She was only 8 years old.
8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
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N O V A
The bathroom was cold.
Cold tile beneath me. Cold porcelain against my skin. Cold air filling my lungs every time I tried to breathe without breaking apart again.
I sat curled up in the bathtub with my knees pressed tightly against my chest, my arms wrapped around myself like if I held on hard enough, maybe I wouldn't completely fall apart.
My body hurt.
My head hurt.
Everything hurt.
Outside the bathroom door, the mansion had finally gone quiet.
No more yelling.
No more Christian pounding against the door demanding answers.
No more Malcolm trying to apologize.
No more voices.
Just silence.
And the phone.
It still sat near the bottom of the door where Ramon slid it through.
For the longest time, I just stared at it.
Then the voice came again.
"Nova?"
My fingers twitched.
"I don't know if you're still there."
My chest tightened painfully.
That voice...
It wasn't Christian.
Wasn't Javier.
Wasn't Malcolm.
It sounded older. Rougher. Like exhaustion had lived inside it for years.
I swallowed hard.
Part of me wanted to ignore it.
Another part of me needed answers so badly it physically hurt.
Slowly, my trembling hand reached down and picked up the phone off the tile floor.
I pressed it against my ear but didn't say anything at first.
