It happened the week before my high school graduation. My brother, Leo, was driving me to pick up Mom and Dad from work when we crashed. The only thing worse than the screeching metal was the silence afterward. I sustained a spinal cord injury. I never walked again. The bright, clear future I’d built vanished into the smog of reality, and I fell into the black hole of clinical depression. Every day was an agony. Mom, Evelyn, who never got past community college, didn’t understand the diagnosis. When I hurt myself, she’d just hold me, again and again. “It’s okay, Willow. Mom will always be right here.” Dad, Robert, took on two extra jobs. I barely saw him. “Don’t worry,” he’d promise, his voice rough. “We’re fine on cash. We’ll beat this thing.” Leo stayed by my side constantly. “This is my fault,” he’d whisper, his eyes haunted. “I’ll protect you, always.” Three years. They gave me three years of their lives, anchoring themselves to my pain. I truly believed I was lucky. I thought, one day, I’d stand in the sunshine and tell them, laughing, “I’m better now.” But then came that day. All I did was whisper, “I’m so tired.” Mom just... shattered. “Then die already! I am done with this life!” she screamed. “Our whole lives revolve around you! How are we supposed to fix you? I’m going to end up depressed, too, living like this!” She slammed the door. Leo scrambled after her. The silence they left was deafening. I looked at the kitchen knife I kept by the bed. Death was better. No more trouble for anyone. No more agonizing pain for me. 1 The cold tip dragged across my skin. Blood bloomed instantly. A sharp, searing red. Usually, they’d be here. Mom would hug me, patting my back like when I was small. She always said, Sleep it off, Willow. Everything’s better when you’re sleeping. But she didn't know that sleep was just another form of torture. I rarely rested well; I was always dreaming. I’d dream I could stand up and walk across the college quad. Or I’d dream my condition mysteriously worsened, and I couldn’t even move my head. I never told her. She couldn’t fix it, and it would only increase her sighing. I was already enough of a headache. Better to spare her the worry. Leo would gently bandage me, careful not to cause any more pain. He even gave up his dream major for me. He was at the top of his class, but he switched to Psychology—just to try and fix me. It was all his guilt. He’d only had his license a few weeks that day. I told him to slow down, and he just grinned, dismissive. “Relax, sis. Your brother’s a pro. Nothing’s going to happen.” The next second: the shriek of the brakes. I haven't seen that genuine, carefree grin since. I told him a hundred times. “Leo, it was an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t blame you.” But he’d look at the clean white gauze on my wrist and cry harder than I did. White wasn’t as blinding as red, at least. Thinking that, I slowly closed my eyes. The wet warmth under my wrist spread beneath me. Then it grew cold, making me shiver. Thank goodness I pulled the blanket over me first. It would have been colder otherwise. More importantly, the blanket would hide the mess. Mom was terrified of blood. Every time I hurt myself, she fought to keep her legs from collapsing just so she could hold me. It’s okay. We all told lies, all kept secrets. Mom’s 'forever' was just three years. Dad’s 'money' was his body failing from exhaustion. Leo’s 'protection' had started to thin out last year when he finally got a girlfriend. I forgave them. I hope they can forgive me for the lie I told them last month: “I’m totally cured.” Technically, it wasn't a total lie. I really did feel better. I just don't know why, today, that sudden, drowning weight just swallowed me again. Sadness. Exhaustion. I just mentioned it casually. I didn't want anything else. Just Mom's hug. Just a moment in her arms, breathing in the scent of her sweater. She always did that without me asking. But today, she screamed and shattered. I understood. She was just worn down, reactive. She wasn’t mad at me. I couldn’t be mad at her. I understood. What did she say? She was going to end up depressed, too. No. I couldn’t let Mom get this disease. It’s more than just a ‘bad mood.’ It’s this—this struggle to breathe. I told myself it was just extreme anxiety triggering a somatic response. Just slow down my breathing. Just calm down. Next second: darkness.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "387539", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel