Page 49 of Corrupt Vows

I stiffen and flip up the bottom hem of her shirt.

A single thin line along her upper thigh boasts a crusted trail of crimson. Half an inch higher and a centimeter deeper, and she’d have sliced her femoral artery.

“I don’t want to die, not really. I just don’t know why I should keep living,” she whispers in a robotic voice.

My heart breaks for her.

“Whatever happened, whatever’s wrong, I’m here for you, Cams. You don’t have to do this alone,” I say as I pull her into my lap and hug her close.

She shakes her head.

“You’ve done too much already. I’m sorry, Serenity.”

I shake my head along with her. A part of me realizes we look ridiculous on the floor in her closet, shaking our heads like mindless dolls, but only one thing matters right now.

Taking care of Camilla.

I stroke her matted hair away from her face and hold her tight against my chest, soothing her as best I can while I get my head on straight.

Hatred blooms in my gut as I note my mother’s absence. She should be here comforting my sister.

“Has anyone checked on you since yesterday?”

“There’s nothing to check.”

Her empty response awakens a stubborn fierceness within me.

“Don’t say things like that,” I snap, but guilt softens my tone. “Let’s get you clean and comfortable.”

She sighs but allows me to pull her to her feet. I stretch her uninjured arm over my shoulders and shuffle into the bathroom with her. Afraid I won’t be able to get her out of the bath, I sit her on the bench in the shower.

She only moves when I urge her with gentle hands. My stomach curdles as I pull her shirt over her head. Yellow and green bruises cover her entire body. The incisions on her belly don’t look infected, but an ice pack would reduce the inflammation.

I pull the detachable shower head off the wall and adjust the water before washing her from head to toe, being careful not to get her cast wet. The cut on her thigh oozes when I wash away the dried blood, but the water makes it seem worse than it is, so I finish as quickly as possible, dry her body while she’s still on the shower bench, wrap her in a towel, and fetch the first aid kit in the linen closet.

I smear ointment on the cut and tape a bandage on top before rummaging through the cabinet and finding a clean pair of disposable underwear and a large sleep shirt. She lets me dress her like a life-sized barbie doll. I finger-comb her hair and help her to the bed, forgetting about the pills until they crunch under my shoes.

She turns down the top blanket, flicking the bottles off, and settles between the sheets as though there’s nothing wrong. I tuck her in and kick the pills under her bed before refilling her glass from the second sink in the bathroom and getting her to sip half of it before she turns me away.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“I’m not hungry. Go away, Serenity.”

There’s no heat in her dismissal, but I wish there were.

With her as safe and comfortable as I can make her, I step into the hall and close the door. I drop my forehead against the wood and allow myself a few moments to cry before I pull myself together. With angry swipes over my cheeks, I wipe away my tears and stomp down the hall in search of my mother.

I find her in the dinette with a cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. Her smile as she stares at her screen pisses me off.

“Mamma, what are you doing?”

Her smile fades and she lifts a derisive brow as she shifts her gaze to mine.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you really sitting here drinking coffee and scrolling social mediawith a smile on your fucking facewhile your daughter is upstairs trying to kill herself?”

I don’t quite yell, but I’ve never raised my voice to my mother. My heart quails as she stands and glares at me.

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