Sunny.
So this is how I die.
Not in a movie way, with violins and flashing memories—just me, lying on the floor of a house that smells like chemicals and rot, waiting for the air to stop hurting.
The carpet sticks to my skin. It's wet in some places, crusted in others. My ribs protest every breath, sharp and uneven, like something's cracked. My throat's raw—each swallow feels like glass scraping.
They left. All of them. I should be glad. No shouting. No hands. No pretending to sleep so I wouldn't be noticed. But the quiet feels worse.
Twelve is too young to die. Maybe I did something bad in another life. Maybe this one's the punishment. Penance. That's the word. I used to like using words like that—big ones that made me feel smart. But around here, smart gets you hit.
I taste metal. My jaw won't move right. One eye won't open all the way. My stomach twists when I breathe too deep; there's blood somewhere inside, I can tell. My skin's cold, but my insides burn.
Come on already. Jesus. Even my murderer couldn't give me a peaceful death?
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Police! Open up or we're coming in!"
Guess not today, Death.
The door crashes open. Boots stomp through the hallway—heavy, fast, angry. Mom's rule flashes through my head: No shoes in the house. Keeps people from stealing. She'd lose it if she saw this mess.
"Jesus Christ," a man whispers, then louder: "I've got a body!"
No. No. I'm not a body. I'm still here.
A hand presses to my neck. Pain explodes through the bruises, and a sound I didn't know I had left tears out of me.
"She's alive! Get the paramedics!"
Fabric rustles. Something warm covers me—a jacket, maybe. It smells like sweat and smoke, but it's soft.
"Hey, stay with me, kid," the man says. His voice is rough but gentle, like he's afraid to scare me off in to the other world.
I want to tell him I'm not going anywhere, but my lips won't move. The warmth feels too good. Too heavy.
More voices. Footsteps. The cold slap of metal against my back. Lights flashing through my eyelids.
Pain flares—legs, ribs, the back of my neck—until everything goes white.
I can't hold on anymore.
So I let go.