Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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The view is a mosaic of greys. Rain pummels the buildings that line the horizon like puzzle pieces. Water streams down the window, shattering the view. Making a world of concrete into something abstract, something beautiful. My fingers itch for the phone that I have kept politely in my pocket. I want to capture this. I want to remember.
Through the crooked teeth of the city, I see it. My heart aches like I'm looking at something beautiful. Something precious. A decades-old car park is now a building site. Its skeletal structure claws upward towards the miserable sky like it can escape its fate. I can make out the wrecking ball as the crane pulls back and slams into the concrete. Dust billows into the sky, forming a cloud of dirt. The structure crumbles as fragile as chalk. My hand goes to the icy window, and condensation grips my fingertips.
Somewhere amongst the dust and rubble, I wonder if a hint of us remains. Some insignificant sign that we were there. That we had stood and looked across the city, at this very hospital, together. That we existed in the same space. My chest tightens and everything comes at me in flashes and waves - the cold leather seat under my skin, the taste of his lips, the smell of petrol, the shrieks of laughter from the kids on the level above.
Owen. I didn't want it to hurt still, but it did.
"Calla?" Dad's gruff voice cracks through my lost thoughts as another mushroom of dust launches above the city. There's no room for doubt in my father's tone. I plaster the bland smile on my lips, seeing the mirror version of myself in the glass and twist. "Calla, are you listening to Doctor Shepherd?" I turn to see the ice-cold cut of my dad's gaze, his lips tight.
Doctor Shepherd smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners. His palms are flat on the dark wood of his desk, as he shrugs away my apparent indifference. The room is basic, with a few comfortable chairs for patients, a cabinet lined with textbooks, photos of treated patients, and a few drawings. I remember scribbling away pictures for him when I was a child, when I saw him as regularly as my family. What remains of his hair is ice-white. He has been my doctor for over a decade. I recall when his hair was a warm red. That's how long this man has been trying and failing to save my life. I'm not ungrateful, but my dads' reverence is his own.
I move away from the window, my movements practiced, my smile too. I walk over and sink into the faux-leather chair next to my dad. He watches me in case my demeanour slips, his face stoic. I know my role. I know what's expected of me in this space.
"Apologies, Doctor Shepherd, but can you repeat that?" Dad grumbles, making his displeasure at me clear. Doctor Shepherd nods, his face still warm and gentle.
"It was a minor chest infection and Calla appears well. The test results don't hint at anything that worries me."
Dad nods and looks at me, there's the smallest twitch on his lips. A smile, a subtle crack in his stiff armour.
"That's good news."
Doctor Shepherd ignores Dad's response and glances at me.
