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SIXTY SIX
“It may take a year or it might take a day, but what’s meant to be will always find its way.” —Unknown
LILY’s POV
I walk towards Kane ever so cautiously, taking one step at a time. And with each step that I take, I tell myself that this is not a dream. Kane called out my name.
This is reality.
I stop in front of the mahogany desk he is sitting at and he looks up from the paper he is scribbling on. Our eyes meet and my heart starts to pound with a mixture of both joy and fear. Do I go to him or do I stay? What if it wasn’t my name he had called out? What if the physiotherapist heard wrongly?
Kane drops his pen and stands up, towering over me. I had forgotten how tall he is.
“Lily…” he says my name and at that instant, my walls come crumbling down. Tears line my eyes and my lips quiver.
“You remember me?” I whisper. I can barely breat
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The Mafia's Girl SIXTY EIGHT
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LILY’s POV All my life, I’ve only wanted one thing. LOVE. Why, you might ask? It is because love is meant to transcend all things. Love speaks out for justice and protests when harm is being done. Love points out the consequences of hurting oneself or others. Love allows room foranger,grief, or pain to be expressed and released. Love is a force of nature. However much we may want to, we cannot command, demand, or take away love, any more than we can command the moon and the stars and the wind and the rain to come and go according to our whims. LOVE. It is also the one thing that killed my father, drove my sister to insanity and lead me to where I am today. My name is Lily, and this is my story. *** “Lily! Rose! Wake up!” mother calls us from the creaky wooden door, lighting up our darkened room with a candle. The orange fl
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The Mafia's Girl SIX
ROSE’s POVIt’s been less than two hours since Lily’s been gone but to me, it feels like an eternity has passed. I wonder if she will be able to find any medication for father, but more importantly, I have to wonder if the medication will work at all given the condition that he is in right now.I look at Thomas who is sleeping soundly next to me on my bed. He has kicked off his blanket in his sleep and is drooling all over our pink worn-out mattress. I love my little brother, but I hate his drools. They stink. In the next room, it sounds like father has woken from his sleep and is talking to mother, but I cannot be sure. All I can hear are incoherent sounds coming through the paper-thin wall between our rooms.I stand up from the torn and tattered bed and walk towards the only window in my bedroom, wishing for some fresh air. The room is too stuffy. But as I open the creaky wings of the window, I am not greeted by the cool morning air,
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