Sage Rose Parker, a seventeen almost eighteen year old girl getting ready for college with her two friends.
Having the world on her shoulders and her past in her mind she's down to break.
An alcoholic as a mother and an abusive father in jail didn'...
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When the Night Spills the Truth
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in the hush between footsteps and the shadows on brick, your name slipped through lips soaked in forgetting—
you laughed like it didn't ache, hugged like time never passed, and asked me questions I wasn't ready to answer.
how do you explain a ghost to the one who still sees you whole? how do you carry someone when your hands are full of guilt?
but still, I held you— like memory was a thread and this moment wasn't unraveling everything. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wake up choking on my own breath.
For a second, I can't tell if I'm still in the dream or not. My heart hammers so loud it drowns everything else out—the creak of the old bed springs when I move, the distant rumble of a car outside. My shirt clings to me, soaked in sweat, and my fists are balled so tight my nails leave crescent moons in my palms.
I sit up fast, breathing like I just ran a marathon, and stare at the wall across from me, before pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub the dream away. But it sticks—thick and ugly. Mom on the floor. Her eyes not blinking. Her mouth still open like she has something left to say.
My stomach twists, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stop whatever was about to come up. I felt like I was shaking apart.
God, I hate sleeping.
Because every time I close my eyes... I see it all over again.
I drag myself out of bed, my legs still heavy with sleep and something darker. The bathroom light burns my eyes, but I don't bother flinching. I step into the shower and let the water scald my skin, hoping it'll rinse away the nightmare still clinging to me like oil. It doesn't.
Afterward, I throw on a black hoodie and jeans, the same worn pair I've worn too many times. My boots are by the door. I grab the gun from the top drawer, check the magazine, then tuck it into the back of my waistband.
I'm almost out the door when I catch sight of Elijah passed out on the couch, snoring softly with a half-empty bag of popcorn crumpled in his lap. He looks peaceful, even stupidly calm, and it makes something sharp twist in my chest.
I groan, half in annoyance, half in disbelief. "Seriously?"
He doesn't move.
I shake my head, open the door, and step out into the hallway, letting it shut behind me with a soft click.
The night air hits me like a slap in the face as soon as I step outside. It's cold, but not the refreshing kind. The kind that feels like it's got something to prove, pushing through the exhaustion that's been gnawing at me for days.
