𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

32

ᴍʏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇꜱᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ʏᴇᴛ. 3.2ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍʏ ɢɪʀʟ ᴘᴇɴɴʏ. ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ, ɪ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Time of death, 4:26 pm. Five years old. 21 pounds.

They covered her tiny body with a sheet and moved her to a cooling bed to preserve her until...until I figure out what comes next. But I can't think about that yet. I won't survive it if I do.

The hours bleed together. I refuse to leave the infirmary, and leave Penny's side even though she's not really here anymore.

Not in the way that matters.

I just sit on the floor, back against the wall, staring at that still little body under the crisp white sheet.

Sometime around 4am, Damien comes down the stairs, looking exhausted. He takes one look at me--pale, unmoving, eyes swollen and dry from crying until I had nothing left.

He disappears for a moment, then returns with a blanket, gently trying to coax me into a more comfortable position on the floor.

I don't fight him, just let him arrange me however he wants. He sits down heavily beside me, laying my head on his lap.

"You gotta try and get some rest, baby," he murmurs. I just shake my head numbly, my eyes never leaving Penny.

We sit in silence for a long while before he tries again. "Cat...when's the last time you showered? Or ate something?"

" I don't deserve to eat."

"At least go get cleaned up," he pleads.

"Will you stay with her? In case she wakes up? I don't want her to be scared."

"I'll be right by her side," Damien vows. "The second she so much as twitches, I'll come get you. I promise, Catherine."

I swallow hard and finally give a jerky nod. Showering sounds...not good, but necessary I suppose.

With Damien's help, I manage to get to my feet, my legs shaking from sitting for so long. "You'll stay?" I rasp out.

He nods. "Every second. Go on, I've got her."

I cast one more prolonged look at the bed, my heart cracking open once again. Then I turn stiffly and make my way out, each step feeling like I'm wading through wet concrete.

I know she's gone. I watched her heart stop. But I still can't let go of the delusion; that she'll wake up and everything will be okay again. Please, just let me have that fantasy a little while longer. Don't make me accept it yet.

I can't...I just can't.

I head upstairs, my body moving on autopilot. I grab a bottle of vodka from the kitchen and my bottle of Xanax from the bedroom before stumbling into the bathroom. I don't even bother to close the door behind me as I turn on the shower, cranking the heat up as high as it'll go.

I strip off my filthy, blood-stained clothes and step under the scalding water.

For a moment, I just stand there, letting the water pour over me. It feels good, washing away the blood and the sweat and the tears. But it can't touch the guilt that's eating me alive from the inside out.

I slump down to the tile floor, the bottle of vodka clutched in one hand and a fistful of pills in the other. I don't even know how many I toss back, chasing them with long pulls straight from the bottle. I just know I need to be numb. I need to stop feeling, stop thinking, stop existing.