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chapter twenty-nine isadora windsor pt. ii
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Isadora Windsor.
Her name held a lot of things the girl wasn't proud of to admit. It was a name built on pain, on deceit, on death; a name that had too many ghosts to carry, and Izzy had been one of the many beholders. However, she might have been the only one to show remorse for those burdens her name seemed to spread. It was her connecting tether after all—the only thing that kept her tied to that throne of spilled blood and lies.
Though she had cut ties with her father and she would do anything to get away from him (she would even move in with Kiara or one of the boys if she had to), her name was a bounty hanging over her head. Windsor, Windsor, Windsor, it would always be hers. And with the name, came the ghosts which haunted it.
Her mother was the Windsor name's greatest victim; the gloomiest ghost, if you will, who left her even gloomier daughter to walk the earth alive and well. For a long time, she blamed herself for what happened, feeling guilty for being behind the call which led to her death. She's repeated the cruel things she said to the woman before her death too many times to count. She'd even wished it had been her who had died that day on the road. It had been her undoing. And while a lot of young people had experienced death a few times in their lives, her mother's death had always been Izzy's most haunting memory. It made everything feel so pointless; and for a while, everything was.
And while things were going just meh, Izzy Windsor had thought a lot about dying. She'd almost gotten used to it, even going as far as researching different types of burial options (cremation seemed the way to go—less mess to clean), because that was what happened after your mother was ripped from your life and you're forced to look like her corpse for the rest of your miserable life.
She had read that was normal in cases like these; when a young child experiences the death of a parent. The five stages of grief they called it. But grief looked different on everyone and for Izzy Windsor grief personified itself as a sixteen soon-to-be seventeen-year-old teenage girl who still awoke in the middle of the night from nightmares of her mother's death, the blood, the funeral, all of it. And she knew that was normal, but she was certain not being able to drive shotgun in a car because it'd send her into a full-fledged freakout, or driving through red lights to test her luck was not normal in the slightest. But perhaps the worst part of it all was that when she'd do those things . . . it wouldn't even feel real.
