𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

τριάνταεννέα ; 39

song of the chapter:
MARY ; alex g

It had been two long weeks since that night, and Margarita felt like she was slowly unraveling. She hadn't left her bed in days, her sheets tangled around her like a cocoon that offered no real comfort. Her stomach growled, but she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Food seemed pointless. Sleep, once her escape, had abandoned her too. Instead, she lay in the darkness, staring blankly at the ceiling, her thoughts racing, refusing to quiet.

Her phone had died days ago, buried somewhere under the mess of blankets and pillows. She didn't care enough to charge it. What would be the point? She had nothing to say to anyone, no energy to explain the emptiness that consumed her. She had tried to drink, to drown out the suffocating weight pressing down on her chest, but even that was exhausting now. Each sip felt like a battle.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, a constant reminder of her fragility. She clutched the covers tightly, tears slipping down her face as they had every day since the beach. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks stained with the evidence of countless breakdowns. She trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, unable to steady herself.

Whenever someone knocked at her door—a soft, concerned tap or a louder, more insistent bang—she jumped, her heart racing in terror. She would bury her face in her hands, covering her head as if that could shield her from the world, from the guilt and the memories that wouldn't leave her alone.

Voices outside her door blurred together, muffled like a distant echo, and though she knew people were worried, Margarita couldn't bring herself to answer. She felt so disconnected, so far away from everything that once mattered. The Pogues, Sarah, even Rafe—they were out there, still living, while she was stuck here, trapped in this room, in her mind.

The weight of it all crushed her. Every time she tried to move, her limbs felt heavy, and the exhaustion dragged her back down. She couldn't stop reliving that night—the fear, the violence, the sound of JJ's voice and the sight of the gun, the way it had all spiraled out of control. And her own cowardice, running away instead of facing it.

Her body shook with sobs she couldn't control. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the panic clawing at her throat. Margarita pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the images in her head, but they wouldn't stop. She felt like she was drowning, and there was no one to pull her back up.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep going like this. She was scared—scared of what she had become and scared of what would happen if she stayed in this darkness any longer. But the fear of facing the world again felt even more paralyzing.

She hadn't spoken to anyone in what felt like an eternity. The days her phone had managed to stay alive, she watched the notifications flood in, one after another, like a relentless tide crashing against the shore. Friends checking in, worried messages from Sarah, and frantic texts from JJ. Each buzz of her phone was a reminder of the life she was too afraid to rejoin.

But instead of responding, she let the notifications pile up, her heart heavy with guilt and shame. She couldn't bear to face their concern, the questions that would inevitably come. So, she ignored it all, choosing silence over connection.

Each time she picked up the device, the screen lighting up with messages, she felt a pang in her chest. It was as if the world was reaching out to her, but she remained locked away, a prisoner in her own mind. The thought of engaging, of explaining the turmoil that churned inside her, felt impossible.

"Just one more day," she whispered to herself, time blurring into an indistinct haze. She promised herself she'd respond tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. Instead, she surrendered to the comfort of her blankets, wishing they could shield her from the reality waiting just outside her door.

The longer she stayed silent, the harder it became to break that silence. She felt like a ghost, haunting her own life, and every passing day deepened her isolation. The fear of seeing their faces, of hearing their voices filled with concern and disappointment, paralyzed her. She convinced herself that staying hidden was easier, safer, but deep down, she longed for someone to pull her out of this dark pit.

And so, she lay there, the weight of her silence pressing down on her like a heavy blanket, as the outside world continued on, oblivious to the battle she was fighting within the confines of her own mind.

Some would say she was being a little dramatic for such a small thing, but the sight of that gun brought back memories she had tried to bury deep within her mind. It was a stark reminder of her auntie's murder, the tragedy that had shattered her family and left an indelible mark on her childhood. She remembered the whispers that followed them, the way her family had changed after that day—how laughter turned to silence, and joy faded into sorrow.

Then there was the small gun they kept in the family shop back in Greece. It had been more of a relic than a weapon, a symbol of protection in a world that felt increasingly unsafe. The stories her father told her about it had been filled with bravado, tales of courage and family honor. But to Margarita, it had always been a source of unease, a constant reminder that danger lurked just beyond the horizon.

Now, the sight of JJ's gun during the fight replayed in her mind, the way it had glinted under the sun, a sharp contrast to the carefree atmosphere of the beach party. The image of it pointed at Topper's head was enough to send her heart racing, flooding her with anxiety. It was a moment she couldn't shake off, a flash of chaos that pierced through her already fragile state of mind.

Each memory tangled with the next, creating a web of fear that trapped her in her bed. The sound of her heart pounding echoed in her ears, drowning out the noise of the outside world. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back there—watching her aunt fall, the weight of the gun too heavy to bear.

As the tears flowed down her cheeks, Margarita felt suffocated by the shadows of her past. The memories clung to her like a second skin, reminding her of the fragility of life and the darkness that could seep in at any moment. She wanted to scream, to release the anguish that had built up inside her, but the sound never came. Instead, she remained cocooned in her misery, drowning in a sea of her own thoughts.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the heaviness that enveloped her. In that moment, the chaos of her life faded into a distant murmur, the shadows that clung to her receding ever so slightly. She didn't dream; she didn't think. Her mind shut off, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she finally slept.

The hours slipped away unnoticed, wrapped in a blanket of silence that felt both foreign and comforting. When she awoke, the room was drenched in soft, muted light, the early morning sun filtering through her curtains. It was a new day, yet it felt like the same relentless cycle of despair she had been trapped in.

But something was different this time. The trembling in her hands had eased, the suffocating weight on her chest lifted just a little. She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of her room, and allowed herself to feel—if only for a moment.

Pushing herself up from the bed, she glanced at her phone, still dead and untouched. The notifications that had once filled her screen with an overwhelming flood of messages now felt like ghosts of a life she had abandoned. They were remnants of concern from friends who cared, yet she had shut them all out, afraid of what their words might bring.

As she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, she was surprised to find that her body felt less heavy. There was a flicker of determination sparking within her, a desire to confront the chaos that had taken residence in her mind. She stood up slowly, steadying herself against the wall as she took in the disarray of her room.

Margarita turned on the faucet, splashing cool water on her face, the sensation jolting her fully awake. She caught her reflection in the mirror, her eyes still puffy and red, but beneath the fatigue, she could see the spark of her old self trying to break free.

"Okay, Margarita," she whispered to herself, a hint of resolve in her voice. "You can do this."

--- end of chapter