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The video stops, and I'm back to the present.
Kill me!
That echo haunts me, the memories from my time in that institution materializing just like that feeling of hopelessness—of having everything of importance stripped away from me.
But I'm no longer that person for the sole reason that I still have the most important thing in my life. And as long as I havehim, I'll still be me.
But if something were to happen to Raf… Then I feel sorry for the world.
Melancholy descends upon me as I recall those times and how desperate I'd been to end my own life and wreck destruction on anyone who dared to stand in my path.
I'd been absolutely inconsolable, and it's a feeling I never want to experience again.
But as I get myself together, I don't know what makes me click on the next folder. The title alone—autopsy—should tell me everything I need to know. Yet I can't help myself.
Hovering the cursor over the first picture, I take a deep breath before I double click it, squeezing my eyes shut when it fills the screen.
I count to ten before I'm able to open them again. My heart is in my throat as I take in that familiar cradle—the one I'd built with my own hands. Absent-mindedly, I bring my fingers to the inside of my wrist where lays a tiny scar. One I'd gotten while sculpting the wood for the cradle.
The picture is at an angle, showing the wreckage all around and the damage from the fire. The previously lightly colored wood is now darkened with ash.
I swipe the next picture, and that's where the real hell begins.
Mali.My Mali. My son.
I bring a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob as I take in his small form—or what's left of him. He's in the same position as I left him.
"I'm sorry," I croak, reaching out to trace the incinerated body, remembering the way his small body fit in my arms.
I barely got to hold him—barely got to feel the heat of his skin atop mine.
"I'm so sorry," I continue to whisper, unable to stop the tears that roll down my cheeks.
I failed him. I failed my own child. Regardless of how many times I try to push that knowledge away, simply ground myself in the present and my actual happiness, it's impossible to ignore the fact that I was once a mother. That I…
I loved him.
The next pictures are from the coroner's office, all displaying his little body from various angles. Unable to watch this anymore, I shut everything off, getting up and ready to leave.
Still shaken, though, it takes me a moment to react when I hear movement. Withdrawing my gun, I point it at the door just as it swings open to reveal Yuyu.
She's wearing a pair of dark jeans and a shirt, and I note that she's shed most of her pregnancy weight. Leaning against the door's frame, she watches me closely—and without a flicker of surprise.
I bring the back of my hand to my eyes as I wipe the tears away, still holding the gun in her direction.
"It was a set-up from the beginning," I state.
She nods, coming closer.
"Don't," I shake my head. "Just…don't," I breathe out harshly.
I'm too rattled by those memories to act properly, or even attempt to.
"I think it's time we had a small talk, Noelle," Yuyu says, and as she takes a step towards me, I brush my finger over the trigger, ready to pull it.
It's not that I want to shoot at her. In spite of the past, I don't wish her ill. I never did. Yet I can't stop myself. My entire body is on auto-pilot as my mind wants to leave me—retreat to a safe place.
I don't get to pull the trigger, though, as her hand shoots out, grabbing the barrel of the gun and disarming me in one smooth movement.
