She had ambitions that soared beyond the cage of her upbringing. Her dreams were simple yet profound: to find true love, chase her dream career, and break free from the shackles of her life. Yet, the day arrived when the cold hand of fate forced her...
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♬ Crack Baby - Mitski
☆彡
Grief was an odd thing.
It slithered into your life, sometimes creeping up silently, other times crashing down like a tidal wave.
Sometimes it lingered for months, years even, each day a reminder of the absence that would never fully heal.
When Sofia passed away, I mourned her. I cried for her. I remember those days as a child, not fully grasping the concept of grief yet still feeling its weight pressing down on my tiny chest, as heavy as a stone. I was a child—I wasn't supposed to carry such burdens.
And now, here I am, engulfed in the aftermath of chaos, supposed to be grieving again. I should be a mess of self-hate, dread, and utter devastation. But instead, the reality settled in like ice in my veins:
I had just seen my mother get fucking shot, and I didn't feel a thing.
Those tears that had spilled from my eyes weren't for her. No, they were a reflection of the stark realization that I was a monster.
How could I not shed a tear for my bleeding mother?
I open my eyes, The walls are white.
Too white.
Sterile, humming, sharp like the light overhead. It cuts straight through my skull and makes everything inside me feel worse, like it's highlighting the mess beneath my skin—my blood, my bones, my thoughts.
They asked if I wanted anything for the pain. I said no.
There's gauze wrapped around my shoulder. I can feel the sting of the graze whenever I shift. My left palm's bandaged too, and there are smaller cuts down both my forearms—shallow and angry, red and raw beneath the dressings. I haven't looked at them properly yet. I'm not sure I want to. They make it real.
I keep my gaze fixed on the edge of the hospital bed. There's a smudge on the metal frame, probably a fingerprint. Mine? Someone else's? Who knows. It's easier to stare at that than the door.
Caden's leaning against the wall near the corner. Hands in his pockets. His jaw is tight. Not saying anything. But he's here.
He's here, and I don't know what to make of it.
"You can sit, you know," I say, voice dry.
He glances up at me. "I'm fine."
"Suit yourself."
A beat of silence stretches out, thick and humming with everything we're not saying.
I shift on the bed, wincing as the bandage tugs against my skin. A nurse had said it was lucky—if the bullet had hit even a little lower, it might've shattered the bone. Lucky. Sure.
