✾

The bright lights are piercing my eyes, the red of the ambulance pouring over my vision like the blood that fell down her torso. My father stumbles out, his hair disheveled and his plaid pajamas wrinkled. He doesn't bother smoothing them out, he just takes my wrist and squeezes it. A tall officer, a sturdy one, hands my father a thick wool blanket to wrap around me, but I don't want it. After it's hanging over my shoulders though, I don't have the energy to object.

The sirens wailing aren't nearly as horrendous as her screaming had been. It replayed in my ears and reminded me that I did nothing. I only stood there.

Another officer checks the limp, mangled woman and comes over. "I have unfortunate news to give," he starts. But he doesn't beat around the bush. "She wasn't bleeding and had no pulse. We can confirm that she's no longer alive and died due to at least two gunshot wounds to the stomach. We'll perform an autopsy to check for anything else, including both of the bullets. Our homicide detective will be on the case, and he'll be here at certain points to ask you some questions. Be expecting that. I'm sorry for your loss."

My father meekly nods, sitting on the porch beside me while wiping away tears and keeping his face in his hands. Watching as they carry her bloody body away under a sheet on a stretcher, I can't cry — but I've never felt like this before. And somewhere behind me, I can't shake the feeling that someone else is watching too.

My eyes open slowly, and while I'm not feeling an urgent panic as I normally do from my nightmares like these, I feel more unsettled. I look over to the window, where the curtains are pulled wide open. I trudge over to close them and make sure the blinds conceal the sight of my room as well, watching my feet.

When I look up, a man with red eyes is staring at me while the rest of his face is covered with a black ski mask.

I blink and the flash of his face is gone, but it's enough to get my heart pounding and my skin crawling. I jump backwards and blink rapidly, placing my hands over my heart as my breathing gets out of hand. If I don't sit down soon, I'll pass out. So of course I yank the curtains together and let myself fall back onto my bed, the heavy feeling over my chest increasing rather quickly.

Get a grip, I tell myself, because this is going to happen again. And when it does, it'll get worse if you don't figure out how to take care of it now.

With those motivating thoughts, I pull my trembling self up from my bed and shakily stumble over to the kitchen where I get myself some water in a mug. Quickly, I put it in the microwave and get out a tea bag to put in it. Once it's out, I skip putting sugar in it and just drink it. Using one of the smoother rocks I have on my dresser (which I had previously polished myself with clear nail polish), I have something to squeeze. I guess to provide emotional support, Jax rests by my feet. He's a great comfort during times like these.

This is the moment where I think that I'll be okay, and this attack should be over soon. But it doesn't last long, because I forget I'm standing in the kitchen still shaking like a leaf. When my mind drifts back to her death, I forget where I'm currently at and suddenly collapse.

The only reason I know that is because I'm on the floor, and before my ears start ringing (accompanied by a throbbing headache) I feel the mug slip out of my grasp and the cheap china scatter on the tiles. The warm liquid soon seeps through my tank top and feels itchy on my skin. I get up on all fours, not bothering to wipe up the mess because... water evaporates anyway, right?

"Iris?" my father's voice comes from somewhere outside of the kitchen.

"I-I'm... here," I stammer quietly.

"What happened?"

"I p-p-panicked. And I f-fainted. I think."

Immediately, I try to count my breathing. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Over and over again, that's how I count it. Numbers make my head spin too much.

"If this doesn't get better, I'm telling them you need to go back to therapy. I don't enjoy seeing you like this."

I bite my cheek so hard that blood starts to line the inside of my mouth, but even with its sour taste on my tongue I speak. I force myself to pull it together enough so that I can stop and stand, walk over to a chair, and sit. "It won't help," I say quite distinctly. "They just shove p-pills down my throat." My eyes dart around the room anxiously.

"Get to bed, okay? We'll talk tomorrow." He doesn't give it much more thought before heading back to bed.

✾

Throughout the night, I didn't get any sleep. I stayed awake and stared at my ceiling, crying when I remembered certain things from either my past or even my current situation. The dog stayed by my side the entire night though, which I couldn't say I was opposed to.

The bags under my brown eyes really emphasize how long my night was and display it for the world. Due to my lack of energy, however, I put on a hoodie and sweatpants and call it good. I don't even brush my hair, so right now, it's staying in messy strands over my small shoulders. I know that the outfit isn't flattering, but after nights like that, this look is pretty typical.

I walk over to the kitchen, seeing a sticky puddle on the floor with shards of broken china and bend down to pick up the bigger pieces. After throwing those away, I sweep up the smaller shards and scrub the old tea off of the smooth surface.

I message my father from the other room and let him know that I'll be tutoring again today and tomorrow, so if he doesn't see me for a bit that's why.

Maybe more girls would be concerned about what they looked like in front of the bad boy with abs and probably a tattoo he got when he was drunk, that ditched and created the reputation that he was as cold as stone. Some sexist man who only used women for one-night-stands and hot hookups too, who only had friends he used to do drugs with.

Yes, this was the reputation he had built for himself. But for one, I know better than to believe the countless rumors, and secondly, I had bigger problems than an outfit. Even if all these things were true, it wouldn't change the fact that I simply don't care enough to change how I look in the slightest.

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