Recollection

ten | her eyes

song: Zoe Wees - Control

Trigger warnings: violence, self-harm, harmful thoughts.

It had been two weeks since they told me she was dead.

Two weeks, and I still hadn't spoken a word. Not to Roman, not to anyone. Not even to myself. There was nothing to say because, in my mind, she wasn't really gone. How could she be? I would've felt it—some rip in my soul, in my heart, a shift in the universe, something—if she had truly left this world.

But there was nothing. Only that numbness, that suffocating silence pressing against my chest every time I breathed. I couldn't shake the feeling that she was still out there somewhere, alive, just beyond my reach. That maybe, just maybe, they were wrong. Or I was. Or fate was. Something had to be wrong, because she couldn't be gone.

Not her. Not my sister.

It was that numbness that was killing me—more than anything else. It was like standing in the middle of a storm, but nothing touched me. No pain, no grief, no relief. Just...numb. It was worse than feeling broken; it was feeling nothing at all.

Eight days ago, I had tried to feel something. Anything. That was the night Roman told us. The night he stood there in front of the whole family, looked me dead in the eyes, and said she was dead. My hands had started shaking, my throat closing, and before I knew it, I was holding a lighter to my skin again. I hadn't done it in months. But the fire—the burn—it was something. It was real.

It was alive.

That was all I wanted. To feel alive. To remind myself that I was still here, even if she wasn't. And it worked, for a minute. Until it didn't. Until the numbness came flooding back, drowning out the pain, and leaving me hollow all over again.

I relapsed again the night after her funeral. Six days ago. They buried her near our mother. I didn't speak. I couldn't. Afterward, I burned myself again, the flame eating at my skin like some twisted reflection of the hell inside me. It wasn't enough.

Now, I needed more.

That was how I ended up there, sneaking out in the dead of night to some godforsaken alleyway where blood spilled like water and fists replaced words. I was the Reaper, after all. That's what they called me here. And tonight, I needed to fight.

I stepped into the ring, my fists taped tight, my jaw clenched. Across from me stood Panther. The guy had earned his name—he moved like one, smooth and dangerous, muscles coiled and ready to pounce. He was known for his speed and precision, quick strikes that left you bleeding before you even realized you'd been hit. But I didn't care. I wanted the fight. I wanted the pain. I wanted something to break that goddamn numbness that was eating me alive.

We circled each other, the crowd's roars fading into white noise around me. Panther struck first—fast and sharp, a jab aimed at my ribs. I let it hit. The pain sparked in my side, but it was dull. Too dull. I needed more.