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▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃ If only ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
TW: suicide, blood, and drugs
The clock on the wall ticked, and she hated how the world kept moving.
She stared down at her blood-stained shirt. A nurse had asked if she wanted something clean, but she shook her head. Changing clothes felt like letting go of Madeline too soon. The blood was still warm when they got here.
It had sinked into her skin.
Into her memory.
Every time she blinked, she saw it Madeline's face. Not screaming, not gasping just... still. That expression. The way her eyes didn't understand what was happening. The way her mouth barely opened before everything stopped.
She kept hearing herself scream. It replayed in her head, not as sound, but as pressure. Like her chest was caving in all over again.
The door creaked open. A nurse stepped in quietly with a cup of water and a warm blanket. Evara didn't look up.
"Do you want someone to call your family?"
"No," she whispered.
The nurse lingered for a second, sensing something deeper.
By the next morning, the hospital social worker led Evara into a small, windowless office on the second floor of the Hôpital Saint-Joseph in Marseille. The hum of the city outside was faint, muffled by thick walls and the weight in her chest.
The woman across from her—Mme. Lambert—spoke softly, in careful, practiced English.
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mademoiselle Ravon. She had no listed family here in France, and no one from the UK has contacted us with any information."
Evara sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap, blood still faintly crusted beneath her fingernails.
"She... didn't have anyone," she said, her voice low. "It was just me"
Mme. Lambert nodded kindly, folding her hands on the desk. "That means all decisions for her release and disposition fall to you."
Evara blinked at her, barely keeping her expression steady. "What does that mean?"
The woman hesitated, choosing her words. "The body, mademoiselle. Burial or cremation"
"I don't have that kind of money," Evara said quickly, shaking her head. "I barely have a place to stay."
"There is a local crematory just outside the city. We can arrange a private cremation at a reduced cost through a social care program it is eight hundred and ninety-five euros."
Evara froze. Her tote bag sat at her feet, heavy not with comfort, but with guilt and drug money.
