Page 34 of Collided

Before I can ask more, she crumples the wrap and puts it in the paper bag. Taking out the fries she starts on them and gazes at me with curiosity. “What about you? Do you have any siblings?”

Suddenly the chicken wings taste like shit in my mouth.

How am I supposed to answer that simple question? I don’t.

I shut down. Like I always do.

She stares at me but doesn’t say anything. She waits, waits, and waits. She doesn’t push me by speaking a single word. I find that both endearing and irritating. Former because she’s not pressing me, latter because she’s waiting for me to answer, and I don’t want to.

I dust myself off. “It’s late, I should drop you off.”

“Okay.”

We put away the bags in a nearby trash can.

The more I drive, the more the tension grows in the car. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I try to stay calm and not get flooded with emotional pain. The mere mention of my dead sister pushes me into a state of grave sadness. My whole body gets paralyzed, and my mind fills with memories and glimpses of her.

Despite a year getting past, I still get triggered. I haven’t learned how to cope with grief.

I don’t want to let go of her. I have something to hold onto, even if it’s destroying me from the inside out. It’s better than moving on and forgetting her, having nothing of hers to keep with me anymore.

“Do you have water?” Hope breaks my thoughts.

I point to the divider between us. “It’s here.”

I stop the car so she can drink.

“You should put your bag in the back,” I suggest as she struggles to balance it on her lap. It looks heavy.

Taking her bag, she leans over to put it in the back, when her turtleneck pulls down and I see bruises on her neck.

What the actual fuck?

Did someone choke her? It sure looks like it.

Rage washes over me and I can’t control myself.

“Why are there marks on your neck?” My voice is cold like ice.

Hope freezes. “W-what?”

“Marks. Why are they on your neck?” I ask again, my hand curls around the steering wheel as anger seizes my entire arm.

She gulps then says, “Oh…it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like fucking nothing to me.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

I glare at her. “What doesthatmean?”

“I’m fine.”

Two words. The same I use all the fucking time because I can’t explain, and no one will understand.

I narrow my eyes on her. “Isawthem. Did someone choke you? Is someone hurting—”

“It’s late. I want to go home.” She pulls the collar up to her chin. Her fingers quiver, and her chest is moving rapidly as if air can’t be contained inside her.

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