possible scenarios from their childhood, seeming so real as to be repressed memories.
…Yeah, that sounded about right. Some might consider it total bullshit but for Quillan it was perfect and pretty scientific explanation that made her feel more comfortable. For some reason it was more comfortable to think of it that way then for that dream to be a real repressed memory. She had no time for that crap.
Even as she thought this, even as she stood up and started to go on with her day at fighting crime in the good old gray city of Toronto…if anyone were to really pay attention, they would have noticed Quillan rubbing her thumb and forefinger together…as if slowly and carefully spinning a small invisible flower…a clover perhaps…between them.