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❝ baby, did you forget to take your meds? ❞
the words echo in her ears like ghostly whispers as she grabs the hand of the person standing beside her, her body trembling as she sniffles — hard, the smell of dirt and blood still dancing around her nose, as she stares at the earth. she puts pressure on one leg, then shifts to the other, her features cold and empty and hollow.
an arm wraps around her shoulders, a kiss bestowed upon her head, once, then twice, and then, for a final third time.
she's burnt out from the pity, numbed by the painkillers, and she's sure there is a crook in her neck from watching his brother pour alcohol down the toilet.
her fingers want to run through her hair as she thinks to herself — she never should've asked. she never should've asked, and this wouldn't have happened.
she was so sorry.
so so so so so so so so so so so sorry. so sorry. so sorry.
her stomach lurches as that terrible night flickers back in her mind. the sound of screeching tires, the loud smash of the two cars colliding and glass breaking, shattering all over the street. the white light she couldn't go into.
the soreness of her throat from screaming. the scar on her calf from the stitches. the discarded cast from her arm. the lack of texts. the empty pill bottles.
the shaking hands. the red rimmed eyes. the look of a stranger staring back at her in the mirror. the black dress. the white flowers. the hole in the earth.
the coffin above, and the darkness below.
and she hears those words again, her eyes snapping open when they ring out, clear as day in her skull:
