Cruelly Fated - Book 4

Chapter 26 - In order to piece back together, one must break first.

Jasmine's POV

Sitting on the sofa, I fiddle with my fingers and take slow and steady breaths. Making funeral arrangements was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I lost count of how many times I broke down and how many tears I shed. At the moment, I'm drained emotionally and physically, struggling to find the strength for the impending conversation that nears. Petro had shortlisted items making the process just that little easier, but it was still painful. Lord, I selected a casket, and that alone makes this real. My brother is going into a box and put to rest in the cold ground, and I'm forced to accept this reality whether I'm ready or not.

Evicting the clog in my throat, I shake my head in disbelief. How did it all fall apart so quickly? From one moment to the next, my world has shattered, and I'm nervous, panicked, and scared to deliver the news to Summer. It will surely devastate her. Running my fingers through my hair, I step into the living area where Stefano and Petro are seated. I avoid eye contact; their glances are sorrowful, and I cannot bear it.

Dragging my feet, I finally reach the sofa and take a seat. Petro hands me a coffee, "If it's cold, I will make you a fresh cup."

Wrapping my finger around the mug, I shake my head, "No, it's fine."

"We will get through this," he refers to the conversation with my niece.

"Her little heart will break, and I hate that I'm doing this to her," I mutter, taking a sip of the coffee. I haven't had a single meal, and I'm starting to feel dizzy and weak. Although to be fair, I couldn't eat even if I wanted to. The image of my brother's lifeless eyes brings bile into my mouth.

"You are not the cause, Jasmine," Stefano leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes pierce through me. I stare back, lost in the chaos of my thoughts.

Petro bumps his shoulder with mine, disrupting me, "He's right! You can't feel guilty about this," Rubbing his face, he continues to speak with a gentle tone, "Matt's actions are not a reflection on you. Even if you had stopped him this time, he would have succeeded with the next attempt."

"I don't want to hear that," I mumble, glancing down at my coffee. He may be right, but his words are hard to swallow. "I know he pulled the trigger. I witnessed it," my voice barely audible as I blink away the tears that image forces upon me, "But...." I halt, unable to find the words and explain how I feel. He's gone, and I don't want to taint his memory. It's not his fault. It's my mother's, father's, and all of ours for not supporting him and seeing the signs. We had drugs in the house while knowing he was battling addiction. We may have well pulled that trigger ourselves. I remain mute, fighting the urge to argue with Petro. I need to stay focused on Summer tonight and farewelling my brother tomorrow.

I'm incapable of multi-focus and cannot cope with one thing at a time. My mind is chaotic, and there's no reasoning with my thoughts. Placing my coffee down, I rub my eyes, both Petro's and Stefano's glares are on me, and I hate it. I just want to lock myself away and express what I feel. I want to scream, break things and cry myself to sleep. When I'm around people, It's expected I put on a brave façade. It's exhausting. I'm afraid of falling so deep into despair that I will become incapacitated. But the thoughts of living a happy and fulfilled life are also depressing. How do I go on living, celebrating when my brother is dead? It's selfish. Where is my middle? What is acceptable?

The pain in my chest enhances with any thought of moving forward. I have kids who depend on me, yet I still feel guilty for making new memories with them. I'm so tired of thinking and replaying that morning. No matter how many times I try to block my thoughts, I'm unsuccessful, and they return with a vengeance tormenting me.

I suck in a breath as the front entry door opens. The kids are here, and somehow, I need to get my shit together. Luciano's curly laughter is heard. Shaking off my frenzy nerves, I glance as our son runs to his father, throwing little punches in the air, he's ready for their silly boxing game. Summer chirpy enters, smiling at us. I fight back the tears. That beautiful smile will soon disappear, and those shimmering eyes will sadden. Gesturing her to come hither, she complies with a bounce in her step. I tangle my fingers in hers as she takes a seat, "Did you have fun at Nat and Antonio's?" I question, breaking the silence and easing into the conversation.