Chapter 81

The first conscious thought I remember having was in the upstairs loft.

It was dark outside.

The moon was hidden by storm clouds, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the room briefly. I could hear the strong gusts of wind, the rumbling of thunder, and the sheets of rain that pounded into the roof above me.

I smelt like paint and misery.

The canvas I'd dedicated months to laid in front of me, it's frame mangled and bent. The once carefully detailed collage of colors making up a portrait had been smeared haphazardly with black paint that also coated my hands.

Sitting with my back in a corner, knees pulled into my chest, I felt a like a shell of a human.

All the emotional energy I owned had been completely spent. I had cried until I couldn't cry anymore. My throat felt like l'd swallowed acid, raw with the screaming that came alongside mourning two traumatic deaths.

The only thing I had left was a broken, beating heart.

And all I could do was sleep.

I didn't want to be awake.