Chances That You're Burning Through

Original | Epilogue

~FIVE YEARS LATER (Demi's POV)~

The autumn air is crisp, making me pull my jacket tighter around me.

"Do you need any help, mom?" Brianna gently asks, referring to the small hills that we have to climb to get to our destination.

"No, baby-girl," I manage a small smile. "I got it."

I roll my eyes as Bec, now seventeen, and Bri, now twelve, follow closely, protectively, behind me, like always. The car crash left me paralyzed from the waist down and bound to a wheelchair, only able to manage a few steps on wobbly knees before I collapse. I was thrown through the windshield, just like Anabelle warned, and nearly died from blood loss. Although I've long since mastered my wheelchair, my girls still insist on watching me like a hawk. How ironic.

"Joe beat us this year, mom," Bec comments as we reach our destination, noticing Joe's crouched form.

"Hey, stranger," I softly greet.

"I wouldn't be such a stranger had you not missed Mason's birth," he playfully retorts.

"Still can't believe I did that," I shake my head. "In my defence, I didn't expect for Blanda to go into labor during one of my few interviews since," I gesture to my wheelchair. "How is she?"

"She's good, tired but good."

"A three-month old will do that," I chuckle.

After nearly four years of dating, Joe finally proposed to Blanda, albeit it was after she announced that she was pregnant, but it was still cute nonetheless.

"How are you all holding up?" He inquires. "How's Wilmer doing?"

"He's still having trouble remembering," I sigh. "He's now up to Bri's seventh birthday."

Wilmer slipped into a three week long a coma after the accident-some of the longest weeks of my life-and woke up not remembering anything, not even his own name; however, most of his general knowledge and memories of his loved ones returned within just a couple hours of being awake. He still does not remember the accident and has no recollection of Anabelle living with us, but he does recall me searching for her for all of those years.

"I'm kind of glad that he has yet to remember," I mumble, ashamed at how cruel the confession sounds.

"Why?"

"Why would I want him to suffer by knowing?"

"Either way, he's still suffering," Joe points out. "Do you still blame yourself?"

I guiltily sink my teeth into my bottom lip.

"It's been five years, Dems."

"But it is my fault."

"It's Danny Sander's fault. He was the one driving that truck. Not you."

I remember the glow of headlights, the loud burst of car horns. I remember feeling so cold and being in so much pain.

I lost the baby that day, the baby that I tried to abort not even twenty-four hours before the accident, the baby that I initially didn't even want. Isn't it funny how much you realize you want something after it has been snatched away from you?

Danny Sanders was driving the vehicle that slammed into our rented car. He was speeding excessively, probably eager to explore his new free live. He died within minutes of arriving to the hospital after the crash.

"She was petrified at the thought of him being free. She told me that he was going to kill her, but I brushed her fear aside as irrational," my vision blurs from tears. "I promised her that she'd be safe. I promised her that he wouldn't hurt her. I failed!" I sob. "I lied to her!"

"Shh, Dems," Joe coos, wrapping his arms around me. "Breathe."

"He killed her," I whimper. "That bastard killed my baby-girl."

After managing to stabilize my breathing and stop the flow of my tears, I look at my girls, noticing how they're forcing their tears back.

"It's okay to cry, you two."

"I hate crying," Bec sniffles, her eyes red. "It makes my face all red, splotched, and puffy. Plus, my mascara will run."

"How many times have I told you that you're beautiful without it?"

"Hypocrite," I roll my eyes at her accurate retort.

"Crying makes me feel weak," Bri surprises me by mumbling, staring at her shoes.

"Hey," I tilt her head up so that she's facing me, not the ground. "I don't want to hear you say that ever again, okay? I don't want you thinking that either. Crying does not make you weak. Crying is a result of trying to be strong for too long. Don't ever try to mask your emotions, Bri."

She mutely nods, allowing a few tears to glide down her cheeks.

"You girls can talk to her, you know?" Joe chimes. "I've been doing it for the past hour, and I'm pretty sure, wherever she may be right now, she's probably telling me to just shut the hell up already."

"It feels weird," Bri crinkles her nose up. "Talking to a stone."

"You talk to her every night in your room, Bri," I smile as her cheeks flush; she never realized that I sometimes listen to her talk to Anabelle for hours.

"Hey, Bells-Bells," she giggles at the old nickname, staring at her older sister's tombstone. "I can't believe that I ever called you that, but I find it harder to believe that you allowed me to call you that. I hope that you're happy, wherever you may be. Although my memories of you are vague, I will never forget you, and I will always miss you."

She swipes away tears and blows a kiss at the tombstone and up into the clear sky.

"I often wonder what you would be doing in life right now," Rebecca speaks. "Would you be in college? Would you be married?"

"No," Joe and I deny in unison.

"Okay," Bec drawls out. "So, that one's a 'no' from the 'rents. Would you be a mom? And, mom, before you even say 'no', realize that it will be your second hypocritical comment before noon."

I bite my tongue.

"I don't know," Bec shrugs. "Maybe you'd be a singer with that killer voice. These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. Weird, right? Okay, mom, you can talk now, so I don't ramble for hours."

"Happy birthday, baby-girl," I begin.

"Oh my gosh, Bec, we should've said that," Bri groans. "Happy birthday, Bells-Bells," she quickly adds.

"You'd be nineteen today," I continue. "That's a scary thought. I, like Rebecca, am kept awake at night with questions about you swirling around in my head. I try not to ask 'what if' or 'why', though. I hope that you're finally happy, that you're finally living carefree. That's all I want, and, as much as I would love to have you physically here with me right now, I know that you're always watching over us. You're our nightingale, baby-girl."

I trace the letters on her tombstone. I trace the letters of her name, of her date of birth and death, and of the short inscription.

You always were a beautiful warrior.

I told her that I didn't want to have to bury her.