Buried Memories Novels & Stories

No parent could ever mistake their own child. She knew I had burn marks from when I was young, Jacob had done my ear piercings, and Dad himself had treated my leg injuries. She believed that even if I were reduced to ashes, Dad would still recognize me as his daughter. Dad let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Someone like her doesn't die easily. The worst ones always manage to survive the longest." Ruth furrowed her brows. "But she's been gone for days now. Mr. Eastman said the body has burns on the legs, just like Lina's scars that never healed!"

But something in my blood remembered a terror I’d buried a long time ago. And it was waking up.

A deep, aching pull I don’t understand. Am I broken? Or have I buried the truth under so many expectations, I can’t even feel it? I curl beneath the covers, eyes still open. The celebration is over. The mask is off. But the questions remain.

The folks watching nearby started whispering and pointing. "She didn't even research properly. She's pretending to be a dead woman whose body's probably dust by now!" "Exactly. Trying to pass herself off as the richest man's wife. She should take a look in the mirror!" I said nothing. I walked toward my parents' urns, the ones being used as flower pot bases, planning to dig them out and rebury them properly. Digby stepped in first and kicked one of the ceramic urns hard. It shattered instantly. My parents' ashes spilled across the ground, mixing with dirt and fertilizer.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four — Bloodlines Don’t Stay Buried Ariana didn’t breathe. She physically forgot how. The screen was black now. Dead. Empty. But his face was still burned into her vision. Not a resemblance. Not a coincidence. Her father. The man she buried at seventeen. Ryan’s voice came out slow. Careful. “Ari… say something.” She couldn’t. Her mind was tearing through memories like a hurricane. Funeral. Closed casket.

And by God it was better that way, reigniting old memories wasn't really the best thing for us. I reached the house and it was as though they were expecting me. I entered the house going upstairs to where mother stayed doing her videos. “I knew I would find you here, you always loved coming up here after father…” I stopped myself. Old and painful memories were not meant to be remembered_ that was why they were memories. They were meant to be tucked away somewhere deep and dark so that it could not be found. To be buried six feet with my father. Mother sighed and paused her video. She turned to me and motioned for me to sit, but I wasn't a kid anymore.

It had buried something inside her too. And I didn’t know if it would ever come back.

Yvonne still had not come back. His thoughts drifted back to the divorce papers and that note. Lately, no matter what he did, they kept gnawing at his mind. Only by burying himself in work could he catch a brief moment of peace. The second he paused, memories of Yvonne came flooding back, uncontrollable and relentless. When she was with him, she had never acted like Sophia. She was shy, careful with her affection, and genuinely tender. Even though he had taken her for Sophia’s substitute, she had never been like her.

Because suddenly old memories I had buried for years started clawing their way back toward the surface. The party. Flashing lights. Music. Police sirens. People screaming and running. Then darkness. Pain. Cold concrete beneath my skin. My breathing quickened. I squeezed my eyes shut immediately. No. I did not want to remember. I had spent years burying that part of myself deep enough to survive it. Yet now it felt like the past was digging itself back up piece by piece. And Roman was standing in the middle of it. A knock sounded against the bedroom door suddenly.

"Or I'll end it for you. And trust me—my way will be much messier." The door closed behind him with a soft click. For a second—just a second—I couldn't breathe. My chest constricted, tight and painful, like someone had wrapped barbed wire around my lungs. Sweat beaded at my temples. My hands shook. That memory. That fucking memory I'd buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself it wasn't real. It came crashing back now—images, sounds, smells, sensations I'd kept locked away for years. ‘Blood on the pavement. Screaming. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. Her face—’