Prologue to a story I might (not) continue

The memory drifts by, only in enough time for Jasmine to catch a snippet of it. 

She remembers everything about that house, the way it creaked in the night, the way the sounds would carry through the thin walls and sometimes she'd press her ear against the wallpaper and hear words she'd rather not have heard. Sometimes she'd have to bury her head in the pillow through the screaming, the shouting, the curses. Jasmine used to have a dream catcher hanging from her ceiling to ward off the demons, but sometimes it wouldn't work. In her head, she sees it swaying back and forth, heavy from the weight of memories. 

Jasmine remembers the gunshots, the screams, and hiding under her bed and not breathing, lest she never breathe again. Then there was that sickening silence, which seemed to last forever. The sirens came in slow motion, the police office was cold and unwelcoming. They said maybe just the air conditioning was set too low, but she remembers shivering, and asking for a blanket. She was ignored. 

Now she wishes she had known her parents for a bit longer, because even through all the shouting, there was a degree of her that could have loved them. Now she swears she forgot that night, since she was only three at the time, but there are some memories that she could never forget. It drifts away again, the nightmare fades, and the lights return again. They seem brighter than before.