Florence Maxwell

Florence Maxwell was born in Guntersville, Alabama; population approximately 8,000. A plump and pretty baby, she had been the apple of her mother's eye. After trying for years to conceive, her parents were overjoyed when she was finally conceived. Her mother had worked as a nurse, but after Florence's birth, she quit work to take care of her daughter full time. Daddy Maxwell was a truck driver for the local lumber company. Perhaps in retrospect, Florence never quite saw the cracks in her life until she began high school. Her father was a complicated man. Some days he seemed so kind and loving that it made her heart ache to think that his kindness could be so fickle. Other times, especially when he drank, he was mean, dismissive, and angry. It always mystified Florence why her dad didn't love her enough to be consistent. Sometimes she would notice the way her mother tiptoed around him like he might explode if she said the wrong thing. The arguments between them often left her feeling trapped between two people who hated each other; her father often yelling at her mother while she stood by helplessly, watching the scene play out. The one person who did love her unconditionally was her mom. Florence had watched her mother put aside her own pain and disappointment to try to make Florence feel loved and protected.

Florence's turbulent home life made the girl grow into a timid and insecure child, eventually a teenager who became more withdrawn. She found solace in books, particularly romance novels. These stories gave her comfort by allowing her to escape from reality for a few hours. She tried to do things with friends, join clubs and participate in sports, but her father's unpredictable temper made those experiences more painful than pleasurable. "Cheerleading?" he had sneered, "You're better off reading a book. Only pretty girls belong on the football field."

As a result, she dropped most extracurricular activities. Even though her grades were good, she felt that no matter what she did, her father would find fault. Her mother became too exhausted to do much to help her. When Florence reached senior year, she began to rebel in subtle ways, changing clothes and hairstyles without consulting her father, but she would usually end up stuffing it all back in the closet before he got home. Boys were out of the question; a deeply religious family with a strong sense of right and wrong, the Maxwells frowned upon dating, sex outside marriage, drinking, smoking, drugs, and any other activity deemed sinful.

During December, when the glittering lights of Christmas sparkled in windows and on rooftops, florists' shops filled with poinsettias and holly, and carolers sang on street corners, Florence felt that change was coming. It did - just not the kind she had hoped for. A note left on the kitchen, "I'm sorry baby, but I can't handle this anymore," in her mother's messy handwriting, confirmed it. The days after that stretched into weeks, and then months, and then years. Her father grew steadily worse, until it seemed like he was always drunk. He'd come home late, staggering, stinking of stale beer, his face flushed red, his eyes bloodshot. He would yell and scream for what seemed like hours, terrifying Florence. And then he would pass out on the couch, snoring loudly.

Florence stayed - perhaps she was stupid, maybe it was cowardice, but she did not leave. She had always tried to see the best in people, and she'd always believed her father when he said he was sorry and that he wanted to get better. After dropping out of college, she went to work as a waitress to put food on the table.

But she grew stronger, and decided that she deserved happiness. She left a note of her own for her father, telling him she was moving out. She packed a suitcase with clothing and personal items and headed for somewhere bigger and better.

Florence ended up Southwest along the Pacific coast. She decided to take up school again and studied at Oregon University, majoring in dance. She met Riley Biers during her freshman year, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen year old student. Too clingy, Florence thought when first they met; he'd often teased her about her southern accent and would sometimes call her 'girlie,' when he was with his friends. She had an idea that Riley liked her because her mom had often said guys tended to pick on girls they had feelings for. Still, she wasn't really interested in Riley — or anyone else. Biers disappeared for a while, anyway, and Florence quickly forgot about him until one day he showed up in her dorm room. It wasn't the Riley - the romantic, charming boy she remembered; rather a dark, brooding, handsome stranger. The eyes - yes, the eyes. They were big and red, almost glowing, the color of blood.

She had tried to forget the way Riley had looked that night, but she could still see it clearly in her mind. It all happened very quickly, and she knew she should have run. She had made it halfway down the hall, when a hand clamped around her mouth and pulled her backwards.