In my nightmares, I’m back in that bloody room where Kate’s body still lays on the floor lifeless. But this time, the flames close in one me; licking at my skin, singeing my hairs, whispering words I’ve heard myself say a thousand times.
All the oxygen in the room has burned out and so I’m gasping for air.
I can’t take my eyes off the lifeless body of Kate. I can’t move my limbs an inch closer or away. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“It’s your fault she’s dead.”
The flames have spit out the image of Luca. He’s bloody, his skin scorched. His eyes are pits of mourning and despair, that I can no longer phantom their depth. He stares at me with hate and scorn, and the agony in my heart twists deeper like a dagger sheathed between my ribs.
“It’s your fault she’s dead.” He repeats, stag
