The Witch And His Wolf // Kai Parker

Nine - Shadows and Secrets

Shadows and Secrets

Carrie lay in her bed, staring at the cracked, plastered ceiling. Shadows played tricks on her tired mind, but sleep refused to come. The house was as silent as a tomb, yet she felt the weight of restless souls around her—her family, as fractured and broken as she was.

She glanced at the alarm clock's glaring red numbers: 3:30 a.m. With a sigh, she swung her legs off the bed, her feet cold against the wooden floor. She moved carefully, avoiding the creaks in the boards as she padded to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, her hand hovered over the small orange pill bottle. Her doctor had warned her about over-relying on them, but tonight she didn't care. She swallowed a pill dry, the bitter taste lingering as she climbed back into bed. Finally, she drifted into the void of dreamless sleep.

When Carrie woke up again, the sunlight seemed too bright, like an unwelcome intruder piercing the heavy gloom of the house. She pulled on a rumpled hoodie and jeans, her hands moving sluggishly, and yanked her hair into a messy ponytail. The weight in her chest hadn't lifted—it had only grown denser.

Downstairs, the kitchen carried the faint scent of coffee and toast. Her mother stood at the counter, staring into her mug, her blue power suit looking stark against her weary expression. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed the sleepless nights she shared with Carrie, but her posture was tense, resolved.

"I'm going to the office today," her mother said quietly, breaking the silence. She turned to Carrie, her voice soft but firm. "It's time."

Carrie froze, her chest tightening. "You're leaving?" she asked, her voice sharp. "Just like that?"

Her mother set the mug down, her hands trembling as she adjusted the cuff of her blazer. "I've been home for two weeks. I need to keep moving—for Brian, for us."

Her words sounded hollow to Carrie. Movement didn't mean progress; it just felt like forgetting. Carrie's throat tightened, the frustration bubbling beneath her skin. "So what? You'll just pretend everything's normal now?"

Her mother's gaze softened but stayed firm. "I'm not pretending everything's normal, Carrie. I have to keep going."

David, standing next to their mother, looked between them, his eyes heavy with understanding. "Mom's just trying to hold it together," he said quietly. "We all are."

Her mother closed her eyes, steadying herself. "And I know it's not fine, honey," she whispered. "It will never be fine. But we can't let this destroy us."

The words struck something raw in Carrie. Destroy us? She already felt destroyed—shattered beyond repair. Her breath hitched as she grabbed her bag and stormed toward the door, the weight of their grief suffocating her.

Carrie turned away, shaking her head. She grabbed her bag, the weight of it a reminder of the emptiness inside her, and stormed out without another word.

Outside, the cold air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her mind. Her thoughts spun in chaotic circles. School felt like an endless maze of pitying stares and whispers, but home wasn't any better. There was nowhere she could escape the truth: Brian was gone, and nothing would ever feel whole again.

Carrie trudged through the school hallways, the weight of everyone's pity heavy on her chest. Classmates she barely knew whispered condolences, their voices dripping with a sympathy that felt more like an accusation. "I'm so sorry for your loss," they'd say, as if it could somehow ease the ache inside her. But it didn't. It made it worse.

She passed Brian's locker, now a shrine to his memory—pictures, notes, and flowers clashing with the dull, indifferent walls around it. A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down, refusing to break in front of them.