Epilouge
Taria wasn't her real name, not until she changed it. The memories that went along with Frankie were dead. That's how she wanted it, that's how it's supposed to be. Hell, Frankie, as far as the people in the small town, Rinard of southern Illinois thought, was dead. In all actuallity, to Taria, Frankie was dead.
She had ran, barefoot through the rock of the gangway beside her house, through the lawns of her nieghbor's house's, past passerbys who didn't so much as give her a second glance. As if a small girl with a bloodied face and torn clothes was an everyday occurrence. She ran and ran. She ran until her throat felt cold. She ran until her legs were numb, or at least until she noticed it. The scars that Taria held were reminders of Frankie. That brave little girl.
Of course, she'd known how to defend herself and shoot. After all, she had watched enough... no, heard enough true crime shows her sister watched late at night from the living room TV to know to, through trembling hands and tears, pull her sleeves over her hands, (although that didn't matter) when she had pulled the trigger on that wretched man. She had done that, dropped the shotgun and ran.
Frankie was a fighter. Taria now carries remnants of her. For they are one.