Page 404 of Eternal
Instead, I lie back down quietly, letting the stars above us keep watch, and let her fight her battles however she needs to.
112
AZRA
“Over The Rainbow” by Eve Cassidy
Present
Iwake up before the sun next to him. His breathing is steady beside me, deep in sleep. I don’t want to wake him, he really does look peaceful when he’s not awake.
I didn’t tell him how scared I am thinking about this whole mess. How much my stomach twists just thinking about going back to that place.
Almost twenty years since I left… not left, more like had to.
I was so… small back then. So sad, but still hopeful. I wish I could breathe the way I did before. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so disgusting to be alive, to exist.
But yeah… life had other plans. Cruel ones. Realistic ones.
And now I have to go back there.
The house... I don’t even know if it’s still standing, if someone else lives there now, or if it’s been sold off.
I hope not. I hope it’s empty, untouched.
Did they clean the floor when they took the bodies out? Or is the blood still soaked into the cracks of the walls, the wood, the air itself? Is it part of the house now, permanent and rotting?
I wish I could tell him how scared I am. How stressed I am simply thinking about walking through that door again. I’m supposed to be stronger now. Smarter. Better. But going back there feels like the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.
And I don’t have the words to explain why.
It’s humiliating, somehow, to say it out loud, especially to him, to admit how bad it really got in those last years.
How I used to wake up at night, unable to breathe. How I counted the bruises in the mirror, like proof I was still there. How I had to make sure she was still breathing some nights.
And even now, with everything I’ve done, everything I’ve survived, that house still makes me feel like I’m seven years old and powerless again.
Like I could disappear inside it and no one would notice.
That thought? That one I try not to think about.
Last night, after he finally drifted off, I tried writing in the journal again. Some pages have been changed, not many, only enough to throw me off, they did it on purpose, I don’t know how. The writing looks so close… but it’s not hers, not really.
I told myself it was because of how her life changed, that the drinking, the grief, the spiral, it altered her handwriting too, that it made sense.
But… What if it’s more than that?
What if they faked more than the writing?
What if I’m too stupid to see it? Too blind to catch the lies buried in the ink?
I don’t know what I’m looking for anymore, but I have to try. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I’m scared, not of a person or a thing. I’m terrified of my past, of the memories waitingfor me in that house. That place where everything broke apart, where I lost more than my family.
And maybe, deep down, I’m scared of what I’ll find there.
I get up quietly, trying to make as little sound as possible. I pause by the bed and lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
I smile, heart tightening, and slip out the door. I take a quick shower and dress quickly and leave a note on the kitchen table. Then I pull on my jacket, grab my bike keys, and head out into the cool morning air.
