Jason Davenport
It took a while to process everything that had just happened.
Amelia had attempted suicide.
Amelia was carrying my child.
Still dazed, I sat on the still cold floor in my wet clothes, my back resting against a raised platform, and I forced myself to think.
Think of the times when I still had mom. Think of the times when Amelia and I had been. . . friendly.
Friendly.
Something cold pumped through me. It felt wrong saying that. Thinking like that. A part of me just couldn't bring myself to accept that fact. To me it felt like betrayal.
And betrayal meant that I was making peace with the cause of mom's death. That I was accepting it, embracing it. And that was something I couldn't do.
I felt helpless and confused.
The reason why I hated Amelia so much was because
