Absolution | +18

Chapter 57

Silas

It's been three weeks since we made it out of that nightmare. Three weeks since I carried Val's limp body into that ambulance, her blood staining my hands. And three weeks since she slipped into this coma, still fighting for her life.

She survived the bullet wound. The doctors said she made it just in time, that any longer and she wouldn't have. She was rushed into surgery right away, and for the first few days, she was in and out of the operating room. Each time they wheeled her back into this room, she looked smaller, more fragile—like she was slipping further away from me. But she's still here. She's still breathing, still fighting. That's all that matters.

Every day, I sit next to her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, listening to the soft beeping of the machines that keep her stable. I haven't left her side. I won't. The nurses keep telling me I should go home, get some rest, that it'll do me no good staying here every hour of the day. But they don't understand. I can't leave her.

They patched me up too. Bandaged the cuts, stitched the deeper wounds, gave me painkillers I barely remember taking. I was cleared to leave after the first week, but I refused. How could I leave when she's still here, trapped in her own body, fighting for her life? I need to be here when she wakes up. She has to wake up.

I sit in the stiff hospital chair, my elbows resting on my knees, fingers laced together as I watch her. Her skin is pale, almost too pale, like all the color has drained from her. There's a bandage over the bullet wound on her chest, but it's the bruises around her eyes, the faint shadows of exhaustion, that hit me the hardest. She looks like she's been through hell, and it kills me that I couldn't protect her from all of it.

"Bambi," I whisper, my voice hoarse from days of silence. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Every day, I talk to her. I tell her about everything—how the doctors are hopeful, how her father checks in, how Maddie's been recovering too. I tell her about the things she's missing, even though I know she can't hear me. But I don't know what else to do. I don't know how to deal with the guilt that gnaws at me every time I look at her lying there, motionless, because I should have protected her. I should have been faster, stronger, better. But I wasn't.

I rub my hands over my face, exhaustion weighing me down, but I refuse to sleep. Not until she wakes up.

I can't help but regret everything I did to her. Every cruel word I spat, every moment I let my anger consume me, every time I pushed her away. It's like this gnawing weight in my chest that never goes away, a heaviness that makes it hard to breathe when I think about how much I blamed her. How much I let that hatred take root inside me and twist everything we could have been.

I blamed her for what happened to my sister. I carried that blame with me for so long, let it fester and grow, until it was all I could see when I looked at her. But why? Why did I put that on her? Val was a child back then—a scared, broken little girl who didn't have anyone to protect her. Just like my sister.

The memory of that day hits me like a punch to the gut, as it always does when I think about my sister. I was just a kid, not even old enough to understand what true loss felt like. But that day, in the park, everything changed.

I can still see the way the sun was setting behind the trees, casting long shadows across the ground, turning everything golden. My sister, with her bright eyes and infectious laugh, was playing on the swings with her new friend—a girl she'd just met that day. They were both laughing, so carefree, their giggles mixing with the rustling leaves.

I should've known better. The park was getting emptier, and something deep down told me it wasn't a good idea to stay. I could feel the chill in the air, the way the shadows stretched long and eerie as the day turned into dusk. But then Lia looked at me, her eyes wide with excitement, practically pleading.