The night after my mother’s death pressed down on me like a storm cloud that would never break, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even close my eyes without hearing the gunshot echo, seeing her crumple in front of me like a marionette whose strings had been cut. My throat still ached from the scream I had swallowed, the scream that had ripped my chest apart and left me raw and hollow.
We were back in the house, but it didn’t feel like home. The walls seemed tighter, the air thinner. Everything smelled like fear and blood. Even though I knew I had scrubbed my hands raw, I could still feel it, my mother’s life clinging to me.
I sat on the couch with my knees pulled to my chest, the dim lamp flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay alive or not. The documents, the medical record fragme
