A voice calls out my name, one I don’t recognise. “Miss Sandoval? It’s the police. We’d like to speak with you.”
My heart pounds in my chest like a trapped animal as I slowly rise from my bed. My legs nearly give out, but I manage to make it to my door, opening it with trembling fingers. Two officers stand there, an older man with salt and pepper hair, and a younger woman, bleach-blonde hair styled into a slick-back bun.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ethan Lawson.”
They don’t say much more, other than telling me to grab my things and that I need to come with them.
The station is cold, but not as cold as their questions. They sit me down in a windowless room with flickering lights, a coffee sat in front of me that I don’t touch.
“There were… inconsistencies,” the guy, Mark, says, fingers steepled. “Blood on the bed. His, and yours, Miss Sandoval. The scene was brutal.”
I stare at the table. Why was I being questioned in a police station when I was the one who was raped? I was the victim, not him. He might be the one who is dead, but I’m the one who has rotted away.
“Miss Sandoval,” the young woman says, pulling me from my internal battle. “What happened that night?”
I breathe in slowly, and then I lie. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Besides, how could I tell the truth? “Oh, he raped me, and then a seven-foot demon killed him because he owns my soul?” I’d be institutionalised; they’d never believe me.
“I don’t remember much,” I whisper. “He gave me a drink, then... I… um.”
My voice cracks, and I feel my anger rising inside of me. How can I still not think about it or speak about it without breaking? I’m pathetic.
I clear my throat, still unable to look either of them in the eye. “He raped me,” I grit out. “He raped me, and then I passed out.”
They don’t even flinch at the confession, skimming past it like it’s a minor detail just because he’s dead.
“Do you know who could’ve hurt him?”
Yes. “No, I don’t.”
They ask me the same questions six different ways, trying to catch me in a lie only I know I’m telling. My throat burns from the effort of keeping my voice level. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
After what feels like hours, they finally release me. No charges, not yet, because they don’t have enough to hold me. I walk home like a ghost, haunting the streets with my misery.
I callmy dad that night. I don’t know why. Maybe I needed to hear something—anything—remotely comforting. Something fatherly, like he used to be when I was younger. It rings, and rings.
He finally answers. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Dad, I?—”
“You got twenty bucks I could lend?”
I blink. “I—Dad. Something bad happened. I?—”
“I just need it to cover this bet. It’s important, Daisy. Please.”
He doesn’t hear the break in my voice, but why would he? I hang up the call, not bothering to try and speak to him further. It was stupid enough of me to even think he’d care, never mind try and convince him to listen to me. He wasn’t the father I knew when I was young, just like I wasn’t the daughter he knew either, not anymore. I climb back into my bed and train my eyes back onto the same spot on my ceiling as the tears begin to fall again.
By the endof the second week, I stopped pretending.
The textbooks gather dust like the forgotten relics of a girl who thought she had a future. My makeup bag stays sealed, and the mirror in the bathroom is covered with a towel. I can’t stand to look at her, the girl who let it happen. The girl who was brave enough to face a literal demon, but somehow couldn’t stop her boyfriend from raping her. I eat enough not to die; I drink when my lips crack too much to ignore it. But that’s it, I’m just doing the minimum of both so I don’t rot away. My body feels too heavy and too hollow all at once.
I spend my days in bed, chewing at my lip until it bleeds, whilst I pick at the skin around my fingers mindlessly. I know I can’t keep doing this. I can’t sit here and sink further and further without an end in sight. But every time I think about moving, about healing, I feel like I’m choking. Hope is something sticky and toxic that I’m not allowed to touch anymore.
Then comes the quiet. It always finds me at night, when the world goes still, and the thoughts are unbearably loud in my head. That’s when the weight in my chest crushes down on me. It’s suffocating.
“I can’t do this anymore.” I grit out into the silence.
I throw off my blanket and make my way to the bathroom, my limbs feeling foreign. I rip the towel down from the mirror, and for the first time in weeks, I look at myself, truly look at myself, and despise what I see looking back. It’s not me. It’s some hollow-eyed ghost of a girl who used to be sunshine and sass. The dark circles under my eyes are dark enough to qualify as bruises, looking like I’ve been awake for a year straight. My skin’s gone grey, my blonde hair, usually so bright and bouncy,hangs like brittle straw. Everything about me is dull, the furthest thing from the sun possible.
