Old Days Break Free [ON HOLD]

Prologue

When luck deserts us, calamity strikes with a cruel and unforgiving hand.

When luck chooses to favor us, our lives seem to bloom with endless possibilities and boundless beauty.

But what if fate only hands you misfortune, time after time?

What if life never seems to give you a moment of peace, only hardship and suffering?

Can you survive that?

Can anyone survive that?

"On a scale of 1 to 10 popsicles, how terrified were you that day?"

"10" My voice was low, barely more than a whisper, as I placed all the popsicles on the table, unable to choose just one.

The woman sitting across from me didn’t flinch.

She remained still, studying me with a calm, steady gaze.

"Do you feel haunted by what happened? Yellow pig or pink pig?" she asked, her tone casual, almost as if we were discussing something far less significant.

The yellow pig represented a no, and the pink pig represented a yes.

I reached out, my hand trembling slightly, and placed the pink pig stuffed toy on the table.

"Did you feel guilty about what happened?"

Her question hit me like a sledgehammer, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.

I met her eyes, trying to maintain composure, but I could feel the walls closing in around me.

She adjusted her posture, sitting up straighter in her chair, and her gaze briefly flickered to the papers in her hand before returning to me.

"When that event took place, when you were right there, face to face with it—did you feel guilt? Did you carry the weight of it inside you?"

I remained silent, mimicking her posture as I leaned back in my chair, trying to shield myself from the truth that lingered in her words.

"Do you blame yourself?" she pressed, her voice cutting through the tension in the room.

"What?" I asked, my voice coming out sharper than I intended.

The woman shifted in her seat, spreading her legs in a relaxed yet assertive posture.
 

She rested her elbows on her knees, leaning forward slightly as she fixed me with an unyielding stare.

"In situations like this, people often turn inward, blaming themselves for what happened. Especially when the incident is so traumatic, so devastating."

"What incident?" I asked, a sense of dread rising in my chest.

"Hospital Bombing," she said, and suddenly, my mind was flooded with memories.

Every moment of that day came rushing back in vivid detail.

My heart raced uncontrollably, pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it might burst.

I struggled to catch my breath, each inhale feeling shallow and inadequate.

The pain in my head intensified, a sharp, unbearable ache, as if a bullet had torn through my skull.

The pain.

The excruciating, soul-crushing pain.

"Are you tormented by it?" she asked, her voice steady, as though she already knew the answer.

I stared at her, my chest heaving as I fought for air.

"Or," she continued, leaning in closer, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Are you desperately trying to break free from its grip?"

Why wouldn't I try to break free from such a cruel past?

Who wouldn't try to break free from that?

"Answer me... Ms CEO"

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