Page 72 of Broken

So, her every delusion is founded in a truth.

The ink is not new, but still pristine. All harsh black and lavender lines for the feathers, with a watercolor background making them appear as if they’re in mid-flight. When I peer closer, I can see that each line consists of a word.

They’re not something I can read. No language I’ve come across. It’s neither Latin nor Greek.

I can no more stop myself from reaching out to trace a word than I can stop my pulse from pounding.

“What language is it?” I ask thickly.

“Aramaic.”

“You speak it?!”

“No. I was told what to inscribe there.”

I shy away from her justification, the truth of why the specialists believe her to be mentally unwell growing more evident with every word she utters.

But even terrible priests are taught to find miracles, to embrace them, not outright reject them.

Even if it all sounds a little too insane to be believed.

And with her past, her illness, even a priest could be forgiven for discounting her story.

“I showed the doctors Diana’s pictures, the ones she sends me of her with her husband and daughters, and they said she was a figment of my imagination. I told them what I did, but they wouldn’t look into it. Her father is in prison, for God’s sake.No matter what I said, they wouldn’t listen,” she whispers. “So I lied. But I won’t lie to you. I promise.”

She sounds so heartsick that I press my hand to her back and trickle it over the smooth curve.

“I-I believe you.”

My words have her flipping over, and excitement fills her eyes. I’m surprised when she jumps off the bed with more exuberance than sense considering her condition and pads out of the room. For a second, I sit up, unsure what’s happening.

Light spears my eyeballs as she turns into the hall and hits the switch beside my door, and then I hear rummaging around in her room before she returns with a phone in hand.

I settle back, waiting for her to climb into bed—I don’t question how right it feels for her to come to me the way she is. My focus is elsewhere.

She doesn’t turn off the hall light upon her return, and it halos around her as she walks, making her hair and skin gleam like gold.

When she clambers onto the mattress beside me, I’m glad because it means I can’t see that anymore, and she tilts her screen to me.

I notice it’s midnight as she pulls open her messaging app.

She finds a conversation, one that’s pretty in-depth for a fake, one that consists of her friend telling her not to wake me from a night terror, then types:

Andrea: Diana, you awake?

For a few seconds, nothing happens, and I eagerly await a response.

It doesn’t come.

In a rush, she excuses, “Di works Hong Kong hours, but she’s on vacation right now so I’m not that surprised she isn’t answering?—”

“We can try again later,” I soothe, finding myself in the odd position of wanting to make sure her feelings aren’t hurt.

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

Like my words are fate-driven, her phone pings.

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