THIRTY-THREE
“He’s dead, Sophia. Papà is dead.” The words ricocheted like rocks thrown upon the walls.
Sophia’s knees buckled beneath her. She crumbled to the ground as if held suspended in midair until she felt the hard stone beneath her. Time altered, her vision shifted, the earth became a foreign place. Sophia lived in a world without her father. It was too heinous to be borne.
Her mother … her mother’s face … it rose before her, deformed by grief. Sophia jolted up, grabbed her discarded gown, flinging it over her head, and ran for the door. She heard Lia stumbling behind her in the night, unable to walk as the sobbing overwhelmed her, casting its sound out into the deserted terrazzo. Sophia grabbed her sister by the hand, and pulled her along, cooing gibberish at her as they rushed
