Page 105 of Fallen Stars

Her lips instantly curve into the brightest smile as the corners of her eyes tip up. She rises from the bed and clamps her hands tighter. “Wonderful.” She takes a step away from the bed, then pauses. “I love you, darling.”

“Love you too.”

As quickly as she entered my room, she disappears.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I sit up and plant my feet on the floor. Eyes unfocused as I stare out the window, I take several deep breaths to stave off the expanding pang beneath my diaphragm. It helps, but not much.

I curl my toes in the carpet, ground myself, push up to stand, and pad across the room, ignoring the mirror next to the closet as I pass. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like shit. Staring down my gaunt frame is evidence enough. Stumbling my first few steps every time I get up to walk is testimony of my feebleness.

I hate how weak I am.

Hand on the rail, I descend the stairs slowly. Several minutes pass as I ease my way down thirty-something steps, but I keep a cool head.

As my bones, muscles and organs recover from malnutrition, starvation and dehydration, my physical activity has been limited. What little mobility I do get in, the stairs are the most gruesome. Painful as it is to traverse from one floor of the house to another, I need the strength training. I need to restore my body to what it was before my life got flipped upside down. And I need to do it in my own time.

On my first day home, my parents offered to bring in a physical therapist. I declined. Wonderful as it would be to recover quicker, the last thing I wanted was one more person to fret over mydelicate state—my mother’s words, not mine. I’m capable of walking and lifting but need to do it at my own pace.

“There you are, darling,” my mother says as I enter the formal dining room. “Come”—she rises from her seat, darts to my chair and pulls it out—“sit. It’s so nice to have the family together for dinner again.”

I open my mouth to ask where Parker is but snap it shut when he enters the room as I sit.

Sharply dressed in a navy-blue suit, Parker is the younger carbon copy of our father. Entering his junior year of college in a few days, he lives, eats and breathes political science, as does his girlfriend of three years, Brittany. Parker is the epitome of everything my father wanted for my future.

At least one of his children makes him happy.

A few steps behind Parker, Brittany crosses the dining room to my mother and kisses both her cheeks. The joy that radiates off my parents is stifling.

Conversation sparks around the table. Parker and Brittany share their excitement for fall term. Father talks about the boost in tourism with the festival today. Mom shares upcoming events at the performing arts center.

I stare at my salad and try to tune them out.

Two weeks. I’ve been home for two fucking weeks. After vanishing for two goddamn months, being assaulted and violated and deprived of everything essential, I hugged my mom and put my life in her hands.

It’s only been two goddamn weeks and she’s talking about some fucking musical. They’re all carrying on frivolous conversations as if the most heinous situation in my life didn’t fucking happen. They’re chatting in light tones with smiles on their faces as if the darkest fucking cloud in existence didn’t engulf me and threaten to never let me leave.

Do they give a damn about me? Do they care about the pandemonium swirling in my head? Do they care that I think about my own death no less than a dozen times a day?

“How do you feel?”

“What can I get you?”

“Do you need more time with Dr. Hampton?”

Is that what they pay the long line of doctors for? Thousands of dollars to strangers who futz over me and get me back to my “old self.” Meanwhile, the rest of the West family resumes a worry-free life.

Pain stabs my palms as my fingers curl into tight fists in my lap. Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. My heart hammers in my chest as the rapidwhoosh, whoosh, whooshof my pulse clogs my ears.

I’m so fucking angry I could scream.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Momentarily confused at the new voice, I loosen my fists.

Heels clap on the marble as I lift my gaze and follow the swish of blue fabric. My eyes reach her face as she pulls out the chair to my left. A bright, cheerful smile lights her expression.

“Hi,” Abigail says with too much enthusiasm.

My nails dig deeper into my palms as I grind my molars. Fire licks my veins. Madness grabs hold of my rib cage and rattles the walls of my chest viciously.

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