Page 32 of Beautiful Scars

“Mom?”

I call out again, louder this time, but there's still no answer. Only a heavy, oppressive silence.

There's the smell of something familiar hanging in the air. Familiar but out of place. Metallic. Sharp. Wrong.

I take a step towards the hallway that leads to her room. Maybe she went to bed early. Maybe she's lying in bed, headphones on, listening to music, or reading. Maybe. My hands start to shake, and my pulse drums in my ears. Maybe, but not likely.

My foot slides through something slick, sticky, and wet sounding. When I look down the small amount of light coming in through the windows in the living room reveals dark streaks crossing the tile in the entry way. Realization slams into me.

No!

I move faster, my body on autopilot. I rush down the hall, the smell getting stronger the closer to my mom's room I get. It's cold, and coppery and out of place. It's overwhelming.

The door to her room is closed. And there are more red-tinged dark streaks—blood—smeared on the floor, splashed across the carpet and covering the doorknob.

No, no, no, no.My mind screams it over and over and a pit settles in my stomach.

I push the door open, cringing at the creak of the hinges. My feet move on their own, my mind racing to catch up even as it refuses to believe what I’m seeing.

My mom.

Lying in a pool of blood on soaked, stained sheets, motionless, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. My mind struggles to process what I'm looking at. It refuses to believe it's real. This. Is. Not. Possible.

I can’t breathe. My heart thunders in my ears. The bitter taste and burn of bile rises in my throat and coats my tongue.

My mind goes blank. I can’tthink. Can't see past the blood—past theemptinessthat wraps around me. My feet move forward even though I want them to stop.

When I get to the edge of the bed, I reach out, my hands shaking, my vision blurring. I have to check. I have to make sure.

A deep shudder runs through me as I place two fingers against the curve of her neck..

She's cold. So fucking cold.

I know it's too late.I'mtoo late. But it doesn't keep me from begging. From pleading and screaming into the silent room to feel just one tiny thump under my fingers.

But there's nothing. There's nothing there. Only moreabsence of.

Tears flood my vision, stinging my eyes and heating my skin as they track down my cheeks. My legs give out from under me and I collapse to my knees beside the bed. The weight of this moment settles on my shoulders, and crushes down on me. It's too much.

Everything else falls away. The only thing I register, the only thing I feel, are cold fingers of dread seeping into my bones.

My father.

Did he find us? Was this him? Did he finally get tired of waiting for us to come back? I've known since we left that he's had eyes on us. I knew he'd never let either of us walk away clean, but this…

Leaving her here like this, for me to find, doesn't seem like something he'd do. This seems too brutal, too vicious. Even for him.

I slide my eyes heavenward, forcing them to the ceiling as I work to pull more air into my lungs. I'm desperate for an answer. A reason. Anything. I run through a hundred scenarios, and then a hundred more. None of it makes sense. I take a deep breath and fumble for my phone trying to brace myself for the call I know I have to make and everything that comes next.

The noise and the cops and the questions and…

I just want a few more minutes. A few more minutes alone with her. A few more minutes to say goodbye. To start trying to imagine a world for myself that she isn't in. I take her hand in mine, squeeze it gently and offer a whispered apology.

It's not until I drag my eyes down from the spot where they've been fixed on the ceiling that I see it.

A message.

It’s scrawled on the wall above her bed. Jagged, uneven letters smeared in blood.

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