Death stared at me, it's embrace burning my skin. I don't want to die. Is this my reward for keeping silent my entire life? For never standing up for myself? And this one moment, this one time I choose to be strong, it ends like this. I've heard of people seeing their life flash before their eyes as they die, but my memories are fading, those I see are blurred, marred by my lack of air.
My twelfth birthday. It was supposed to be a magical day. Mum had promised a cake, and Dad would be home in time for my party. My entire class had been invited to celebrate the day with me. The old grandfather clock, the one that chimed every time we had an earthquake, rang out. It was midnight. He lied again.
A salty tear makes its way to my lips.
The day Mum brought me to the hospital, pleading the doctors to find out what was wrong with me. They wouldn't find anything. According to the numerous tests, I was in perfect health. Perhaps it was psychological? No, it wasn't that. There was no known trauma, no mental disorder. I still refused to speak.
A hand caresses my cheek. My matted hair hangs in front of my face, blocking my vision.
I was sixteen, the year every kid looks forward to. In books, that would’ve been the year I met my true love, or I would have found I had powers. My teachers had called on me in the beginning of the year, to no avail. I simply stared at them until they stopped saying my name. I didn't speak that year, either.
But now, my arm blocking him from coming any closer, my free hand pushing her behind me, closer to the door, closer to freedom, I screamed. "Run!"
She ran. She ran out the door, knocking over the vase she had forgotten to clean out that day. I heard a scream, only to realize moments later the voice belong to me. I screamed nonsense, seven years’ worth of a child’s voice, released at once. Every word I held back was freed. My voice. It had been so long, and this was the last time I would ever hear it.
His hand grabbed my face, holding my head as if I were a doll, and pushed me down. The vase, I thought, I had to be close enough to it. My shaking hands reached behind me, struggling against the fatigue that was beginning to wash over me. A sharp, cold sensation cut into my fingers. There. Ignoring the broken glass digging into my skin, I grabbed the piece and lunged.
“… That’s all I remember, sir. I’m sorry.”
“I won’t keep you much longer, but is there anything you might remember about your attacker? Any defining traits, a scar or tattoo maybe? Perhaps you knew him?”
“He was-“ my voice cracked. I struggled, fighting to make myself say two simple words. My father. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries. I’ll come back tomorrow, see how you’re feeling. In the meantime, get some rest, okay?”
“I will,” Watching the officer leave, my throat begged for water. I’ve talked more in the past 24 hours than I have in seven years. Reaching over, I grabbed the plastic cup, only to drop it, my bandaged hand screaming in pain.
“Gaile! Are you okay?” My mother jumped from her chair at the sudden noise.
“Fine, fine. I’m fine,”
“Should I call a nurse?” Her voice shook, eyes filling with tears.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’m okay, really,” A lie, yes. But anything to keep her from worrying, she had been through so much.
She looked down at me, standing over the crisp hospital bed, the tears threatening to spill at any moment. But as the first drop began to leak, time froze. Everything, the ticking of the clock, the wind outside brushing the tree branches into the window, my mother’s tear. It all stopped, and began to fall away.
It’s uncomfortably warm, like a bath ran too hot. Everything’s melting, and dropping from existence. The edges are blurry, and I can’t see straight. My hair, it’s melting onto my face, and it’s salty. Something’s messing with my vision. Tears? No. It’s red. It’s dark. It’s too hot.
I don’t want to die.