𝗙𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗘𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗬 , 𝗔𝗢𝗧

𝟎𝟑:𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘

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ᴀᴄʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

ꜱᴇʟꜰɪꜱʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ

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THEY SAY TRAUMA CHANGES PEOPLE -

morgan had always scoffed at that idea, her words often laced with 'They let it change them,' or 'They just need to talk to someone.' But having endured it herself, the nightmares now shone as vividly as daylight. She grasped, perhaps for the first time, how her previous words, born from ignorance, could have inflicted pain rather than offered solace.

She had made attempts to seek comfort from Penelope, walking to her bedroom door in the depths of night, yearning to knock until she found herself enveloped in an embrace that would ward off the night terrors.

Yet night after night, Morgan remained isolated in her own room, waking in terror, perspiration beading her brow. With each new day, she struggled to hold down food, suppressing the urge to retch it back up as a self-imposed punishment for surviving.

Daily, she visited her mother's grave, collecting delicate flowers along her path, and placing them gently down to wither beside her deceased mother.

But the true horror lay not in the grave's silence. Her mother's body was not interred beneath the soil, no worms or maggots to claim it. Instead, it lay abandoned in their former home, decomposing in solitude. Morgan could all too easily imagine the birds drawn by the scent of decay, pecking at her mother's body, feasting as though she were nothing more than carrion.

Morgan shook her head, dispelling the gruesome imagery that would otherwise plague her sleep.

Four months had passed since the calamity, and recovery was a slow, arduous process. Those who were once affluent were now destitute, pleading for sustenance or laboring in the fields.

Others returned from the ordeal only as shadows of their former selves, already teetering on the brink of death. The town buzzed with grim rumors of a surge in suicides within the first month.

The military seemed indifferent, offering no aid to those battling illness, no listening ear to soothe the tormented souls before they surrendered to despair.

Morgan harbored no resentment; the weight of guilt allowed her no reprieve. She had explored every avenue to escape its clutches, even coming perilously close to her own demise.

Had Penelope not intervened on that fateful day, Morgan might have found peace, her spirit perhaps reunited with her mother's—if the heavens were more than mere myth.

Now, Morgan's fingers traced the bandages wound tightly around her neck, the once-open wound no longer bleeding, but itching—a constant struggle not to aggravate it further.

Three weeks had elapsed since her solitary attempt at self-destruction, and it was as if Penelope had been blind to Morgan's suffering.

Since then, Penelope had hidden the knives and shunned any discussion of the incident, dismissing it as a transient horror, bound to fade with the dawn.