If The Heart Could Cry Out

Prologue

   

     "BRING THEM BACK! DON'T TAKE THEM! PLEASE! AHHHH!" I screamed, struggling against my brother and dad as they hold me down. Keeping me from them. My throat was raw from my never-ending screams of agony. The pain was on my family's faces as they watched. My heartfelt like it had been ripped out of my chest and walked right out the door with the doctors. I could see the nurses and other visitors in the ward looking on in pity. I don't want their fucking pity! I want them back. "Please dad! Please make them come back!"           

      My father looked at my pleading, sweat-soaked, tear-stained face with pain and sadness of his own. "Sweetie, you know I can't do that." His voice cracked as his own tears rushed down his face in streams. He brought his hand up to brush my hair away from my face and put his forehead to mine as we sobbed together. Exhaustion was setting in quickly and I knew they had sedated me. My sobs turned to whimpers as I continued whispering. 
    

    "Bring them back. Come back to me. Please come back to me..." My pleading whispers trailed off as I felt the sedatives taking me under. The throbbing in my entire body, however, stayed constant. Just before losing complete consciousness, I saw my family embrace each other and fall apart together, my mother's sobs and screams of pain muffled, but still rattling in my ears. Their pain could never amount to my own though. That was my last thought as I drifted unconscious.           

     I jerked up in my bed with a gasp as my chest aches painfully. Four years later and this fucking dream still comes every night. I clutch the locket around my neck tightly in my hand as I practice the damn breathing exercise my shrink suggested to help prevent full-out episodes. My eyes squeeze shut as I try to purge the dream from my brain so I will be able to function today. The only problem is that it's not a fucking dream. It happened.          

    "Fuck!" I whisper to myself as I decide to go get a drink from the kitchen. I push my duvet back and put my feet on the soft rug in my room. I pad over to my bedroom door while pulling my silver hair up in a messy bun on top of my head. I walk down the hallway towards what I thought were the stairs looking at my feet before freezing in my tracks as I raise my eyes to the door my body had subconsciously brought me to. The door that has not been opened in four years. The very door that has the power to destroy my very soul should I ever catch a glimpse of what is inside. It feels almost forbidden to even touch the door itself, let alone enter it. I know mom goes in to clean, but they've never made a move to change it. Never made a move to rearrange or take anything from the very places I put them with an elated smile on my face four years prior.           

     I rip myself from the door before I send myself spiraling again and walk towards the stairs, making my way down to the kitchen. I cast a small glance towards the liquor cabinet only to see the fucking padlock back on it. Dammit! I guess Dad found out about my relapse from my shrink. Whatever happened to that kind of information being illegal to share?! Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that bullshit. Whatever. Doesn't fucking matter anymore. This shit is getting so old. I feel like I'm climbing a rock covered in algae or some shit. Always slipping backward and never making progress. I have nothing left. My entire life is sympathetic stares and people tiptoeing around me as I'll snap at the smallest thing. It's fucking worthless. 

     I change my course to the back patio and find my stash of cigarettes, putting one between my lips and lighting it. I take a deep drag and feel the burn take away from the pain of the throbbing hole in my chest slightly. I just wish all the pain would go away together. I'm just so fucking tired.