Ashes Don't Bleed

ELARA The world didn’t come back all at once. It slithered. Pain, first. Not the sharp kind. The kind that clung. The kind that pulsed like an echo under skin. Like my body remembered being broken more clearly than it remembered being whole. Then sound crept in slow and hesitant. The sterile beep of machines, the soft whoosh of something mechanical, and a faint humming I couldn’t place. Like someone had left the world on low volume. Then came light. Faint, too bright all at once. My eyelids twitched. One gave in. The other stayed shut, heavy and swollen. My head throbbed. My throat felt like it had been lined with razors. Every breath came in struggle. I tried to move. Nothing responded. My arms were lead. My legs didn’t exist. I opened my mouth to cry, scream, ask. Anything. Nothing came out. Not even air. Panic bloomed fast. It started in my chest and clawed its way up. I fought the weight pressing down on me. My heart slammed against my ribs like a prisoner desperate for es

ELARAA few days passed—or bled—like they always did.Each hour slipped beneath my skin like frost. The silence no longer frightened me; it had become a roommate, a reflection. The only language I spoke now was quiet: the hum of machines, the rustle of a nurse’s shoes, the occasional click of Damien’s tablet.But inside?Inside, I was screaming.I still hadn’t seen my face. The doctors said the bandages could come off soon. I didn’t want them to. I wasn’t ready to look at the woman in the mirror, if she could even be called that anymore.They told me I crushed into stone when I fell. That the rocks had shattered parts of my cheekbones, torn skin, fractured the cartilage of my nose, broken my ribs. That my voice box had been nearly crushed by the pressure of the fall and the impact of hitting water with such force. The sea hadn't saved me. It swallowed me and spit me out broken.I didn’t understand why I lived.Why Damien Rhys pulled me from the water when he could’ve walked away.He s

ELARAThe body remembers what the soul tries to forget.Pain didn’t announce itself anymore. It hummed. A silent, steady rhythm under my skin, a haunting baseline to every movement I made. Recovery wasn’t linear. It wasn’t poetic. It was cruel. Relentless.Physical therapy began two weeks after the bandages came off. I’d assumed surviving meant I’d done the hard part.No.The hard part was learning to live again.Every morning started with an ache so deep it felt ancestral. My legs, though miraculously spared from the worst of the impact, trembled when I stood. The bones in my arms screamed with the memory of catching myself as I fell. The skin around my ribs, tight and new, pulled like it didn’t trust me to move.The therapist was a kind woman named Alina, with a voice like chamomile and eyes that didn’t flinch when they saw my scars. She spoke Italian, but her patience translated well enough. I didn’t speak back—not yet. But she understood the winces, the sharp intakes of breath, th