CHAPTER 44: DROWNING

The house had grown quieter in recent weeks, a kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful—it felt heavy, like it had weight and purpose, like it was trying to bury everything still clinging to light.

Before everything collapsed, the morning used to arrive with the gentle clatter of coffee cups and Emmie's soft humming from the living room, always some half-remembered melody that made the walls feel warm.

Now the mornings just were.

The woman stood in the hallway, her fingers brushing the chipped edge of the doorway as she watched Emmie through the small crack in her bedroom door. The girl hadn't left her bed again. Not even to pretend. The curtains remained drawn, casting the room in the kind of dim that made it hard to tell the time of day. A plate of untouched toast sat on the dresser, already curling at the edges.

"Emmie," she called gently, unsure whether to say it louder or just leave it be. "Hey, sweetheart. It's nearly noon. Seeing you like this really hurts me. Please talk to me."

No response. Just the barely-there rise and fall of Emmie's chest beneath the covers. She faced the wall. She always faced the wall now.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of whispered reassurances that it was just a phase. That things would pass. That healing took time.

But time had passed, and Emmie had only sunk deeper.

The woman stepped into the room, her footsteps careful, like she might shatter something fragile if she moved too quickly. She crouched beside the bed, her voice breaking a little as she reached out to touch Emmie's shoulder.

"You haven't eaten. I made your favorite—eggs the way you like, a little paprika, even used that bread you hide in the freezer."

A breath. A pause.

Still nothing.

"Em," she whispered, "I'm scared. We've lost so much. I can't lose you too, I wont take it."

That was the truth. Not frustration. Not disappointment. Just fear—pure and hot in her chest, like something corrosive. Emmie had always been vibrant, sensitive, yes—but not this shell, not this silence.

She remembered the last time Emmie had laughed. It had been over something dumb, something like burning the pancakes or spilling milk and trying to wipe it up with a sock. That laugh—wild and unrestrained—felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

The woman sat there for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. Just letting Emmie know she wasn't alone in the dark.

Because maybe—just maybe—being present was enough. Until Emmie could find her way back.

Or at least call out for help.

***

The woman didn't know how long she sat there before sliding down to the floor, her back resting against the side of the bed. The carpet was cold beneath her, and the air in the room felt stale, like even it had stopped trying to circulate.

"I don't know how to reach you anymore," she whispered, the words barely more than a breath. "But I'm here, okay? Even if it feels like no one is."

She folded her arms around her knees, her cheek resting on the threadbare fabric of her jeans. From where she sat, she could just make out the ends of Emmie's hair peeking from under the blanket. It used to be curled with care, washed in that lavender shampoo she loved. Now, it lay tangled and dull—like it had given up too.

Outside, the sky darkened. She hadn't turned on the lights. She didn't want to disrupt the quiet in case Emmie stirred. And though the shadows crept further into the corners, she stayed.

Time bled strangely in that room. She wasn't sure when her eyes finally closed, or when her mind gave way to the sheer exhaustion of hoping.

At some point in the night, the silence wrapped itself around her like a blanket too tight to move beneath. She slept there on the floor—half curled, half aching—until the early gray of morning started to slip through the edges of the curtains.

Her alarm buzzed faintly from the other room.

Work.

The realization cracked through her like ice water. She blinked against it, her neck stiff from sleeping upright, limbs cold from the floor. She turned toward the bed—Emmie hadn't moved.

Sofia sat there for one more minute. Maybe two. Watching. Hoping for a twitch. A sigh. A blink.

Nothing.

Then she stood, slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. She tucked a blanket around Emmie's unmoving frame before brushing her fingers across her temple—just once. Just enough to whisper without words, I love you. I'm coming back.

Bills didn't wait. Rent didn't care about depression. Groceries couldn't be paid for with worry.

"I'll be back by six," she said softly, unsure if the words would land, or just hang in the stale air like everything else she'd said.

She stepped out of the room, her heart dragging behind her with every step. The front door closed like the end of a sentence.

And Emmie remained, alone in the quiet.

**************************************************

The keys jangled loosely in the woman's hand as she pushed open the front door. She'd rushed through the shift—barely tasting her lunch, forgetting half the words customers said, smiling only when absolutely necessary. All day, her thoughts had circled the same silent room, the same still figure beneath the covers.

She closed the door behind her and stood in the hallway for a beat, letting the quiet settle.

Too quiet.

There was always something—an old floorboard creaking, the hum of the fridge, the rustle of blankets shifting.

But now... nothing.

A strange tension pulled in her chest. Her breath caught, and without knowing why, her hand dropped the keys to the floor. The soft clink was almost jarring.

"Emmie?" she called, voice tight.

No answer.

A sudden urgency surged in her veins. She didn't walk—she ran. Down the hall, past the living room, straight to Emmie's door. It was slightly ajar. Just like she'd left it. But something was wrong. The air was thick. Still.

She pushed the door open and—

Stopped.

Her stomach plummeted.

There, slumped half-off the bed, was Emmie.

Not sleeping.

Not breathing.

Her arm hung limply over the edge, pale skin soaked in deep, spreading crimson. The carpet beneath her glistened, wet and dark, an obscene contrast against the soft floral pattern of the rug.

"No—no, no, no—Emmie!" The woman's scream tore from her throat, raw and unfiltered. It didn't sound like her—it sounded animal, guttural. Grief made flesh.

She stumbled across the room, nearly slipping, and dropped to her knees beside her. Her hands shook as she reached out, feeling for a pulse, for warmth—for anything—but the coldness had already taken root.

She sobbed openly now, frantic and broken, her fingers tangled in Emmie's hair, pressing her forehead to hers like it could anchor her back to life.

"I was just—I was gone for eight hours," She cried, rocking slightly, her voice cracking. "I told you I was coming back—I told you."

And then she saw it.

A piece of paper, half crumpled and stained, clutched weakly in Emmie's fingers.

She gently pried it free.

The writing was shaky, barely legible.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't do this anymore. I love you."

She pressed the note to her chest, folding in on herself as the room seemed to collapse inward. The world beyond the walls fell away.

It was just her.

And the silence.

And a love that had come too late to save.

The room pulsed with silence, as if even the walls were holding their breath. She remained on the floor, cradling what was left of the girl she had once sworn to protect. Her tears no longer came in soft waves—they were brutal now, wracking her body like tremors, deep and violent.

She wept until her throat burned, until her voice cracked open like something broken beyond repair.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," she choked, fingers trembling as they brushed strands of hair from Emmie's blood-matted forehead. "I told you to hold on. I told you I'd come back."

The note had slipped from her hand and lay beside her, stained with grief and ink.

She looked at it—those last words—and something inside her snapped.

Her sobs slowed, changing shape. Bitterness coiled behind every breath she took. Her vision blurred, not from tears now, but from the sheer magnitude of rage rising in her throat like bile.

She sat back, staring at the lifeless form before her. Her heart—still beating, still caged inside her ribs—felt wrong. Like it no longer belonged in her chest.

"They did this to you," she whispered.

The words were quiet, but they rang with clarity.

"They dismissed your pain. Treated you like a burden, used you, hurt you. Looked away when you were screaming silently for help. They didn't check up on you, no one was sorry." Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. "They made you feel like you didn't matter."

She looked up, but she didn't see the room anymore. She saw them.

Every person who turned a blind eye. Every doctor who reduced Emmie to symptoms and prescriptions. Every so-called friend who disappeared when the light in her started to dim. The students who whispered behind their hands. The world that told her to smile, to be strong, to not make it "everyone's problem."

Her breath was ragged now, and her voice took on a steel edge.

"They took you from me."

Her tear-streaked face twisted into something unrecognizable. Something hollowed. Something that had once been love but now smoldered with vengeance.

"There's nothing left for me to be kind for."

Gone was the softness from her eyes. Gone was the woman who used to beg the universe to be gentle.

That woman had died the moment Emmie did.

All that remained now was a promise.

"They will pay," she murmured, eyes locked on nothing, voice steady as stone. "Every single one of them."