(𝓜𝓸𝓷𝓽𝔂 𝔁 𝓜𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻) //🆃🅷🅴 🅺🅸🅻🅻🅸🅽🅶 🅲🆄🆁🆂🅴//

🅹🅾🆂🅷

//Chapter 21//

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was already high in the sky, casting a vibrant emerald glow through the tinted windows of Monty's room. The rain had ceased, leaving the world outside looking as if it had been painted with a watercolor brush—splotchy and bleak. You stirred, the ache in your heart echoing the stiffness in your body from the tumultuous night spent in the cabin. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you found yourself nestled in a surprisingly plush bed, the vibrant shade of the walls seemingly pulsing with the energy of a thousand punk rock concerts. The scent of incense and leather filled the air, a stark contrast to the musty, wet earth of the swamp. The room was cluttered with band posters, guitars, and a wild array of clothing that hung haphazardly from the walls, creating a kaleidoscope of color that seemed to dance in the light. The bed beneath you was unmistakably Monty's—his scales had left an imprint on the sheets that was almost comforting in its familiarity.

"Mornin' sunshine," Monty's voice boomed from the doorway, interrupting the solemn silence with a jolting cheerfulness. He was dressed in a faded AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, the fabric clinging to his powerful frame. His mohawk looked like it had been styled by a tornado, and yet, it suited him perfectly. He sauntered over to the bed, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of bacon and eggs in the other. "Thought you might need this," he said, his smile revealing a hint of mischief as he set the food on the bedside table. The aroma wafted through the air, and your stomach growled in protest at the neglect it had suffered.

"So, you ever manage to get hold of your mom?" Monty asked, his tail swishing behind him as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes searched yours, the concern etched into his features as deep as the grooves in a vinyl record. He took a sip of his own coffee, the steam curling around his snout.

"Not yet," you reply, the words sticking in your throat like the thickest of molasses. You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the image of the charred remains of your home from your mind. "I keep... I keep trying to tell myself it's just a bad dream," you murmur, the weight of reality pressing down on you like a leaden blanket. "But it's not, is it?" You look over at Monty, his emerald scales a beacon of steadiness in the storm of your thoughts. "It's like everything we knew was just a lie," you continue, your voice cracking. "Isaiah, the house... It's all gone." You shake your head, trying to dislodge the heaviness that's settled in your chest. "But I can't ignore it." You take a deep breath, the scent of the breakfast bringing you back to the present. "I need to call her," you decide, sitting up with newfound resolve. "I can't keep her in the dark any longer."

"You're right," Monty says, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate through the room. He places a comforting hand on your shoulder, his claws retracted to avoid any accidental nicks. "Just know I wont leave your side, okay?" His eyes hold yours for a moment, the concern in them as deep as the swamp's murky waters.

The phone in your hand feels cold and alien, a stark contrast to the warmth of Monty's touch. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation you never thought you'd have to have. You dial the number, each ring echoing in your ears like a tolling bell. When your mom finally answers, her voice is a warm embrace through the line. "Hi, Mom," you say, your voice shaking slightly. "I need to tell you something..." You relate the events of the last few days, the words spilling out in a jumbled mess of fear and confusion. You hear her gasp, the sound of her shock a knife to your heart. She asks questions, her voice a mix of disbelief and horror. You can almost see her, pacing in her kitchen, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with worry. The conversation is a blur of tears and explanations, the weight of your words heavier than the ashen wreckage of your former life.