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“I'm so fucking sorry.”

Jude doesn't say anything.

I drop my hands and look at him.

“He didn't want to die.”

Silence.

And something inside me snaps.

“HE DIDN'T WANT TO DIE!” The words explode out of me.

“He didn't want to die!” I'm screaming now, at Jude, at the room, at those fucking cells scattered across the floor.

“He wanted to fucking live!”

Jude wraps his arms around me.

And there it is.

The ugly truth.

Damiano didn't want to die.

Jude doesn't answer.

There is no answer.

He just holds me while the last of my screams tear themselves out of my throat, until eventually there aren't any left.

And then...

Silence.

My breathing sounds too loud inside the room.

I open my eyes.

For the first time, I really look at what I've done.

Glass covers the floor, glittering beneath the lights. The IV pole is bent almost in half. The hospital bed is twisted and dented, one of its rails hanging crookedly from the side. Pieces of the crib are scattered everywhere, the tiny blanket half buried beneath splintered wood.

Behind us, the canvas is barely recognizable.

It looks like a storm came through here.

Maybe one did.

My hands are trembling when I look down at them, and now that I've stopped moving, I can feel everything. My arms hurt. My shoulders. My throat is sore. Even my fingers ache from holding the bat so tightly.

I'm still here.

Crying.

Shaking.

Breathing.