Celeste's childhood wasn't something she loved talking about. It was filled with nothing but painful memories. Whether they were the ones from when her father, along with her brothers, left, or the ones from her mother's death and her stepfather's a...
a/n:- i've made some edits to the first part of chapter 12 since i realised that stitching infected wounds isn't the right thing to do. in summary, azalea only cleaned the wound and bandaged it :)) sorry for the confusion.
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DARKNESS ENCASED the corners of the room I had woken up in. And fear encased the corners of my heart that had refused to stop hammering wildly against my ribcage ever since I jerked awake, my entire body drenched with sweat and my entire limbs trembling due to the nightmare I had gotten.
Bitter saliva passed through my throat, burning it and sending invisible flames throughout my entire body on the impact. Every single ounce of oxygen my heaving lungs had managed to grasp onto did nothing but making the fire that had burned them painfully intensify, and forcing its flames to grow wilder within my constricting chest; to spread rapidly throughout it and to burn my pacing heart along with my lungs. To seemingly slow down the rapid pace of my heart's uneven beats.
My sore limbs moved swiftly, refusing to wait for my mind's permission for them to do so, and my feet carried my trembling figure against the frigid floor, shaking slightly as they did so and threatening to give up beneath my weight. Every step I took felt like a punishment; a torture that sent daggers of pain throughout my entire body.
I attempted to convince myself that it was nothing. That the pain was a result of the events that had happened earlier. The ones that didn't stop replaying vividly within my exhausted mind ever since I had woken up, a few minutes ago. But the next thing I could process was the voice that played faintly at the back of my mind, reminding me of the fact that my father was back. That I had seen him.
I did all I could to shut that voice down; to dim its amplifying roars that did nothing but deafening my mind. Or to perhaps prevent it from getting the chance to pull the dark memories I had once buried away with it back to the surface of my mind—where it would illuminate them and force their images to play clearly right before my gaze.
I miserably failed, painfully getting struck with the realisation of how powerful that voice had always been; nevertheless I found myself refusing to stop trying.
I found myself pleading as desperately as ever, asking the memories not to resurface my thoughts again. Not to haunt my sleep or to exhaust me any further. I desperately mentioned how I wasn't capable of taking any more pain the way I had thought I would. And perhaps, I would've never stopped, and all my efforts wouldn't have turned out useless if my gaze didn't land upon the familiar, torn out bag that rested on the floor right before my gaze.
I inhaled sharply, the oxygen refusing to pass through my throat, and intently watched the tears as they settled upon the corners of my eyes and burned them, tainting my blurred vision and weighing so heavily within my eyes that they fell out before I could get the chance to stop them.
Lorenzo wouldn't leave me. I told myself, repeating the same words over and over again within my mind. I didn't stop clinging onto them when my shaky hands reached for the bag and unzipped it. And I didn't loosen my embrace around them when I noticed that all my belongings had been messily packed into the bag. He promised he wouldn't leave. He never broke his promises.
