Whitley was five. Her parents were arguing. Over her.

"Why do you keep giving her so much attention?" Her mother yelled, her voice raising, as did the anger boiling in her body.

"Because she's our goddamn child!" Her father argued. "She needs attention. And if you aren't willing to give her that, then I will, and that's what I'm doing!"

"She'll become a spoiled brat!"

"Are you saying that if a kid is properly loved then they will be a brat?"

"No, im saying if they are loved too much then—"

"Whitley is not loved too much, she isn't even loved enough!"

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours!"

Whitley didn't hear another word, but she heard a click of metal. The sound intrigued her, and she slowly walked towards her parents, looking up at them as soon as they came into view.

Her blood ran cold as she saw a gun in her mother's hand, the end pressed to her husband's forehead.

"Mama!" She ran into the room, using all the strength her young body had to push her father away from the danger.

"Hey, sweetie," her father said urgently, tears welling in his eyes from fear. "Go back to your room, darling. Mummy and daddy will sort this out."

But Whitley didn't want to leave them to "sort it out", so she watched the whole scene unfold.

"You wouldn't shoot me," Whitley's father said, though it sounded more like he was speaking to himself. Trying to reassure himself.

"You always treat her," the gun got pointed at Whitley for a moment before returning to the young girl's father, "better than me. Your wife. The girl you were once so in love with."

"You still wouldn't shoot me," he repeated, nodding his head as his hands raised in the air.

Whitley's mother continued, ignoring her husband's words. "You never treat me well anymore. You treat me like some old lady crashing at your house every night. You're always too busy with Whitley, and you never have time for me. You never pay attention to me."

"You wouldn't shoot me," he spoke for the third time, taking a sharp breath.

The woman sighed, acting as though she would lower the gun. Instead, she pulled the trigger, sending a bullet straight through her husband's body. He fell to the floor, limp. She pulled the trigger again, and the bullet flew into his body, this time hitting his head, which caused his eyes to roll back into his head.

"Daddy!" Whitley ran to her father, burying himself in the man's dead body as she wailed.

But Whitley's mother paid no attention to the girl; her focus was solely on the exhilaration of pulling the trigger for the third and final time. She released her grip, and the bullet tore through the air. It was only as the woman looked up that she caught the exact moment it pierced through Whitley's stomach.

And the girl's eyes fell closed.

Though she wasn't dead.
No.
She had just fallen asleep.
She had fallen asleep for a few minutes, though to her it felt like years.
She had created years of memories, but they weren't real. Nothing was real.
The friends she had created weren't real.
Minho wasn't real.
The only real people were Astrid and Tyler; her best friends since the beginning of pre–school.
But they weren't bad. They weren't stalkers.
Her mind had made that up.
Why? You may ask.

Because she needed to be seen, even if her mind had to create the monster itself.