Weeping Angel: Malvada (Book 1 of the Weeping Angel Series)

Chapter XXVIII

I scan the hallways, frantically searching around for dad, but I end up running into someone else. I take a step back and notice I bumped into mom.

She looked like she had been crying; her fair complexion red and her green eyes puffy and swollen. She wasn't wearing her surgical clothes anymore. Instead, she was wearing a white coat.

"Mom, are you okay?" I ask gently.

"Leave me alone, Emma. I'm fine," She mutters harshly, but I knew she wasn't okay.

My heart sinks to my stomach. Did something happen to Clarice? "Is Claire okay?"

Mom runs a frustrated hand through her black hair, choosing not to respond to my question. I sigh and place my hand on her shoulder, wishing that she would talk to me or tell me something. "Mom, what's wrong? Why won't you tell-"

Mom roughly shoves my hand away, and my arm falls to my side, her sharp green eyes blazing into my soul. "What's wrong? Are you serious?"

I furrow my brows together. "I'm just worried-"

"You are what's wrong, Emma." I wince at her harsh tone, feeling my stomach churn in knots.

"Claire was always so worried about you. It was as if she carried you for nine months and raised you!" Mom was shouting now, and I was staring at her, wide-eyed. "Claire told me about your choking dream and wanted me to believe her so badly so she could help her baby sister. She and I both knew the statue wanted to attack you, but I couldn't help her because I was trying to protect you both! And then there's you."

Mom was trying to protect me? "W-what do you mean?" I stammer.

Her glare sucked something out of me, her eyes as hard as a stone. "Don't you get it? It's your fault she's like this now." My heart shatters into pieces. "Claire always wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect you both because, in the end, even after all the fights, we're blood. That's why I never said anything about the statue, but Emma, I damn well know it knows everything we know. Claire probably figured that out, and yet she risked her life for you and look at what it did to her!"

A tear slips from her eye, and mine become watery. I wanted to cry, shout, yell, scream; I wanted to do anything to prove her wrong, but I felt tongue-tied.

"I know Claire. I always did, Emma. I knew she would stop at nothing to find out what's going on. We all experienced things with that statue. I did, even your father did, so stop acting like everything revolves around you because it does not!" She shouts, pointing an accusing finger at me as tears pour down her face.

I stiffened at her words. The gasoline-like guilt poured not only in my chest but my mind as well, and my insides died slowly, burning in the toxicity until there was nothing left but an ugly scar. My mind wrapped around my mom's words, and I fell for the bitter truth.

I manage to find my raspy voice and speak up, "Mom, that's not how it is. Even I-"

Mom holds her palm up and shakes her head at me, silencing me with one look. "Stop it. I don't want to be fed with your excuses and lies." Mom's words felt as if someone shoved a knife in my chest, yanked it out before stabbing me again.

"You could've done something to save your sister, but no, you're just selfish after all. When your father finds out you're responsible for Clarice's coma, he'll be so disappointed."

The blood drains from my face, and my lips parted, my mouth hanging. I open my mouth to say something, and nothing but a whimper comes out.

Clarice is in a coma?

I cover my mouth with my hand to suppress a sob. I could've prevented this from happening; I could've saved her.

The knife in my chest twists and I wince, unable to bear the power in mom's bitter words that felt like she was squeezing a lemon to my wound; it stung bad, and I wanted her to stop before the whimper that escaped my mouth turned into crying.