But my lips wouldn’t part.
I blinked, rapid and desperate. It was all I could do. Hoping he would see it, that he would realize I was still in there, trapped behind my own eyes.
But he didn’t. He shook me harder, his voice rising with it. “KERA!”
I wanted to sob. Wanted to grab his hand, dig my nails into his skin, do anything to show him that I wasn’t gone. Instead, I watched him bolt for the door, his voice ringing out into the hall.
“Iria! Something’s wrong!”
Footsteps. Quick and frantic. Then Iria’s voice, softer, concerned. They rushed back into the room. I felt the shift of air as they moved closer, felt their eyes on me.
“She’s been through too much, the poor thing,” Iria murmured as she gently touched my face. “She needs to rest.”
“Rest?” he shot back. “Will she be okay?”
Iria sighed, placing a hand on his arm.
“Calm down, dear. We should leave her for now. She just needs to rest.” Iria repeated.
I wanted to laugh.
Rest?
Sleep was a trap. Sleep was fire and screams and blood.
Sleep washim.
I wanted to beg them not to leave me alone with it. With the memories and the nightmares.
But they did.
Their voices faded into the fog of my mind, and the door clicked shut behind them. And then it was just me. Me and the body I couldn’t control. Me, and the memories scraping at my insides.
I had known grief before, but not like that.
Never like that.
Before, I could always fight it. Bury it and keep going. Keep living.
I had always been the one who held everyone else together, I never had a choice. But there was no one left to be strong for. I guess that’s why I fell apart. Why I became a shell of a girl in a stranger’s bed.
The days blurred. Or maybe it was weeks. I lost track. Will kept coming back, again and again. He would sit next to me and talk. Talk about the weather. About Iria’s cooking. About how he thought the dog downtown liked him. Sometimes he spoke as if I were still there. As if I might answer.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he’d tell me, his voice soft and certain. How could he be certain?
Then one morning, he walked in holding a little jar. Clear glass, a ribbon tied around the neck. And inside it was filled with wildflowers. A messy, imperfect bunch. Yellow and whites, violets and blues. Some were already drooping, almost wilted.
Will set the jar down on the nightstand beside the bed, right in front of my face.
“I found them in the garden,” he said, brushing the petals with his thumb. “It’s really nice out there. I’ll show you once you’re better.”
He paused, eyes lingering on the flowers. “Thought you’d like them.”
I wanted to tell him I saw them.
That I loved them.
He was so gentle and patient, but really bad at pretending like it wasn’t breaking him too, seeing me like that. Not knowing if I’d ever come back to him.
