The Summer Sting

13. Drain the Swamp

13. Drain the Swamp
Our every moment, I start to replay
But all I can think about is seeing that look on your face
When you hurt under the surface
Like troubled water running cold
Well, time can heal but this won't

Yoon Se-ri stared at the night-sky, cold despite the balmy August breeze, and listened to the angry beats of her heart, wondering if it would ever stop.

If the pain would ever dull.

As a child, Roza had promised her that time would heal even the worst of her wounds, but this one felt like a jagged blade lodged so deep between her ribs that Se-ri found herself doubting the woman's words. There were moments when she couldn't pinpoint where the pain was coming from – couldn't even breathe. It overwhelmed her, but everything seemed to be moving at the speed of light with no room to stop, no time to fall apart.

She leaned back deeper into the reclining garden chair, tall clear glass squeezed between both hands, eyes fixed above her, her body very still, as if the slightest move might disturb the grief swirling inside her. One more night, she thought. She would allow herself to wallow for one more night. Tomorrow, she would fly back to Seoul and start putting the pieces back together like she'd always done. It was thankless and lonely, but someone had to do it.

This time while her father had evidently done some terrible things, it felt like she owed it to her family to step up because she'd done a very, very stupid thing. The list of accused crimes was unspeakable, and Se-ri wished she'd known about it before – had the chance to right the wrongs before an undercover cop had swooped in and torn her family apart. He'd done more than that; he'd robbed her of her agency in the process. He'd taken away her sense of control over her life, her family, her emotions, her sanity.

The soft sound of approaching footsteps rustling the damp grass jarred her back to Casa de la Reina's rose garden.

Her gaze darted away from the ironically beautiful sky and found Roza walking towards her. From a distance, Se-ri could see the older lady's mouth drawn into a tight, grim line, and her eyes brightening with empathy. The knife in her chest twisted a little deeper.

Lifting the perspiring glass towards Roza, she smiled darkly. "Cheers," she muttered and tipped it against her lips, taking a long sip. The vodka burned, but she liked feeling something other than the pain. "On a good night, I'd be drinking whiskey," she mused. "But," she paused to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. "He ruined that for me too. Whiskey tastes like him. It sounds like him. Does that even make sense?" she wondered, voice breaking. Fuck him. She supposed she'd already done that, and it hadn't done her much good.

"Mija," Roza sighed, lowered herself into the other garden chair, and reached over to envelop one of Se-ri's hands in both of hers. Her hands were warm and firm; Se-ri's palm felt clammy against their reassuring pressure. "I know it feels like the sky is falling right now, but things will get better." It sounded a lot like that promise about time healing all wounds. Se-ri desperately wanted to believe it, but she knew better. "Sometime soon, you'll start seeing all of this a lot more clearly."

"Seeing what more clearly?" she bit out bitterly. She was seeing things plenty clear, and the implicit implication that she had misconstrued any part of this clusterfuck irked her.

"What happened with your father and Cheol-gang and the role Ri Jeong-hyeok played in it," Roza said carefully, hands tightening around Se-ri's fingers.

His name twisted the knife viciously into her organs. She wished Roza had sounded angrier when she'd said it. She wished her brain didn't conjure his face into her memory at the sound of it. She wished she was able to hate him. "You mean the role I played in it?" she asked instead.