concealed - h.styles // completed

Chapter Forty-Six, Part Four

Chapter Forty-Six, Part Four

Final Part

Two weeks. It has been two weeks since everything has happened.

It has been almost a year of a life-changing experience that turned my world upside down and back around, all in a never-ending circle. I realized that during that time that I had became stronger, faster, and weaker simultaneously. Stronger because of the pain and endurance I had to face. Faster because I was constantly in the range of target. Weaker... because I opened up my heart, mind, and arms to the one person who could hurt me the most.

I am sitting at the breakfast bar in Gretchen's kitchen, stabbing at the no-longer-crispy bacon. I take a small sip of my orange juice and nearly spit it out. The once-sweet-and-delicious taste is now sour and smells of... blood. It is all just in my head, I remind myself, pushing the glass away from my body.

I pull the blanket around my shoulders tighter to block the cold breeze from the air conditioner.

"Are you okay, baby girl?" Gretchen whispers to me, sitting on the stool adjacent to mine. "I'm so-"

"No need to constantly apologize to me," I sigh, facing her. Her face is aged and has wrinkles and worry lines. Her lips are chapped, and her cheeks are pale. Her brown hair that once reminded me of my dead mom is limp and straight without volume or life, lacking both shine and healthiness. I'm not just talking about the hair in that case. "I'm fine."

Biggest lie ever told.

I fix my black dress and smooth the imperfections out on it. My eyes observe my tall black boots that clutched the skins of my feet tightly like it's another layer of skin. I grab a basket full of handmade and fresh treats for the service but not the guests.

Gretchen clears her throat softly then taps my shoulder, pulling her hand back immediately after like I was going to explode right then and there. I simply stand and follow her out of the house.

The drive to the funeral service and cemetery is silent and heartbreaking.

After all, I did spend two weeks cooped up in my room and cried and screamed. I did punch the pillows and tried the same to my walls, but then I remembered my mother and father, even though they weren't necessarily biological (my mom technically was, just not my actual birth parent) to me, saying that destruction and venting anger violently would only hurt the things and people around you. It wouldn't solve anything. But I punched the wall anyway, and I got to say it helped. Not that I'm encouraging people to leave holes in your dead parents' house.

Gretchen picked me up soon after two weeks and demanded that I stayed at her house, which was in the blasted neighborhood where I first met that bastard, to prepare the services and burial.

When we arrive in front of the building, I rush out of the car and stand on the sidewalk by the street. I breathe and breathe, but no oxygen is coming into my lungs like they are supposed to do.

Tears gush out of my eyes as I mourn for my lost loved ones. Those people... I could have saved them. I hated the fact that I wasn't aware of these things in the first eighteen years of my life.

Gretchen tugs my arm gently and guides me back to the damned building full of both happy and lost souls. Are my loved ones looking down and sending me their best right now?

"Just breathe," she hushed, stroking my hair. "I know it's hard, but we'll get through it together. I'll be standing next to you forever."

"Don't say forever, Gretchen, if you don't mean it," I sigh, tired of broken promises.