Little Miss Artist

Chapter 44: I'm Sorry

Something light hits my head, and soon the raindrops roll down the side of my face. It doesn't bother me in the slightest. My vision starts to become blurry. I can't tell if it's the raindrops getting into my eyes or the tears I've been trying to desperately hold back.

I feel it all over again. Sadness. Hollowness. Shock. Agony. Heartbreak. Everything.

Before I can even think about what's happening, a small, quiet moan of grief escapes my lips. The rain and my tears merge as they run down my cheeks in waterfalls. I curl into a ball, hiding my face with the sleeves of Miles' hoodie.

Why? Why them?

Mom and Dad's faces flash across my mind. They were beautiful in every way possible. Their stunning eyes. Their joyful laughs. Their kind smiles. All of that, transformed into a mess of crushed bones and open flesh. The only thing they left behind was a broken girl. Her screams and wails that echo through my ears hold a familiar type of pain full of anger, confusion, and disbelief. I watch the whole scene play in my head as the hole in my heart expands cruelly, leaving an eruption of a burning sensation in my chest.

I replay different memories, remembering when I was barely seven years old. Dad had bought me my first set of acrylics as a birthday present. It was then when I discovered my love for paints. Dad was always the one drawing or painting along with me whenever he could. I remember trying to get Mom into helping us, but she gave up after one stroke of her brush. She would always complain about not having a single artsy bone in her body, but she would still have the most fun when she'd attempt with us.

Little Miss Artist.

That's what her nickname was for me. For as long as I can remember, Mom would always call me that.

Why them? Why Mom and Dad?

"Why? Why w-were you t-taken from m-me?" I cry out, lifting my head the slightest bit. I tug at my hair, pulling the strands in hope of feeling something other than the ache in my heart. I bite down on my lower lip, but no physical pain can overcome the one in my chest.

"I'm so s-sorry," I barely choke the words out as I release another sob. My eyes are shut tight, stinging from the trapped tears. "I'm so sorry I-I wasn't t-there to s-save you. I love y-you. I love you b-both so much. I'm s-so sorry. I . . . I miss y-you so m-much. I w-was such a c-coward. I s-should've b-been there at the funeral. I'm so sorry . . ."

My fingers curl to form fists. I dig my nails into my palms, desperately wanting to break the skin, but my dull nails do nothing. Frustration builds up inside me, causing a series of gut-wrenching sobs to tear through my chest.

Please, I silently beg, whimpers of grief releasing from my parched throat. Please make the pain go away.

"I . . . I . . ."

I'm so sorry for running away at the funeral. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for all those times I chose to hang out with my friends instead of you. I'm sorry for not saying I love you to you that morning, Dad. I'm sorry for the times when I acted like a brat to you, Mom. I'm sorry for not being there with you guys in your last moments. I'm so sorry for not being brave enough to visit you.

"I miss you," I wipe at the salty hot torrents of sorrow that continue to stream down my cheeks. "I miss y-you so much. I'm s-so sorry. Please . . . please forgive m-me."