—"Are we there yet?"
A father's gaze flickered in the rear-view mirror, but it didn't quite reach his daughter's eyes. Instead, it swirled into a mixture of irritation and something that almost resembled concern—a cryptic warning hanging in the air. "Say that one more time," it seemed to say, "and I'll toss you out right here, right now, on this highway." Perhaps he would, or maybe he wouldn't; the daughter couldn't tell the difference anymore.
The mother only exhaled deeply, loosely, or agreeably? Who knew? As the daughter absorbed the unfamiliarity of the scenery passing by, a sensation washed over her—one that felt profoundly new yet oddly distant.
The walls of their home, once a cage, loomed large in her mind, framing her memories with a sense of both comfort and confinement. In this moment, as the road stretched on, never would she have imagined: this would be the last time she'd acknowledge, would recall their faces, the two figures before her—two patchwork entities of love she would never recognize, something she would never miss, and a house to which she would never remember.
—What is worse: to yearn for the recollection of a demise one desperately wishes to erase from memory, or to possess an overwhelming desire to revisit the moment of a fatality as the soul exhales its final breath?
A cold bed. Cuts. Scars. A feeling of being ripped open and pieced back together? A blur that was slowly becoming clear. The sound of beeping, yet the sound of breath could be heard. That's me. Why is it so loud? A head turns to the door. Recognition. Hospital. The sound of voices through a speaker. An extra voice.
"Run."
"But I'm safe."
"Never trust with your eyes."
The door opened quietly and closed just as softly. "Oh, you're awake. Your surgery was successful. I'm sorry for your loss. The officers will be here soon to ask you some questions. Is that okay with you?"
Officers? Questions?
"Say no."
I paused, confusion spreading across my face as I narrowed my eyes.
I responded, "Yes, that's fine." But why do I feel the urge to steer clear of the police?
I'm not a bad person—am I?
"Are you?"
Two officers approached my bedside, presenting two photos within my reach and asked a question.
"Do you recognize this man and woman in this picture?"
The image looked older and less recent. A tall man with well-groomed, dark brown hair, slightly longer than average, put together with striking blue eyes. He seemed firm, yet there was a slight twinge at the corners of his lips.
The woman, shorter in stature, had long, dark, brown, wavy hair that cascaded to her waist. Her bright amber eyes and sharp features, along with her soft features, suggested a Latin heritage; her expression was aloof, but could there be a hint of care beneath the surface? A young girl, likely around five years old, stood between the adults in the photo. She likely inherited her long, wavy brown hair and amber eyes from her mother. With a small smile, she leaned towards her father while holding her mother's hand.
"No, I'm sorry. I've never seen them before. Is the little girl missing? They seem like a lovely family."
The officers exchanged glances, one nodding as he presented another image: a cabin with few windows. "Does this look familiar?" Once more, I shook my head.
Would I receive answers or continue answering questions about strangers I didn't know?
"Run."
"I'm sorry, officers. What did you say?"
The officers exchanged glances laden with unspoken questions, both skeptical. They did not utter a word, but instead fell into a moment of silence, until one of the officers said, "Get the doctor." The doctor entered, not a moment later.
What is happening?
What am I feeling?
Why do I still hurt?
Wasn't I treated?
Why is fear gripping me?
My feet feel scraped as if I've walked over hot coals. The pain is nearly unbearable.
"Here are the surgical records; the procedure was successful. We stitched her up without any problems. However, regarding your concerns about potential head trauma, I assure you there are none." The nurse walked over to gesture to me and show the police the board of my symptoms and apparently the rushed surgery. "Aside from her injured, bruised, and cut feet, as if she had run for miles barefoot, there is no sign of head injury. We applied ointment to alleviate her foot pain. Concerning her head, there are no signs of bruising or swelling, just a minor cut to her forehead."
The officers glanced at me. "Run." I raised my hand to my head with a groan of annoyance. The doctor looked at me, asking, "Are you okay, my dear?" I met her gaze.
"Are you truly?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"Bring a mirror," one of the officers said. The doctor turned with a puzzled look but nodded. After a few minutes, she returned, offering a mirror to one of the officers near me. "Take a look," he said. I glanced into the mirror and saw amber eyes reflected, surrounded by long, dark auburn, messy hair—a mix of Italian heritage with a feeling of something unrecognizable. "I am..."—the little girl.
— "How much fear do they have? It's unfortunate. They fear what they can not understand."