Young Gods || [Not Updating]

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[chapter twenty-four]

If it's true that a person's life flashes before their eyes when they die, cleaning out her room is a death of sorts.

Every inch of the room is a shrine to the good moments as well as the bad. Every second of her life. Every experience she's ever had.

Photos of roasting summer days. Ice-cream in the park. Her chubby little legs bouncing off of Hiram's chest as he carries her on his shoulders. Sure, the next day there'd be shouting, but in that moment it didn't matter.

Opening one of her old jewelry boxes, she runs her fingers over a small collection of seashells.

Age eight, she's swimming in a crystal clear ocean while her parents smile at her from sun loungers. Hermione strung all the shells onto a necklace and wore them to every school recital. Age ten, Hiram rips the necklaces off of Hermione's neck after an incident at a party. If Veronica hadn't seen them in the trash the next day, she never would have known.

It's good that she's not alone in doing this.

Cheryl takes complete and utter control the moment she steps into the suite. It's a skill. Her confidence and bossiness are so overwhelming that people can't help but listen to her. Sure she's not actually doing any packing, but at least she's there. Delegating from her seat on a bed that used to be Veronica's.

Veronica takes a photo out of the jewelry box and holds it gingerly between her fingers. It's one of her favorite possessions. In the photo, Hermione smiles sweetly as she dances. Her hair a wave of coconut brown around her face.

Later that day, she puts Veronica's feet on top of her own and spins her around till the dizziness is the only thing they can feel. They laugh so much that day. Embracing the ache in their ribs and letting all the bad times drift away like sway balloons.

Someone's playing music but Veronica can't hear it. Laughter but she's not a part of it. Her friends are in arms reach but she feels completely alone. The suite is empty except for them. Her parents are away somewhere. Work, probably. She cares more than she should. As much as she hates to admit it, they're always away.

Age six, playing in her Abuela's garden, two men in suit jackets put their hands on her shoulders and pull her into the back of a van. Four hours later her parents realize she's missing and a deal is made. Age eight, waiting for the car after school, a trembling woman grabs her hand and tries to guide her away. She mentions it to her parents but they're too busy to take it in. Age seventeen, just before their departure from New York, a boy she's dancing with pulls a knife and swears that he'll hold her father accountable for his actions. This incident she doesn't mention.