Chapter 17: Goodbyes I

Waking up, I stared at the white ceiling above me, its stark blankness painfully familiar. It looked exactly like the one I saw two years ago after the incident on the 7th of February. The memory flashed through my mind—screaming sirens, smoke-filled air, and the gut-wrenching fear I had felt that day.

My chest tightened as panic set in. Where is Cleo? Oh my God, the bomb blast. I was with Cleo. I was with my—

"Mom! Where is Cleo? Where are my babies?" I demanded, my voice trembling. I tried to sit up, but a sharp sting at the back of my head forced me back onto the bed. "Ahhh," I groaned, frustration laced with pain. "Mom, where are they?" I repeated, desperation choking my words.

My mother, seated beside me, reached for my hand. "Your babies are fine," she said softly. "They’ve gone to church with your dad. It’s Sunday."

Her reassurance brought a momentary sense of relief, but my heart remained heavy with worry.

"Let me call the doctor," Mom added, standing and walking briskly out of the room. A few moments later, she returned, accompanied by a nurse and a middle-aged man in a white coat—the doctor.

"Miss Celine Parker, how are you feeling?" the doctor asked, his tone professional but kind.

"I feel like someone dropped me from the top of a building," I replied, trying to manage a small smile despite the pain. "But… I need to know about Cleo. How is she? Is she okay?" My voice quivered as I tried to suppress the rising panic.

"She’s okay, Celine. Don’t worry about her," my mom interjected quickly.

But there was something in her tone, a slight waver, that made my stomach drop. She was hiding something.

"Mrs. Parker," the doctor said, glancing at my mom, "can I see you in my office for a moment?"

"Of course," she replied, squeezing my hand. "Sweetheart, I’ll be back in five minutes." She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, and left the room with the doctor.

As soon as the door clicked shut, unease washed over me. Why weren’t they telling me anything about Cleo? What weren’t they saying? I couldn’t rest until I saw her, until I knew for sure she was okay.

Summoning all my strength, I pushed myself upright. Pain exploded at the back of my head, making me gasp, but I gritted my teeth and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My legs wobbled as I stood, the excruciating pain threatening to pull me back down, but I refused to give in.

I shuffled out of the room, leaning heavily on the wall for support. Every step felt like an eternity, but the thought of Cleo kept me going. I followed the faint sound of voices until I reached a door slightly ajar.

There she was.

My sister. My best friend. Cleo sat in a hospital bed, pale but alive. Relief surged through me, but it was short-lived. My mom stood beside her, the doctor speaking in low, measured tones.

"What do you mean I’m temporarily paralyzed?" Cleo’s voice cracked with anger and confusion. Her hands clutched the bedsheets tightly, her knuckles white. "What are you saying? How am I paralyzed? Why am I paralyzed?"

The doctor’s expression was calm but firm. "The blast caused significant trauma to your lower spine. We’re hopeful that with therapy and time, you’ll regain mobility, but for now—"

He didn’t get to finish.

Cleo’s scream tore through the room, raw and unrelenting. It was a sound I’d never heard before, one that spoke of utter despair, rage, and unbearable pain.

I froze in the doorway, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over, running down my cheeks in silent streams. I couldn’t bring myself to move, to speak, to do anything but stand there, chanting the same words in my mind over and over: *I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.*

Cleo sobbed into her hands, her body trembling with each broken cry. My mom wrapped her arms around her, whispering words of comfort that I couldn’t make out. The doctor quietly excused himself, slipping past me in the hallway without a word.

I wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t move. Guilt rooted me to the spot. This was my fault.

The memory of that day replayed in my mind, vivid and unrelenting. The message on my phone. The warning I hadn’t fully understood until it was too late. Cleo’s car exploding into flames. The way I had screamed her name as I ran toward her, only to be thrown back by the force of the blast.

I had brought danger into her life. Into my family’s life.

Finally, I forced myself to take a step forward. The creak of the floorboard made Cleo look up, her tear-streaked face turning toward me.

Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, the air between us was thick with unspoken words. Then she looked away, her shoulders slumping as she let out a shaky breath.

"I’m sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Cleo didn’t respond.

Mom turned to me, her face lined with worry. "Celine, you should be resting. You—"

"I needed to see her," I interrupted, my voice trembling. "I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing."

Mom sighed, her expression softening. "She’s alive, Celine. That’s what matters."

But was it? Cleo had always been so full of life, so independent and unstoppable. To see her like this, confined to a hospital bed, broke something inside me.

As I stood there, watching her struggle with the weight of her new reality, I made a silent vow.

I would find out who was behind this. I would make them pay for what they had done to her.

And I would protect my family—no matter the cost.