Dalaric "Ricky" Mikael was known for two things; being the country's best assassin and being a silent brute.
His demons enveloped him in darkness and he saw no light at the end of any tunnel.
Until a girl, who's weird and wears nothing but a pair of...
"Perhaps you notice how the denial is so often the preface to the justification."
- Christopher Hitchens •○• "The abuse dies in a day, but the denial slays the life of the people, and entombs the hope of the race."
- Charles Bradlaugh
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All I can notice are the white lights above me, refraining me from opening my eyes completely.
My cheek hurts. Why does my cheek hurt? I try to lift my finger, that feels heavier than usual, but its clamped down.
Is kipp biting my finger again?
My legs wiggle, an attempt to get a feel on what I'm lying on. This doesn't feel like Dalaric.
Muffled voices in the background irregularly zone into my hearing.
"When can she be released?" That doesn't sound like Dalaric.
"We're not sure yet, the wound will need some healing so a few days or so, depending on how fast she recovers."
Recover? Wound?
And suddenly, it's only then the memories come back to me. They don't come back gradually, like the slow bike rides dada and I used to take to the park.
No, they come back so sharply, so painfully that I groan, my eyes opening with a stinging pain.
It hits me, like a train derailed at high speeds, and a sob escapes my lips.
Mama. The police. Rafael. Dalaric.
Dalaric.
My vision unclogs and I look around frantically, my throat feeling choked by a name I want to call out. Two hands grab my shoulders, slightly warm and comforting but not as comforting as the hands I desperately want in my own.
"Hey, hey, hey...breathe, munchkin. Breathe, c'mon." I listen to their orders, taking deep breaths as my mind tries to sequence the events that brought me here.
In a hospital.
I don't realize how much I'm panicking until I stop. Fatima pulls me into her arms and rubs my back, whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
"W-wher-where's mama?"
She hands me a glass of water which I gulp down greedily, my eyes finally taking in the plain, gray hospital room.
It's small and compact, with an IV monitor perched next to me and a flower vase next to the door which is painted a light blue.
"How about you just take some rest, alright? I'll be back in-"
"Where's mama?"
My voice comes out as a pathetic whisper, the pain on my cheek amplifying as I say it.
