real life!

Déjà vu.

Blood dots the marble floors. An eerie silence rests. Adira's tormented eyes pan to Amala's favourite painting—The Death of Marat—and she swears the fallen leader opens his eyes and leers at her, desperately wanting her to hear his pain and tell her what he's seen. She looks at him, too, and they stare at each other. The letter latched to his fingertips and the quill still in his grasp escape him; the breaths that had seemingly slipped away find their way back; and he looks at her with all his might, strength, and power. His tragic, sweet smile twists into a wicked smirk, taunting her as the blazing light envelopes him. His finger slowly grazes the sharpened knife, and he tilts his head, analysing her shallow breathing and furrowed brows.

She finally tears away from his gaze, tugging at her hair and swallowing deep breaths to ease the weight on her chest. "Amala?" Adira asks into the quietness, her voice cracking.

"Here," a voice squeaks.

Adira strides to her, eyes widening at seeing her sister's arms wrapped around her knees, and her head buried in her thighs, praying the blackness would erase the colour of her reality. Hearing her, Amala looks up, squinting her eyes. Her mascara-stained face is red and blotchy, and she blinks furiously, finding herself within colour once again. Fresh bruises adorn her body, and Adira hears Marat laugh. Amala only offers her a sad, pained smile, slowly opening her arms. "You didn't call the police?" Adira questions, hugging her to her chest.

"Please don't make me," Amala pleads with a frail voice.

Adira sighs, peering down to meet Amala's eyes. The familiar glittering of the serene blue-green is gone, now bathed in puffy anguish. "I won't, baby. Don't worry."

Amala buries her head into her chest, wincing when she presses against her bruises. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?" she whispers.

"I want you to tell me whatever you want. No pressure." Adira presses a kiss to her forehead.

Amala sniffles, then says, "Okay. I'm so fucking sorry about what I said to you, especially about the baby." She hiccups. "I didn't mean for it to get out of hand like that. Zayn, he—he's been doing this to me. That's what those bruises were, and he's been there when we've been calling, texting to make sure I said the right thing." She nuzzles her neck. "I was so scared, A."

There is a moment of profound silence when you hold your sister in your arms. You wish you could take her pain away. You wish you could've done more to protect her. You wish you could hurt the person who did this to her. Your heart breaks as she cries into your chest, as she soaks you with her fresh, salty tears. Then her sobs grow louder and louder, and all you can do is hold her close, whispering sweet-nothings in her ear.

"'Mala, we have to get you up."

"I don't want to."

"I'll help you up," Adira replies softly, linking their hands and groaning as the two stand, their bones cracking and muscles stretching.

Amala's broken body limps, and she slings her arm across Adira's shoulders, pinning her body to hers. Their feet pedal against the marble, then Amala, with guilt pricking at her, says, "I'm sorry, I swear, for everything I did."

"God, Amala, that fuck just"—she lets her unspoken words hang for a second—"and you're going to still apologise to me?"

"What else would I do?"

Adira shakes her head at this, glances at her, then turns into the dark hallway and opens the door. "Focus on yourself?"

Amala moistens her lips, leaning against the closest counter. "Maybe, but it's never going to be back to how it was if I don't talk to you."

"I don't think we'll ever be the same, 'Mala," Adira admits, pinching her lips and busying herself with finding the cherry red kit.

Amala slumps her shoulders. "Don't say that."

Adira couldn't understand why she was being bombarded with conversations she hoped and prayed to avoid, so her eyes gleam as her fingers grab the red kit—a much-needed distraction. Whipping her head around, she eyes Amala, then the sink, and washes her hands in the heavy silence. Feeling Amala's eyes on her, she says, "Amala, come over here."

"I don't want to move," Amala whines.

"Amala."

Amala fidgets hearing the sternness in her voice and makes her way to her. "Okay. Okay."

"It's going to sting," Adira tells her, pulling her hand under the running water.

Amala flinches, then concentrates on her sister's focused face, sighing with relief when the water stops flowing, then listening to the familiar sound of the sliding zipper. "I'm serious, 'Dira. I want you to forgive me."

"That's a lot to ask."

"Even after today?"

"Yeah," Adira confirms. "And I feel bad saying it, but I'm really tired of people expecting me to hear their apologies and forget what happened. That's what I hear when you say that—you want me to forget what you did." Her eyes flit to Amala's before she tears at the packet in her hand. "Don't get me wrong, Amala, I wish you didn't have to go through what you did. I wish it was me instead of you again, and I hate him with every fucking cell in my body, but it still happened, and we're going to need a lot more than a 5-minute conversation."

Amala bows her head. "I never meant to hurt you like that. Honestly. I honestly did think he'd changed. I thought he was better."

"I believe that you thought he'd changed, but believing that didn't have to equal being friends with him," Adira says, dousing her cuts with cream.

"That's why I'm sorry. I should've never been his friend knowing what the fuck he did to you," Amala says, voice shattering and angry.

Anger is an emotion Amala knows well. Angry at her father. Angry at her mother and brother. Angry at God. Angry at Zayn. Angry at her sister. There is always something to be angry about, she's learned, but anger at herself is the worst, like an inner demon clawing at her. A voice in her head reminding her of everything wrong with her. The rope whispering her name. Marat screaming at her.

"You're right," Adira mutters as she covers the cuts with bandages. "But there are bigger things right now."

"Whenever you're ready to talk about it, I'll be ready, too."

And Adira says nothing.