Page 60 of Thorns of Silence
Isla wrapped me in an embrace. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t leave her, not until she opened her eyes and I was certain she’d pull through.
“You three go. I just want to be alone with her for a bit.” A heartbeat passed, but they remained glued to their spots. “Bring me a cup of coffee, please.”
That got them going. The second they shuffled out of there, a desperate sob tore from my throat, shaking me to my core. Once the first one escaped me, another followed. I was shaking, my own ghosts and terror for my sister intertwined with my failure to protect her.
Deep down, I’d known all along that Amon would break her heart, and I’d let it happen. My heart broke right alongside hers.
I took her cold hand in mine and squeezed it gently.
“I’m so sorry, Reina.” I moved my lips soundlessly. The lump in my throat grew with each breath I took. “Please wake up. You’ll get through this and he… I hope he rots in hell.”
At that very moment, I meant it too. Dante Leone hurt me irrevocably. Amon Leone almost destroyed Reina. Grandma could be a real pain, but I was starting to wonder whether she was right when she claimed that the men of the underworld brought nothing but misery.
How could love bring so much despair? It was supposed to be the best feeling in the world, not like desperation clawing at your tender flesh with a knife. My chest squeezed tight, turning my breathing choppy.
I tried to hold back my sobs. Reina needed my strength right now, not my pain. Not my cries.
For the second time in my life, I felt completely powerless. For the second time in my life, I’d witnessed pain caused by a Leone.
And this time, I wouldn’t just stand by and hope for a miracle. It didn’t come when I wanted to keep my baby, and it wasn’t coming now.
This time, I’d make the Leone family pay. I refused to lose my sister to anyone.
I still remembered that hollow ache of losing my child. It felt just as fresh, and I knew moving on from it would be impossible.
I woke up feeling empty.
Two weeks since I had the baby and I felt worse each day. My body was healing, but my pain festered. The guilt grew. My failure tasted bitter.
Promises were broken. Hearts were stolen. Lives were forever changed.
The ugliness of this world had reared its head, and it became hard to unsee it.
“It is what it is,” my grandma said when I woke up bedridden from a severe postpartum hemorrhage. I lost too much blood too quickly, causing my blood pressure to drop and my body to go into shock. It’d almost cost me my life.
Yet, as I stared at the same white landscape as the day I’d given birth, I felt as if I had died. The little life I had created was ripped from me, and I never even had a chance to say goodbye.
It didn’t matter how devastating it was to me. I couldn’t turn back time and find my baby. I couldn’t change the past, and I no longer had the will to live.
Grandma had therapists already lined up. They preached that grief passed through stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
I was still in the denial stage of my living misery. It weighed heavily on me, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The therapist said I’d arrive at acceptance eventually.
The soft cry of babies that traveled through the private clinic didn’t help my healing process. It was a gruesome reminder.
“Phoenix—”
My lungs squeezed and my body grew cold.
“Was it… a boy or a girl?” I watched my grandmother while she avoided looking at me. “I deserve to know that much.”
“I don’t know.”
Pain and grief became my companions. It’d become part of me, always there but not. Kind of like the child I birthed. My baby would roam this world but never be part of my life.
“Can you give me some time alone?” I signed, unable to open my mouth.
