His Miracle Mate

Chapter 26

Orla.

There was one word I could think of right now that described how I had acted. A word I very rarely used to describe anyone. But it was exactly what I felt like after leaving Ezra downstairs and closing myself in my room.

A bitch.

I felt like a bitch.

I had been so close to telling Ezra this morning. Sitting next to him, surrounded by his scent and his warmth, everything else seemed so insignificant. The affection and the concern in his eyes trumped all my reservations about telling him and almost pulled the words out of my lips.

I had been about to tell him what kind of person I was, that he didn't know me as well as he thought. That I was a murderer.

Deep down, a part of me knew Ezra would never judge me. His heart was so big, he would accept me however I was. Deep down, I knew it hadn't really been my fault.

But the small seed of doubt that was watered by the blaming whispers and the pointed fingers had sprouted in my mind, embedding its root deeper as the years went by.

"People say she did it on purpose."

"Oh, dear. Poor woman, her mother is. When I asked her at the funeral about what happened exactly she just sobbed and said that the girl took him from them."

"Do you think she did it on purpose? I mean, she's just a child."

"I don't know, but when I asked her mom she told me not to talk about that devil's spawn. Her words, not mine. And well, she didn't deny it, so..."

"I heard from a neighbor of theirs that the girl wasn't right in the head. Poor Albert. He was such a kind soul, taking in a kid that wasn't his."

"They've been trying for years to have kids. Just when he's about to be a father to a child from his own flesh and blood, the girl kills him. Some people say she was jealous..."

The conversation I had overheard in a park a year after my dad had died, after I had killed him, played in my mind like it was yesterday. It was the same ever since, the whispers and the veiled insults. Gossip fed the rumors, and people spoke about it as if they didn't think a child would understand what they said, or maybe they just didn't care.

The worst part, however, wasn't hearing people talk. The worst part had always been how my mom never corrected anyone. She never stood up for me. She just let everyone believe that the worst of their rumors were true.

And she never corrected anyone when they assumed that the reason I was seeing a psychiatrist was because I was a psychotic child, a kid who'd killed her father because she was jealous of her unborn brother.

In reality, I saw a psychiatric because of the nightmares I had after the incident. My night terrors had been so severe, I would often wake up screaming myself hoarse, terrified out of my mind. The neighbors had reported the disturbances to the police, and my mother had had to take me see a psychiatric.

Remembering the past always left me in a dark mood. After taking a long, hot shower, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I didn't bother with dinner because I knew I would just pick at my food. And I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to see anyone, and I didn't want anyone to see me. I just wanted to wallow in my self loath for some time.

There was scratching at my door. Gray. I let him in, and he jumped on my bed, turning twice around himself before settling down in the middle of my bed. I curled around him. It was too early for sleep. The sun was only now setting, painting the clouded sky crimson through my window.