Okay. HUGE WARNINGS for this chapter. I, the author, felt incredibly sick writing this. You may not feel the same but I thought it should be said. If you're the kind of person to feel queezy during descriptive chapters involving children, then I suggest you skip the rest of the chapter after I put in this bunch of bolded stars (*******************).
Go to very end of chapter for specified warnings if you think this applies to you.
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Crimson copper creeping, like a stream seeping between the sip of parched and split lips. Blood strikes a simple streak down her chin, though, it brings nothing but a bit of distraction past the unsurmountable realization she is alone in this cold, desolate world. Left alone crippled by loss, devastation, and mourning. Currently and specifically in that order. Without crutch or comfort, because she knows. She knows that this war beaten path, albeit it's her footprints only, could have been avoided. That she is the disease that sickens the pure, dampens the lost, encourages fools-gold to the poor. That she's become a part of a system comfortable with zero accountability and a hundred percent guilt. Now, in her withering state where her pulse no longer quickens but instead slugs, she understands now; she is the monster she had feared she would inevitably become.
Trauma does that. Death and decay and abuse does that.
Cruelly cramming cracked sharp pieces into her own deeply cut crevices dulled by time. Harboring her candid hatred, her tediously impending doom; self manifested, yet also taught. A lesson that hasn't gone unlearned. Like she's become a malnourished garden in need of a tender tended touch. Seeds planted then left to her own accord. Left and kept untrimmed, without the comfort of sun or the growth of rain, and a gardeners aid.
Crucifying every molecular bit of being she's managed to scrounge up, once again ready to be torn down.
Inhaling in creaky rhythms, broken by lack of time and rigorous realization that yes, darkness does not escape her. That after all the fighting, all the scrapes and worn down PTSD, trying to repeatedly do what's right (wrong, wrong, wrong), does she realize that after all that exhausting effort, there is now no compensation. The war isn't over, death still savages, that she with all her mustered fight, is nothing but a rotting infectant of a human being.
Reminiscing as clouds part for her, that those poisonous misconstrued views that had contorted into visceral pain, shouldn't have happened. Robert and her. That she should never have played with the explosive fuse to begin with. That she never should have started all this with hope, a sadistic view of her trauma, and a illusion to make space between her and her past.
Now all she has is an ache for an end. Something atrocious and without haste, corrupted and insensitive like she's been to others. Enough to tear the torn flesh clean from where it's been so haphazardly stitched. Big blotted lines that lay jagged and pronounced. Ruined red leaking a drippy pace down from the gash in her forehead. She's pale beyond the color protruding between the closed lines where slashes once splayed open. A needle and thread being the only treatment she can afford these days--and nothing more. Maybe a cloth and alcohol if she's lucky.
Now though, now it's just her last thoughts, her loosening fists clenching the liquor bottle close, and a burning desire for the end to come and encapsulate her.
Taking a last hoarse breath that sucks into her fluid filled lungs without purchase, does she pretend like it's pearly white gates she's about to grace and not burning coals and an eternal scorch.
Collectively crumpled; crying and cursing. Unable to adjust or shift from where she's slumped to the floor--for what could be the last time.
Replaying the decline that is now sickeningly obvious on the other side of it all. Like a thick sick oozing remedy purposing itself as an itching irritant rather than relayed relief. From the start with Robert's swift handshake and polite self introduction, and to this end. This very, very dismal end.
-----
Trauma targets youth--children, differently than it does adults. It's disguised in the designs of dark spaces, light casting wary shadows of warning, and patterned products of that one dreary day. It's intimately woven, the way post traumatic stress occurs. It softly wraps up it's victim, curls and growls as it protects it's chosen slave, the thing between the rest of the world and the heaving breathing person that lies way, way, way beneath it.
Charlotte, a becoming spokesmen to these characteristics, recognizes the signs before the side effects take affect.
It's obvious to her, and somehow, somewhere deep inside her, locked up and behind three inch steel walls and twenty feet high fences, is her thanks for going through depression before witnessing Molly's.
Molly who would burst into tears at the sound of a faucet dripping, or of shiny slick floors freshly mopped. Would sob thinking that she had done something wrong that day, things she can't remember, but dreams of anyways.
Molly who gets angry within a second, smashes the platter of food to the ground when nurses plead with her to drink water (but never upset with Charlotte or dad). Angry at the world, then streaming salty tears the next.
It's the medications and the trauma, Charlotte knows. It's being enslaved to a place where adults confine her to repeated tests and needles creeping under her skin. Pinch and prod and touch and take her away from Charlotte.
Charlotte who's there as often as she can be, with either CJ who sings her Beatles songs into rapid rhythmed slumbers, or Izzie baking her whatever her heart desires. To Jay and George just chatting with her, humouring her with drawings of each other and telling her crazy fictitious stories of the land of princess Molly, ruler and adventurer of the realm.
Her friends come visit often and it's sweet. Especially Casey who comes more than the others combined. Driving Charlotte everywhere and generally making home glued to her Lottie's hip. It's sweet and absolutely so CJ. She asks everyday if there's anything Charlotte needs to talk about (be it over text or in person) and Charlotte will either say yes, or no (usually no ((because she doesn't eat to acknowledge it))). Be it her aching chest over Molly's closely called demise, or, or... You know.
The other fact that Charlottes heart hurts for another reason and that's Robert.
She misses him everyday. There's often not a moment he's not somewhere tucked away in her thoughts. Wondering how he's doing. Where he is. If he misses her as much as she misses him--or misses her at all. If he's angry with her. Hates her. Despises her. Regrets their time together. Wishes it had been time spent carving holes into an empty room than spent time trusting her deceitful ways. Or if he's still sick. If he's okay. If he's found Ava yet. If he's heard that she got Brandon to recede his charges and claims against Robert. If he were to bump into her again, if he'd turn away from her rather than approach.
She misses him a lot, and a lot of the time (but especially this day ((Valentines Day))). .
She increasingly needs to feel like he existed to her. That he wasn't just some amazing, perfect man she dreamt up and than woke up to this nightmare where a six year old fights pneumonia and other things that scare Charlotte to the grave. Albeit Molly does not care to listen to that jargon when most often Frozen is playing.
She still lives and breathes Frozen after all these months and when Charlotte comes to visit her one day and brandishes a small Elsa outfit, she beams. Then sleeps because those are the two things Molly spends her days doing.
Well. She cuddles up to Charlotte a lot, too. She actually gets herself sick to the point of puking when she thinks Charlottes not coming the days she says she's going to because Char Bar is five minutes late to hug her. Though Charlotte hardly spends any time away from Molly, she does split some hours between the hospital and dads to go back home to Izzie's and be home.
And that is her home. That's where she feels safest--and when Molly can afford a couple of sleepovers there, it's the absolute best, most magical hours in Charlottes existence.
But this moment, coddled up in this stale hospital room with a slowly sleeping Molly, Charlotte writes for Robert. The man who healed her more than a few scribbled words can try and describe. How the whole reason Molly's still with a beating pulse is because of him and his swift thinking and eager loyalty. Risking himself, his own life, for another. For Molly's.
And now he's gone. Charlotte got rid of him like waste, like he was nothing but a hinderance to her. How selfish and cruel she had been to break things off with him at such an ugly hour--or started all this with him at all. Gotten close with him. Crossed boundaries. Fell in love with him. So endlessly. So purely and devotedly.
He had said he wanted to marry her someday and she had replied asking him to not make her treacherous words more painful--for her. For Charlotte. The narcissist. The egomaniacal sociopath. Pathetic bunch of bones that grate when she stumbles. Who spent a portion of Christmas in a broom closet panicking, hoping he would twist the silver handle and find her like he always does--did. Like he always did.
Because he's not in her life anymore. He really could have been just a dream that she dreams of having again. The fantasy she turned into a night terror.
She hadn't realized that she would miss the strange little ticks that she really, really does. The little Robert-isms. How cute he is. Things like, like... like his heartbeat. That congruent thump that would bring a steady bass to her world as she pressed her ear to the divot in his chest. Or miss his subtle touches. When she would lay curled in his lap, nuzzling her nose into his neck, and feeling those thumbs rotating circles into her fatigued muscles. His fingers dancing swirls into her sides, light pressure drawing images on her hips as he simultaneously held her close. Miss his smell, without the clouding cologne and leave him bare. Just him. Smelling like he does. Or the way his hair would start to curl when it rained, got fluffier, curving along his ears and the nape of his neck. That neck she loved to taste, to kiss, and bite to elicit either a low growling groan or light infectious laugh. That laugh. My god, that laugh that would crinkle at the corners of his eyes and thrum vibrations down his being.
Reminiscing to that one time as he had drove her home and he had laughed so hard he had snorted, and then she had too--and both of them had sworn to never speak of it again, throwing the devious gummy worms out the window as well. And thats another thing, a more strange, less stereotypical thing she misses about him. The way he eats. Always healthy food, gluten free everything and constantly licks his lips. Or finding a plethora of empty coffee cups guarding his desk or in the cup holders of his Audi. Things like that and his quirky jokes, the way he swipes a hand through his hair, the eclectic shoes he'd wear, or, or the way he could pick her up so effortlessly and presses his sweet hot mouth to hers. Pulls at her lips, nose gliding against hers as he shifts to kiss her from another angle. Those large hands grasping at her sides,running down her spine to hold her close. Make her feel safe and loved. To feel his breath ghosting over her skin and his dazed gaze peering at her with that sloppy smirk.
She really fucking misses hi--
Charlotte does not get to finish that sentence. Book thrown to the side because then Molly wakes coughing, searching for air that's not there. Molly can't breathe, and not like Charlottes problem--the six year old literally cannot breathe. She's sucking in air with no purchase. Nothing feeds her thirsty lungs. The machines dance to life around them, singing and squealing, and then it's doctors whooshing in, pushing Charlotte helplessly to the side. Doctors in white long coats, stethoscopes around their necks and varying shades of scrubs as nurses pass her by without a blink. Enamoured with their patient as Charlotte tries to keep it together. The sound of heaving breaths of a child, beeps of pagers and phones, calls coming overhead from the speakers, and those eerily fluorescent lights illuminating the child's pained panicked features. Then they're strapping a mask to Molly's face and push Charlotte to the side as she watches on helplessly trying to cling to her six year old sisters hand. Reassuring her that she's fine, that she's going to be okay, just try and concentrate and breathe deeply. With her. One, two three deep breaths. It's okay. Molly's okay. Charlottes okay. They're all gonna be just okay.
...
(*****************)
It doesn't matter what happened before this. Before she got the call. Before she dropped the pan of eggs she had been frying. Before her heart was ripped clean out past her ribs and broken skin by a pair of utterly chilling and feverishly thieving hands.
It doesn't matter that she was actually smiling, humming with satisfaction just minutes before she swiped trusted keys left bare and alone on the mantle by the door, and proceeded to steal one of her closest friends cars.
The same mantra running rancid in her sickly disturbed brain as had been when this whole drowning disaster had first happened. Taunting her with a world wind warning that Molly's got a tag on her toe with scribbled writing that's supposed to be the closing match to her birth certificate. That no blood warms the cavity of a six year olds silent desolate chest. That she is not okay, that she is pale with still oozing blood staining her ocean coloured lips.
She can't cry. No crying because that would mean everything is not fine and it is. It's fine even though her chest pangs in discontent, anxiety ridden worries, and rancid running thoughts that are nothing but rumour. Of what could be--what's not. That Moll's fine, just fine and this is all just a scare that serves no purpose other than it gets better after this. They all get better and heal up and be fine after this.
Iron grip on the wheel, yanking it from side to side and led foot on the pedal. Powerful spinning tires scuff and slide, screeching with the brief drift as the steering wheel rotates quickly back to the left. Wind billowing from open windows brushing back long strands of hair, the prominent smell of rubber burning in the wake of wheels out spinning themselves. Engine revving as it accelerates and thrusts forward, leaving behind black wavy strokes along the grey pavement.
She can't--it can't be true. This is just a bad dream. She's dreaming. She's, she's--everything's okay. Molly's okay. She's fine, and, and breathing, laughing, watching Frozen. She's fine. Moll's fine. She's alive, she's living. This, this is just a mistake. A horrible disastrous mistake.
Someone's screaming, honking purposefully and flipping the middle finger as the vehicle cruises with zipping speed through an intersection.
Blearily whipping away the hair stuck in her mouth, stinging her eyes, making her want to heave up her lunch. She feels nauseous and sick and dead inside, a burning cauldron of fear. Of panic, hatred, frustration, anger, doubt, shock, confliction and absolute terror.
Her own body jerks raucously to the side with gravities pull as she sharply takes a corner. Passing cars, chaotic colours soaring past her windows. The reflection of Izzie's car flying past store front windows and narrowly being crushed off when she glides between two patiently parked Hondas awaiting the light to turn green--and it does, just as the navy blue car skids through.
Her mini me. Her little Molly Monster who, who loves drawing, who's an adventurer, who giggles when you pull on your cheeks and stick out your tongue. Molly who's only six--she's six years old and has her whole life in front of her. To live. To find love and heartbreak, and joys and everything in between that she deserves to feel--to live. Then to know, at the end of the day, her big sister Char Bar will always be there. No matter what. She will never give up on her, or, or abandon her. She'll take care of her, and love her endlessly, with her whole heart, she'll never need anyone else because she'll have her most favourite person--her one true lasting love, there with her. Depending on her.
Because Molly needs her, needs her now and then, and Charlotte needs her too. Oh my god, she needs her, she needs her so much. To laugh and live and learn, and practice patience and understanding and sharing, and life. Learning what unconditionally love is--to love someone more than yourself, to die for them, to wipe their tears, to brush away their bruises, and protect them from the worlds evil. But Charlottes not there, not yet, she's trying, and pushing and oh my god the pain erupting across her chest is unreal.
She screams, banging her fists on the wheel. Pleading, begging, Molly, please, please hold on. Let me come get you. Let me make you safe.
The sickly blue backpack in the back passengers seat tumbles to the front as she slams on the brakes (filled with a new Olaf teddy for Molly and a new sketch book with stickers), hitting the dashboard as she shifts and lurches forward, ignoring the curses that follow her haste.
Her sister, her only sister. Her most important person. Her loving, adoring, amazing, special sister.
Weaving through the parking lot, ghosting past pedestrians who wobble with disease as she locks the brakes and comes to a halt.
Flinging open the door and jumping out, taking the stairs three at a time. Rapid paced breathing, sweating every inch of her being. Jumping through a crowd of strangers. Eyes locked on the big block letters labelling this the emergency entrance. The setting sun is at her back, spring finally receding, and gripping the rail as she leaps to the doors. Bare feet slapping against freshly polished floors lit by fluorescent lights.
She wants to ask people to clear, please, move, but she can't. Her throats dry and she's breathing too fast with knitted brows and so so scared. Moving, sprinting, jumping, veering.
Swallowing thick mucous, and emotions, and desperation, anxieties, and a broken heart as she searches. Dances and tumbles on whilst people burden her with harsh words and judgement--but they don't know. Molly needs her, needs her now, and, and Charlottes so close. She's going as fast she possibly can, she's coming Molly. She swears she's coming. She'll do whatever she has to, whatever keeps Molly alive and living, and happy and breathing. If Charlotte needs to get cut open right this second and, and take out her heart to put in Molly's chest, she'll do it. She'll do it without thinking a moments hesitation, because it's Molly. Molly who's perfect, who needs to be in this world--more than Charlotte needs to be here--this world needs Molly. Needs that happiness and shining blue eyes that glow warmth and trust. She's a little girl meant to change the world, who's already changed worlds. Charlottes world. Her parents world, who touches others hearts with her caring comments and wisdom.
Charlotte cannot live without her. She doesn't ever want to, and she won't be able to.
She knows her way, she knows it off by heart and it takes no time to be in the elevator (Faster. Come on! Move you stupid piece of junk. Continuously jamming the button uselessly) and dashing down halls filled with faces; old, wrinkled, young, petulant, innocent, scolding, desperate, pity, sympathy, empathy, all watching her. Eyeing up her madness, her dexterity as she bounds through, pushing away the hands that try to hold her down, try to calm her panic.
She's coming, she's running, she's sprinting.
Doctors with sterol stethoscopes swung around their necks, leaning over the nurses station. Clipboards and patients charts in hand while nurses take calls and pace the halls with trays and papers and books and coffees--though when Charlotte passes through, eyes follow and try and snatch her attention to slow down.
Just wait--just hold on. She's, she's, one more corner and, "Molly! Molly, I'm--"
Whipping sharply around that last turn, slipping, barely catching herself. Hand planting firmly on the opposing wall as she propels forward, is it then and only then, after her raging adrenaline, does she hear the rushing sounds of squeaky steps twisting on these shiny floors. Of monitors beeping, and careening medical terms being tossed back and fourth urgently.
Everything suddenly feels dismally heavy, sensationally slow, and, and evasively dreamy. Like she's wading through thick sticky mud, pressured up to her neck. Squeezing around her, like she'll combust under it's intensity. The halls are lined with kids art, of paintings done to lift the spirits of the children staying here, though the lighting sucks all exuberance out of the bright, vibrant colours. Same with how there's usually a crash-cart positioned nearby right in case of emergency. It's usually a satanic reminder of the reality they face, but it's not there now. No. And she sees her mom leaning into Don, arms rapped around her brother as they share muffled sobs. But, but, cruel realism hits with the sight of her father, her legs stifling under the weight of being upright, of coming up to the hall space in front of Molly's room and seeing her dads face buried in his hands. Back against the wall and shaking with tremored tears where he sits.
She's hiccuping in erratic rhythms, sucking in oxygen rabidly. Rapid pulse streaking pain through her sternum, along her ribs to shoulders and arms, and under. In her organs, in the muscles, every space that's so compact and something detaches. Drifts. Breaks.
It's that, and when he looks up to Charlottes voice (and she's still running, she can't stop ((feels more like she's falling))) and she sees his red ruined eyes, whispering out words in pain "Oh god, Charlie", like he's gonna get up off the floor for her, but Charlotte turns with huffing short breaths and pain spiking up through her entire being. Like there's, there's no air, coldness, and her eyes are wide and blind yet focusing as she presses a palm to the cool glass of the rooms window she's peered through so many times these past few months.
"Charlotte." and that's, that's Terry with her hand out whilst still gripping her brother. Mom who she has barely seen and her voice is looking for Charlotte to comfort her, like she's expected that her eldest will come hug the pain from her leaky eyes and oh my god, Molly, oh god, no. "Charlotte, please--"
She does not hear her mothers pleas for mercy. For warmth and comfort because all Charlotte sees is beyond the jagged blinds where Molls little yellow jammy shirt is getting re-buttoned up from a strangers sterile plastic white gloved fingers because they had had to splay open the cloth and press charged electricity to Moll's chest in hopes of getting the six year olds heart to pump blood on it's own again. Dangled limbs that are too thin even though Charlotte tried to get the tot to eat, with a usually smiling mouth gaping open, and lips crusty white from dried foam. Silky strands of sweaty hair sticks to Molly's face, where Charlotte should be there to tuck them away, to her cheeks where tears are long frozen in place--and those beautiful amazing eyes lay closed. Lashes laying peacefully--and they'll never open again.
Her fists slams on the window, attracting the attention of the room. Two doctors, both men beyond their fifties (a-and one, one holds the shocking paddles), and three nurses, one packing away a small throat tube wearing pink scrubs, and the other two tentatively putting together Molly's distraught and unnatural form. Charlotte does not see them though. She doesn't see anything but a lifeless body laying like a rag doll on twisted sheets, kicked out in distraught discomfort. Of death wrapping it's cold claws around a child and taking her.
She chokes on words, on muttering out pleas, but she's entranced and stuck. Whimpering lowly no and no, and no. Please no. Pinching her eyes shut and shaking because it's so freezing in here. In her body. There's nothing but anguish and ice.
Dads at her elbow, tugging at her sleeve but she spares him no glance as she slumps into the glass. Shoving him off and opening up her gaze to see the persistently dead body before her, and, and she's breathing, b-breathing too fast. There's no air, no purchase when she sucks in a shaky breath that rattles down right to her core and sends her pulse into an erratic rhythm.
"No, please. No. No. My Molly."
"I'm so sorry, Honey. I don't know what happened. I don't know, I don't fucking know." Her fathers voice wavers, cracking with the surrounding scenery. Trying to explain it to her, or, or comfort her away from the tangled body with a gapped mouth hanging open. "I'm so, so sorry."
The medical staff look away guilt ridden in every nook and cranny of their beings, glancing off to the clock on the wall and muttering out the words--they've called out time of death.
"No!" She hits at the glass again, and rocks into it. A loud sob echoing up from heart to lips. "No. She was... F-fine. She was... It's just a cold. Just a cold. A dumb cold that wouldn't go a-away."
The medical staff have finished their duties. They exit the room that holds no pulse. Inform them that they did everything they could. (Terry screams then, loud and long). That they're sorry for their loss. (Jerry's knees buckle and he's back on the floor as Teresa yells out in anguish both hitting and pulling at Don). That they can go say their goodbyes (she's already dead).
Charlottes already stepping past them, refusing to look at the doctors that failed to save her sister (now there's more than Charlottes name on that list). Only receiving looks from the men in long billowing white coats, like, like she's a wounded deer in their headlights, albeit they brandish their own wounded looks.
She stumbles through this door she's swung open on too many occasions and her gaze immediately locks back onto her one and only sister.
Molly who looks tiny, swallowed up by the wrinkled sheets around her feet, bed laying flat and colour dissipating from her once round jovial face. The room lit too brightly. The television screen in the corner is paused on Frozen, DVD packet laying open and empty on top of the player. Drawings scribbled with eclectic colours are taped to the walls. Get Well cards adorn the side tables top along with flowers from George and Izzie with half eaten raspberry cupcakes as well, CJ's Beatles albums bought specifically for the tot, and Jay's best comic books.
Clothes folded in the corner out of habit because this room has long been inhabited by this certain six year old--forever six. Blue eyes that will never shine with excitement, or thrills of life, never again. Hair that will no longer grow or be braided again.
Charlotte steps closer, waiting for Molly to move--expecting her to.
A broken cry, guttural and torn, lurches from Charlottes lips. "Molly Monster," Chokes her throat as she shakily skims her fingers over that icy pale skin. All warmth leaching from her, like she's only having a cold nap and just laying there endlessly holding air in those deflated lungs. "Please." The sweat that had once persisted on Molly's skin, now feels like it does not belong to this person. This body is not Molly's. Molly is not here and that becomes evidently clear when Charlotte crawls onto the bed with snotty sniffles and curls around the cooling body that does not automatically cling back.
"This isn't right, this isn't fair. Please. God, no. No. This isn't real. You're fine. You're fine. You're okay--its okay. I'll make you better. I'll take care of you. I'll do better, I promise. I need you. I love you."
So small, so frail.
"Live, Molly. Live."
The way the body shifts in slumps, with weight and no muscle as Charlotte presses close. The way her hair sticks to her face but doesn't itch or irritate. Though that doesn't stop Charlotte from pressing her forehead to the others, to pressing kisses to Molly's skin, petting down those crazy brunette waves and letting her warmth invade Molly's body and Molly's snowy skin and icy touch devour Charlottes.
"Molly." The name falling off her tongue in broken sounds. "Don't leave me."
No one enters the room as the chaos outside, of mourning parents, does not compare to the crushing grief occurring in here. Of Molly. Loss. Death. Too early. Not right. Please.
Charlotte left alone crying over her deceased, dead, declining and decaying young sister.
"Please... take me with you."
---
Beams of white light illuminate the swinging directions they veer. Rain distorting and landing on dew dripped green grass, slipping into the soggy soil of well kept parklands. Critters crawl beneath heavy foliage, seeking refuge from the waters persistent dribbles that soak the lush lands. Falling far, far from clouds above where Molly must smile in profound peace, watch as silk rivulets of water stream a slow rhythm down Charlottes soaked shoulders. A rose flush creeping up the lines of her slippery neck, to liquor stained lips. Sucking back the last remnants from the sleek looking bottle in pity and pain.
There's, there's the light off, far off in the distance and it only confuses Charlottes drunken mind into pondering. Sniffling and coughing, heaving for air that tickles down her spine. This deep rooted sharp stabbing that has encapsulated her being. Transcends and revolts her because no matter how many bottles of booze she swigs, it does not perish. The longing, the hurt, and mourning, does not perish.
Cynically slowing her heart rate down to just barely slugging along. Just an inch above the line of death as she gazes out over the pastures of green grass and does not care to disguise her self pity and grief. An unfulfilled feeling that's burrowed deep in the empty cavity of her chest as Molly lays dead. Objectively, Charlotte knows Molly is starting her slow decay, but my god does the child live in Charlottes memories. She dances, she sings and laughs, and swirls in a colourful array of wide lived memories. Endlessly drawing on coffee tables that now brandish streaks of bright markers. Of looking up with that sparkle in her eyes, that mischief, that unquenched thirst for life as those lips would pull into the most amazing smile you'd ever seen. Full of devotion, joy and jokes, play and infinite love. Love that still persists even after she's departed this world.
Giggles that still echo, cries that still wound, and touches that still linger.
So fresh. So recent.
Charlotte can close her eyes, let slip those tears that mingle with the rain, as she reminisces about the warmth of having Molly's face pressed against her body. Can still feel the ghosting trails of touches or tugs for attention. Of hearing Molly's words whisper out unprovoked I Love You's. How earnestly she would mutter that to Charlotte like she was her world, when in fact, it was the opposite.
Or maybe it was the same.
Nevertheless, copper tinges at her tongue. Mutates with the added assault of alcohol. Drips of crimson slipping into her vision, blurring and nauseating. She's so cold, freezing, shivering in large hiccuping rhythms, but she doesn't care. She wants it. She wants this stretched out feeling of death, of dying in the night and embracing it.
She doesn't remember how she got here, how she lost her shoes (or if she was ever wearing any). How she had managed to get her head stitched up after--she briefly recalls--being woken next to her deceased sister in horror. Screaming and slamming her head on something sharp as she had launched off the bed and pushing her parents sticky needy hands away from her.
Somehow gotten this bottle of vodka, and stumbled to this same spot where once she had laid with Robert after Brandon and Dayna had invaded these safe Seattle boundaries.
Now as she slouches against the tree he had paced in circles, uncertain how she's gotten here or anything beyond the fact that Molly is dead and gone, leaving Charlotte here to moan in her self disparity. Of being a deceitful traitor, who couldn't find the strength to pull her one and only sister from an icy rivers current.
The white streaking lights from the parking lot swipe over Charlottes prone sickly body and then lurch to a halt as they pass her.
Once she could hear nothing but the swirling winds of this storm cradling around her heartbreak, but now, now it's more. It's an awfully familiar voice. It's concerned and echoing in longing patterns of urgency. Quickening and colliding in the tell tale sway of Charlottes name in question and concern.
Charlotte, drunk and in pain as blackness swirls in her eyes, hadn't noticed she had succumbed to her own unconsciousness till she blearily pictures a shadowed man in a large black coat, arms swinging as legs stride in fast paces, comes closer. Of dark brown eyes that swirl and crinkle at the corners when he laughs seeing her all drenched and slumped like deaths beaten her and left for disease to take over. Who walks closer saying some smirk filled words that brighten Charlottes heart and the surrounding skies. Lets her feel a little less heavy momentarily. Who comes close, wipes the sweat, the tears and blood from her face and presses warm lips to her feverish skin. Tells her it's all going to be okay. That Molly's in the car, no reason to fear. To point back with a long extended arm and see Molly hanging out the window with two pigtails and a toothy smile waving. Yelling out Charlottes name--but it's wrong. It's too deep. It's a women's voice. It's unfamiliar and lacks the love and adoration that comes with that high pitched giggled.
And it's Jay dropping to his knees cursing as he rips off his jacket and wraps it around Charlottes shoulders. Darkness invading in around his body as another women comes up with a blanket. Shrugs off her coat too and there's words. She doesn't know what's happening but they're touching her and taking the bottle (and is that Charlottes torn groans of reluctance--to let death take its course--or is it Teresa's?). But it's not Mom, it's a women who gently takes Charlottes arm as Jay takes the other, and her large green eyes and sandy, almost golden hair with no streaks of grey where should be of a women in her mid forties, does she help aid Charlottes weight as she struggles, curses, cries, and calls out Molly's name. So close, so close to seeing her again--let her go, let her see Molly and take her to the place where she belongs.
"It's okay, Charlotte. Big breaths, okay? It's okay. I'm Jays Mom, I'm here to help. Just call me Carson."
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WARNINGS: CHILD DEATH. DESCRIPTIVE. BREIF IDEATION FOR SUCIDE WHILE INEBRIATED.
Random Question: What's your reaction right now after reading this chapter?
COMMENT. VOTE. TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL. VENT/RANT. DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO. Next chapter update will be Monday!
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and or my Instagram @robertdowneysjr. You can also message me with questions and stuff.
So this is my last prewritten chapter. Wow. Working hard on the next one and positive it'll be done by next week so yay. Can't believe after, like, 7ish months (February) of uploading this book, it's been consistent every week till now--though I'm hoping to at least keep a once a week update. I'll keep you guys in the know.
ALSO HAPPY BELATED HALLOWEEN!
Hope you don't hate me too much. Thanks for reading guys.
-Kenna.