The night after my mother’s death was a hollow thing. I didn’t remember the drive back. I didn’t remember Noah pulling me into the car, the way my legs dragged like dead weight, or the way the city lights streaked past the windows in fractured colors. My body had moved, but my soul hadn’t followed.
The blood on my hands, and hers clung to me no matter how many times I scrubbed. The sink was raw from where I’d clawed at the soap dispenser, red running down the drain until I couldn’t tell if it was hers or mine. I still felt the recoil of the gunshot vibrating in my bones, even though it wasn’t my hand that had pulled the trigger.
When the world finally caught up with me, I was on the living room floor, curled against the rug, my chest heaving. The taste of iron and salt filled my mouth.
