Page 123 of Broken & Bound

“Duly noted. However, I won’t let you lose the ground you’ve gained. The path may have gotten incredibly steep. But you are not walking it alone. Not now. Not ever.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“I know. And we’ll honor your wishes as best we can. But Isabella, when you are ready—”

“I won’t be,” she huffed.

“As I said, when you’re ready, I will be there.”

The door clicked shut behind me. Mrs. Caruso looked up immediately.

“How did it go?”

I looked back toward the closed door.

“The Isabella we know is still in there.”

She searched my face.

“It may take her a while to believe she deserves to come back.”

Mrs. Caruso’s shoulders sagged. “What can I do to help?”

“You keep loving her in that way only a mother can.”

“I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I know. But she has let you in. That means something. Don’t lose hope.”

“I won’t.”

“Keep a close eye on her. In many ways this will look similar to what you experienced before she started therapy. Before Kinsley and Tori. The thing to look for is if the symptoms worsen.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. If they get worse or you need to talk it out, you call me. Any hour. I’m here for you both.”

A Month And A Half Later

Blinking, I shook off the sleepiness from my eyes and let them focus. The room was still dark, the curtains closed, but small slivers of light crept through the top and sides.

I sat up, catching sight of myself in the mirror across the way. My hair was disheveled and in need of a wash. My eyes were unreadable and blank of any emotion.

Nothing made sense any more. The darkness asked nothing of me, so I retreated into it willingly. Broken in every way possible. I had nothing left. If I wasn’t staring out the window in complete numbness, I was crying into my pillow until exhaustion stole consciousness from me.

The sketchbook Marcel had brought to the hospital lay untouched. Drawing was the one single thing that had always seen me through my fear and depression.

That’s how I knew I was in trouble. Because somewhere deep inside, I understood that even drawing couldn’t reach the depth of my despair. Grief consumed every minute of my waking hours. The hole in my heart only seemed to deepen.

Days had turned into weeks. Most spent hibernating, wrapped in the safety of my bed. The door remained locked, and it encompassed me in the deathly silence.

No one could adequately prepare you for what true sorrow felt like. I was now acutely aware of how it stole your very breath. How bottomless the pit was. How just when you thought you were going to crash into it—and find relief—you continued falling.

I was dying inside. The pain killing me slowly with each passing day. I couldn’t distance myself from it, no matter how hard I tried. In sleep, the dreams were worse. If I wasn’t reliving every excruciating moment of the attack, I dreamed of them.

Dreams of baby breath, tiny fingers and toes that I’d never get to kiss and melt over. I’d never snuggle them in my arms and feel their newborn soft skin against my cheek. I’d never get to hear the cooing noises they would have made.

What hurt the most was that I’d never see their faces. Would they have looked like their father? Have his beautiful amber eyes?