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I still get jittery when I hold a gun.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I try to stand but my legs feel like a bundle of worms. So I crawl on my hands and knees deeper in the greenhouse, toward where the sound had come from. My whole body is warm, my cheeks are wet and all the pain has evaporated, replaced with a quivering that’s thrumming through my entire body.
I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know what to expect.
Yet, when the pool of blood comes into view, my world crumbles.
It’s not the gardener.
It’s Mum.
I stumble over to her, caught between disbelief and anger. My chest is full of fire, my eyes are waterfalls and it’s like someone has knocked my soul out of my body. I’m hovering, weightless above the scene, watching this all unfold.
This can’t be real.
It isn’t.
Mum is lying in a pool of blood—a single gunshot to the side of her head. Her own gun lies beside her, the pink barrel glimmering in the artificial light, taunting me. Her eyes are lifeless and glassy, her blonde hair splayed out around her like a wreath.
Her mouth is wide open, caught on a scream.
A scream rips from my own throat then. It doesn’t sound like me. It isn’t me. This isn’t happening. My mum can’t be dead. No, it can’t be real. I reach out, grabbing her shoulders—her body is still warm and her head lolls to the side.
“Mum?” My voice cracks.
She doesn’t respond.
She can’t respond.
She’s dead and I let the man who killed her walk away.
My chest shatters and the fire turns my blood into thick, suffocating lava. My skin is white hot, my vision swimming with red. I scream again, this time my whole body shakes with the strength of my voice.
This is all my fault.
What kind of man will I be if I can’t protect those I love?
ONE
ALEXANDER
I take a deep breath,relishing the burn that spreads through my chest.
Holding the cigarette between two fingers, the white smoke leeches from my lips into the air. The smell. The rush. The gentle buzz heating my blood.
Fuck, I missed this.
Shame follows, but I shove it aside.
I’ve run out of options to deal with this absolute shit show my life has become. At least cigarettes will always be the same. They’ll always give me the feeling I’m after.
They sure as hell won’t hurt me.
At least, not the way she has.
No, cigarettes are predictable. They are unchanging. They are exactly what you think they are.
They don’t have hazel eyes that shine like prisms. Their curls don’t smell like coconut oil. They don’t have soft, plump lips that haunt your dreams.
