Sunny
Light nudges at my eyes before I even open them. It's softer this time—gold instead of white. I don't know how long I've been out, but my body feels like it's been run over by something big and didn't die properly.
Machines hum nearby. A monitor beeps. The air smells like lemon cleaner and plastic.
I blink, slow. The ceiling's plain white, no cracks, no stains—just blank.
"Hey there, sunshine."
"Is this heaven?" I asked.
"Hospital, Sunny." The voice kindly replied back.
"Ugh, Nope, still in hell." I joked with a cough,
The voice comes from the corner. A nurse in pink sneakers and a ponytail that's losing the battle with gravity smiles at me.She says my name like it's supposed to mean something. Like I belong here.
"How do you know my name?" I ask. My throat still sounds like gravel.
"It's on your chart, honey," she says. "You gave us quite a scare yesterday."
"Yeah, I do that."
I reach up to push my hair out of my face. It's stiff with something—blood, maybe, or just hospital gunk. A lock falls across my eyes, and I catch the nurse staring for a second too long.
I know that look. People always stare.
One blue eye. One green. Mom used to call them "freak eyes," but strangers called them "beautiful," like I was some kind of magic trick. The nurse blinks and looks away, embarrassed, like she's seen too much.
"You've got a detective coming by later. Just talk when you're ready, okay?"
Detective. Great. Nothing says "good morning" like a reminder that your life is now evidence.
She leaves, and the room settles into quiet again—just the slow, steady beep... beep... beep keeping me tethered to the world.
Alive. Still.
I stare at the ceiling and wonder if my mismatched eyes are the only reason anyone ever notices me—and what they'll see now that I've survived.
I'm halfway through convincing myself I can fake-sleep through anything when the door creaks open.
"Detective Marlowe," the nurse says. "She's awake, but take it slow."
A man steps in—tall, rumpled, eyes tired in the way only cops and single parents get. He's holding a notebook and that expression adults wear when they're about to ask things you don't want to answer.
"Hey, Sunny," he says, like we've met before. "I'm Detective Marlowe. How're you feeling?"
"Like I lost a fight with a truck," I say. "And the truck won."
He almost smiles. "You're tougher than you look."
"That's what everyone says before they underestimate me."
He pulls up a chair beside the bed, flipping open his notebook. The sound of paper scratching fills the space where my pulse should be.
"I know this is hard, but we need to talk about your parents," he says gently.
Ice slides down my spine. My heartbeat stumbles.
I stare at him. "They're not dead, are they?"
His jaw tightens. "Your mother and stepfather are missing. We're still processing the scene."
Processing. What a neat little word for all the blood and lies.
"Stepfather?" I whisper. "My dad?"
He looks down at his notes like the answer's somewhere safer on the page. "Sunny… the man you've been living with—he's not your biological father."
For a second, I think I misheard him. The monitor beside me starts to beep faster, traitorously loud.
"What do you mean, not my father?" My voice cracks halfway through. "You think this is funny? He—he said—"
The words turn to static in my mouth. I can't catch my breath. The ceiling tilts.
Not my dad.
Every bruise. Every scar. Every lie—none of it even belonged to me.
The monitor's going wild now. A nurse rushes in. Someone's voice—Marlowe's maybe—says panic attack, and hands find me again. My world shrinks to their rhythm.
"In… two… three… out…"
Air scrapes its way back into my lungs, shaky and hot.
"Sunny," Marlowe says softly, kneeling beside the bed now. "Listen to me. You have family. Real family. Your father—your biological father—he didn't know about you. He's on his way here."
I blink through tears I didn't mean to have. "He doesn't even know I exist?"
Marlowe shakes his head. "He does now."
The beeping slows, one breath at a time.
I turn my head toward the window, watching light creep over the blinds.
So that's it. The man who hurt me isn't my dad. The man who's coming doesn't know me.
Somewhere between those two strangers, I have to figure out who I am.
And for the first time, I'm not sure which scares me more.