"WELL FUCK"
The sirens wail in the distance-closer now.
The cops are outside.
One body. In the bathtub.
I keep staring at it.
She's small. Fragile. Her arms lay limply at her sides, her mouth slightly parted, eyes closed like she's just drifted off. Like she might wake up at any moment.
But I know that's not true.
Her skin is ghost-pale, almost translucent under the flickering bathroom light. Her lips are cracked and dry, a bluish crust clinging to their edges. Her short, jet-black bob clings wetly to her jawline.
That's my mother.
The woman who gave birth to me.
The woman who's gone now.
The police storm the house—heavy boots on the stairs—and find us on the first floor.
They try to pull me away, but I don't move.
I don't blink.
I don't even flinch when the officer grips my arms and drags me away from the bathroom. I keep my eyes locked on her, like if I just stare long enough, she'll blink back.
She doesn't.
Two weeks away at summer camp, and this is what I come home to.
A corpse in the tub.
My mother's corpse.
It's too much for a sixteen-year old. Too much for anyone.
They drag me out of the house. My limbs feel like stone, my body stiff and uncooperative. My mind—shattered, scattered somewhere between denial and disbelief.
I stare into oblivion,for an hour or two,i hear faded voices the cops asking me things ,i dont respond.i cant.
I just..stand there.
I hear a voice. Familiar.
But I don't turn around.
I don't move.
I just stare at the house as it shrinks behind me.
My home.
My mother.
My life—quietly unraveling.
Then someone grabs my shoulders—firm, trembling hands—and shakes me gently, pulling me back into the world. My dazed eyes lift and lock with a familiar pair, ones that mirror my mother's.
Aunt Serena.
She's in her late-twenties, with the same jet-black hair, the same pale skin, the same stormy blue eyes. But unlike my mother, her face is fuller, her body healthier. Alive.
Beautiful. And breaking.
"ODESSA!" she cries.
I stare up at her in silence.
She throws her arms around me, pulling me into her chest. I feel her sobs shake through her bones, feel her tears soak into the collar of my shirt. Her grief is loud, but my mind is silent.
Instead of hugging back, I glance past her.
My uncle, Ethan Blackwell, stands nearby, talking to the police, his jaw tight and brow furrowed.
Then my eyes return to Serena, as if maybe they misread her the first time.
"Is… Mom gonna be okay?" I ask. My voice barely audible.i know the answer.
She freezes.
No words come out of her mouth—just a sharp, helpless breath.
And in that breath, I get my answer.
No.
She's never coming back.
Not in this life.
Well fuck.