Tangled Redemption

PROLOGUE

Hold on.

Hold on.

Hold on before it's too late.

The words trespassed over the unknown grave—the cries of the people registered and crumbled under the weighing guilt in my heart. The crunches clutched the heart I called emotionless, the organ I often ignore to register.

Pressing my wet eyes against the arm, I took a deep breath and endeavoured to silence the voices surrounding me—violent and agonizing. The sweat of the blazing rays punished me for wishing more than I deserved.

I am sorry for your loss.

The words remained stuck at the back of my throat. They fought to be let out, but the cowardice in me backed out step by step. From the corner of my eye, I saw the bent lady on the dry ground, not caring that her clothes were getting spoiled.

I should move from my space, jump back on the bus, and settle down to where I come from. There was no space for me here, where their hatred-filled eyes with accusation passed over my body. But a part—awaiting the humiliation and rejection—stood its ground and refused to move apart. And a part that was scared to be found touched the leg of the old wooden tree with rotten rusty leaves as if it would hide my existence, wipe out the gloominess of the place, and turn the person back alive.

Don't be naïve.

"I am not being naïve," I hushed to the heavy humid air.

A stranger cut me a harsh and strange look. Ignoring him, I diverted my eyes back to the blazing fire, licking the woods and the memories in its wake. The raging fire couldn't contain the bottled emotions, the strangeness of where I stood, and express my grief.

I didn't have a right to grieve.

Gasping, I slammed my hand against my mouth to swallow down the sobs and emotions that were itching and screaming to come out.

I couldn't divert attention to myself. It wasn't allowed.

Stop caring.

Yes, I could do that.

My eyes swiped to the little girl hiding behind a man's leg, unaware of the brother she had lost.

I stole him.

I stole him from everyone.

Shaking my head, I stepped back on the rotten ground with rotten memories.

You cannot cry.

You can handle it.

Taking a swift breath, I drowned out the erupting emotions, clutched my arm against my stomach, and looked ahead at the passing road with vehicles and people and the wall that separated death and the living.

So agonizing inside, so disturbed outside.

With shivering hands, I took out my phone from the black purse, clicked through apps to book a cab, and forgot the scenario I caused.

You could have saved me.

I know.

I know I could have.