Page 9 of Ruin My Life
“The police...” she says, barely above a whisper. “They asked us to call them if—”
She winces, swallowing the word back down.
“I mean—whenyou woke.”
Our eyes meet.
She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. And I wonder how many of those hours she’s spent in here with me. Watching numbers flicker across a screen. Wondering why someone with no family left was worth keeping alive.
“Call them.”
Olivia blinks, visibly startled by my blunt voice. “If you need some time, I can wait until—”
“No. Call them now.”
She presses her lips together and nods—quick and uneasy—before slipping out the door.
And then, I’m alone.
More alone than I’ve ever been in my life.
Even before you’re born, you’re not really alone. There’s always someone—your mother—holding you inside her, keeping you warm. Safe.
But this? This is different.
Aloneis colder than I ever imagined it could be.
Your family—they were declared dead at the scene.
The words keep echoing. Not just in my mind—but in the air around me, stitched into the sterile quiet of the hospital room.
When I first left for school, I spent months alone before I made any real friends. I didn’t call home as much as I should have. I told myself it was growing up—learning to stand on my own.
But that wasn’tthis.
That wasneverthis.
Back then, I always knew I could hear their voices again if I needed to. That they were just one call away.
And now I need them—more than I ever have.
But they’re gone. Dead.
I should be dead too.
So, why am I still alive?
THE POLICE ARRIVEsometime after I’ve eaten lunch, though all my stomach can handle is another glass of lukewarm water and a cup of sugar-free orange Jell-O—and eventhatthreatens to make a reappearance.
A scruffy-looking detective stands at the foot of the bed in brown slacks, a powder blue shirt, and a navy tie that matches the jacket draped over his arm. Next to him is a younger woman in a crisp black pantsuit and a mint-green blouse. Her black hair is pulled into a top knot so tight that it’s practically giving her a facelift.
“Hello, Brianna,” the man says, his voice rough and gravelly. “I’m Detective Aaron Warner. This is Detective Sonya Cook. We’re here to talk about what happened last Saturday night. Are you comfortable—?”
“Have you found them?” I cut in, ignoring the attempt at small talk. “The guys who did this?”
They exchange a look.
Aaron drags a chair beside the bed and sits, his expression already apologetic. “The men who did this were skilled,” he begins. “They left no fingerprints, avoided all security cameras in your neighbourhood—”
