Dusk Till Dawn

2

Freya

Silence... no birds, no rustling leaves, nothing to greet me as I woke. For a moment, I forgot where I was, lost in the quiet, as if the world outside had disappeared. My eyes drifted to the clock on the nightstand next to the dimly lit lamp.

"9:30 a.m.," I whispered, the sound barely reaching my own ears. It was Saturday, a day that used to mean something. Now it was just another day, another moment to survive. I was supposed to go home, but the thought of it felt distant, unattainable.

Instead of getting up, I rolled over, pulling the robe tighter around me, wrapping myself in the fragile comfort it provided. I was so tired, exhausted by the weight of everything I'd been running from. The past was a noose tightening around my neck, and yet, here I was, dragging it with me.

I don't know what possessed me, but my legs carried me across the room to the life-sized mirror by the wall. I stared at my reflection, half-expecting to see someone else staring back. Somewhere, I had read that to accept yourself, you needed to look into your own eyes without judgment. Who was I kidding? Who was I to judge myself?

What I saw was worse than anything anyone else could ever think of me.

The woman in the mirror was broken. Her eyes, dark and heavy with sleepless nights, were hollow. Her skin, once vibrant, now dull, cracked, thirsty for care she could no longer bring herself to give. But even with all that, I couldn't hate her. I couldn't hate what I saw.

Because she was all I had left of my mother.

I felt the sting of tears welling up, but I swallowed hard. It was too early to break down. It was only 9:30 a.m. and I had responsibilities waiting for me. I tried to shake myself out of it, lightly slapping my cheeks, but the fog wouldn't lift. I couldn't seem to escape the place I was trapped in—the place in my mind where the whispers lived.

And then they came again, creeping in like they always did.

Marco should've ended it years ago... then I wouldn't be running and hiding.

He hates me. He wishes me dead.

Zia Helen's wishes... buried, forgotten. How I wish I could honor them, but what power do I have? Who am I to even try?

I was part of the reason she died—I was born with blood on my hands. I deserve nothing.

I am filthy... worthless. A whore. Men have used me, broken me...

Mama's scent...

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown the voices out, but the more I fought, the louder they became, clawing at me from the inside. My breath hitched, my chest tight as though the air was slipping away from me.

I shot to my feet, gasping, desperate for air, desperate for anything to pull me out of this.

I needed to breathe. I needed to—

My eyes fell on the TV remote, and without thinking, I grabbed it, switching on the TV. I needed a distraction, something to rip me away from the spiral I was trapped in. The screen flickered to life, casting its dull blue glow across the room.

I snapped out of my daze, blinking rapidly as the TV screen in front of me came into focus. I must have hit the power button on instinct, desperate for a distraction. The volume was already set, and the glossy opening of a talk show filled the silence of the room, the overly enthusiastic hosts animatedly discussing their latest topic.

And just like fate testing the hell out of you...it was Marco.

"Marco Amato!" one of the hosts gushed, practically beaming at the camera. "The name everyone's been talking about—this man is everywhere, from business headlines to charity events! The Amato Apex Group is dominating the industry, and let's not forget his incredible work with humanitarian projects all over the world."