The ride home with Nonno was quiet, peaceful, but my thoughts were another story. Ryker and Caspian's conversation still swirled in my head.

You're not the only one who will get hurt if things go sideways? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

And then there's Ryker, who's always so calm and collected, frustratingly perfect. I don't know why he bugs me so much. Maybe because I don't know how to stay that composed, or maybe, because, somewhere deep down, I like it. I like the idea that I can depend on him in situations I can't depend on myself to make level decisions about.

I'm sorry what? Depend on him? I barely know the guy, and he's not controlled, he's cocky and arrogant and always thinks he's right.

Because he is—

Nope. He's not. I'm not thinking about this right now.

"You've improved, Ragazza." Nonno says, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. "Didn't think I'd see you off a lunge line this soon. Not with how you acted last time"

"Thanks for the confidence." I mumble, shaking my head half amused. I guess I can't be offended seeing as if it was my choice, it wouldn't have happened.

"You should tell your mother. I'm sure she'll love to hear about your progress."

That gets my attention. I can't help the involuntary stiffening at his words. Tell Mom? I don't think so. I don't think she'd even care. She hasn't exactly been forthcoming since we got her back. I expected her to be different, traumatized, but I didn't expect her to want nothing to do with me, or anyone else for that matter.

"Yeah, I guess." I say, more to fill the silence than because I believe it.

We pull into the driveway and I'm opening the door before the car is fully stopped. The heat hits me immediately and I cringe. I'm so ready to go inside and never come back out.

The sun in my eyes brings uninvited thoughts of Ryker, and my stomach twists. Maybe Mom would have something to say about him. Something wise. Or something snappy. At least she'd say something.

I push the front door open, nodding at one of the guards as I step inside, AC blasting in my face. The house is quiet, and I hesitate for a moment.

"She's upstairs." The guard says, his voice gruff but polite. "Saw her heading to her room not long ago."

"Thanks." I murmur, looking up the stairs like I was gonna still see her. As I make my way up them, my mind races with excuses. I could tell her about the lesson. Or ask if she's eaten. Do I even need an excuse?

I mean she's my mom, shouldn't it be normal to just... talk to her? It doesn't feel that way. Not anymore.

By the time I reach the top of the stairs, my heart is pounding for reasons I can't explain. I feel sick. Walking down the hall, each step feels louder than it should, like it's echoing in my head.

When I get to her and dad's door, I freeze in place, the faint glow of the bathroom light spilling around the slightly cracked door. My throat tightens, and I have to remind myself that I'm not seven anymore.

But the scene is just like last time. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I want to puke. This is nothing like last time. Last time, I was still able to ice skate, and it wasn't even my real mom. This isn't even our house.

This. Is. Not. The. Same.

Maybe if I tell it to myself enough I'll believe it. Unlikely, though.

"Mom?" I call out softly, stepping inside. My voice sounds too loud, like a knife through the silence. There's no answer. Just like last time.

I step closer, my shoes brushing against her rug as I realize I never took them off. Uncle Stefano would have my head if I've been tracking horse shit through his house.

My parent's bed is unmade, the covers rumpled which is weird because dad is insanely neat. As in, that's my nice way of putting that he's completely analretentive about his space. I can faintly smell mom's perfume, a mix of lavender and vanilla.

I had always found the scent of her perfume warm, comforting even. But not now. Now, it clung to the air like a taunt, sharp and suffocating, adding to the acid churning in my gut.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the door, each step forward making my heart pound harder.

"Mom?" I called again, louder this time, though my voice wavered. I wanted her to snap at me for barging in. To scold me for not knocking and remind me about personal space.

Though in Justin's humble opinion, parents give up that right the minute they choose to have children. Their space becomes our space. However, that does not mean that our space becomes their space.

Justin calls it the "kid tax."

My hand lifted to the door, and I hesitated, watching my own fingers tremble as they hovered over the wood. Slowly, carefully, I pressed my palm against it, easing it open inch by inch, as if the slower I moved, the less real whatever waited on the other side might be.

The room was silent, too silent, but the smell hit me like a slap in the face. The faint, familiar scent of her perfume was still there, but they'd been overtaken by something stronger, heavier.

It was as if Dad's cologne had been spilled, mixing into a suffocating wall of clashing scents. My stomach twisted as I fought back the urge to gag.

Once I get over the horridly strong assault of smells, I let out a big breath.

Nothing.

I glance around, seeing nothing. The shower is empty, the cabinets are all closed, and the sink is... on?

The water is still running.

It's not a slow drip, either, it's a steady stream of water, like someone had it on only to walk away. Suddenly that feeling of unease is back. A towel lays on the floor, a hook that used to be attached to the wall was a couple inches from it.

Like it was ripped out of the wall.

There's gotta be a reasonable explanation to this. So before I run downstairs and worry someone, or puke, I just need to take one quick look and get out of here.

There's a reason for this. There has to be. Maybe she got angry again. But then what about the perfume? Maybe she was scared? What if she had a flashback? I know first hand how all-encompassing those can be. They make you feel like you're right back where the trauma happened.

Trapped, helpless, you're out of control.

My gaze drifts along the floor, and for the first time I actually looked. Glass shards are littered across the floor, shimmering in the bright lighting. Following their trail to the wall, I look up and see the stain on the wall.

Cologne, a dark smear of it, coating the wall. It was as though the bottle had been hurled at it with a lot of force.

My pulse quickens, and I take a cautious step forward, just enough that I can see around the door to where the toilet is and immediately squeeze my eyes shut.

It doesn't block out the image. The air leaves my lungs in a strangled gasp, or a sob, as the scene is burned into my brain.

Blood pools around her, darker and thicker than I remember. It seeps into the cracks between the tiles, spreading slowly, deliberately, like it's alive. Opening my eyes, I take a step towards her as the scene truly hits me.

"No... No, no, no." It's all I can whisper as I rush forward, my knees hitting the floor next to her hard, not caring about the blood beneath them.

"Mom?" My voice breaks as I reach out, hovering my hand above her uselessly, my hand full out shaking. My eyes lower to her neck, to the slit, to the still flowing wound.

I reach over, grabbing the towel, shoving it deep inside of her neck without thinking, the little survival instincts I have screaming at me to stop the bleeding.

"Mom open your eyes- open your fucking eyes!" I yell, the words coming out as a sobbed plea. Yelling and cursing, two things she should have been reprimanding me about. But she isn't. She's just laying there, unresponsive.

I can't do this again, she does not get to do this to me a second time.

Her eyes flutter, opening for a second, just a second, a wet, choked noise escapes her lips as she looks at me. She opens her mouth wider, like she's trying to speak, her faze shifting past me, behind me.

"Don't move, you're gonna make it worse, just stay awake. Stay awake..." The words drop to a whisper as I see her eyes go still, the light looking like it had been snuffed out of them. I stare at her chest, willing it to move.

She's not breathing. She's still bleeding, the blood having fully soaked the towel at this point. She's dead. Again. Except this time it's real.

I sit there, frozen, my hands slick with her blood. My breaths come in short, shallow gasps, and the world tilts around me.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Except it is. It is happening, it is real, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. To save her.

I can feel the tears, but I don't let them fall, I can't. Look away. I need to look away from her face or I'm going to break. So I look down, down at the soaked towel, my hands dripping in her blood, the red paint beneath my knees.

Except it's not paint. That's blood too. Blood that should be in her body. The reason that she's dead.

It's like my brain is trying to understand, but failing. It reminds me of when I was younger. I understood the teacher's words, but none of them made sense. I could never quite string the individual words together to make a comprehensible sentence.

I'm not sure how long I'm sitting there, staring at her lifeless body. Time feels warped, like I'm stuck in a nightmare I've already lived.

The blood on my hands and knees seem to sink into my skin. My vision is still blurry, but by now I can't tell if it's from the need to cry or the fact that I feel like I'm hyperventilating. By now, the smell of perfume has been overcome by the coppery, metallic scent of her blood.

It's thick, surrounding me.

It's the footsteps that draw me out of my head, bringing me back to the present. To reality. They're slow, deliberate, like whoever it is wants me to know they're there. That they're not in a hurry.

"Juliana." The voice says, low and calm. Too calm. So calm, that it froze me in my place.

Am I next? Is my throat going to be the next one slashed, is someone else going to find us both dead, or would they too die before they could find our corpses?

Jensen steps into the room, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he just stands there, his eyes scanning the scene. And then he sighs, shaking his head like he's disappointed.

"Not again." He murmurs, and I can't do anything but stare at him, my breaths coming painfully slow, much too audible for the silence that follows his voice.

"What... What do you mean?" My voice is small, trembling, nothing over what could be classified as a whisper.

He walks the rest of the way into the room, careful to avoid the blood that's slowly making its way around the room.

There's so much of it.

For a moment, he just stands above me, his eyes scanning the scene again. Then he crouches beside me, his movements slow and deliberate. His hand reaches out, and I flinch when he touches my face.

"You poor thing," He says, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. His voice is soft, almost tender, but there's something cold in his eyes.

"You're always in the middle of it, aren't you?" He tilts his head, his hand drifting down, finger rubbing over my carotid artery, the same one that our mother had just had sliced in half. "Always the reason."

"What are you talking about?" My voice cracks, hoarse and unsteady as I pull away from him, trying to stand. My foot slips and I fallback to the floor, back to what I'm still trying to tell myself is just paint.

He stands, still somehow avoiding the blood, towering over me. His shadow stretches across the floor, swallowing me whole.

"Nothing, sorellina." His lips curl into a faint smile, but it's not a comforting one. "You should clean up. Wouldn't want anyone to think you had something to do with this."

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the body of our mother and the weight of his words.

My stomach churns, and this time, I puke.



--- The End ---