Chapter 13
Daisy
It doesn’t get better.
Everyone says it does. They say that time is a healer, that the days get easier, that if you just keep breathing, eventually the weight will lift and you will one day wake up and feel…
human again. Spoiler alert: they lied. Because it’s been a week, and my ribs still feel like they’re folding in on themselves every time I inhale.
Like my own body is trying to smother me.
It’s been a week of absolutely nothing. No classes, no work, no cheer.
I couldn’t even tell you what day it is without checking my phone.
Morning bleeds into night, and I spend all of it right here, camped out in the same spot in my bed like a tragic little ghost. The outfit hasn’t changed.
Hoodie. Sweats. The same ones. The fabric is always damp with either sweat or tears, sometimes both.
The last time I saw shampoo was when Talia threw me into the shower, so my hair’s a bird’s nest I keep scraped into a bun so tight it’s practically a facelift.
The groceries Ezra bought are currently starting a silent protest in the fridge.
Fuzzy things are growing, and I’m pretty sure the apples are evolving into something entirely new.
I can barely manage a bite of toast without feeling nauseous, which is fine because the bread is now hard enough to be considered a weapon.
Talia keeps dropping off more food. Fresh, lovingly selected, with little post-it notes that say “Eat something, bitch.” With a little pink heart scribbled next to her words.
It’s sweet, it’s guilt-inducing, and it’s ineffective.
Ezra texts me memes and sends me voice notes every damn day.
Sometimes dramatic reenactments of some crime documentary he’s watched; sometimes it’s heartfelt reminders that he loves me and he’s worried.
He even leaves my favourite coffee at the door.
He always knocks three times, always waiting, but I don’t answer.
I just take the stuff from the doorstep when they give up trying to make me open the door.
I can’t let them in. Because I am not the Daisy they know, the Daisy they love.
Not the girls who lit up rooms, who twirled in hallways. I’m not sunshine anymore. I’m static.
I hear the words in my head like a sick joke:
Be the sun. Always the sun.
My mother’s voice, so full of warmth, of hope.
She believed in light, in strength, in finding beauty in everything, even the worst. I promised her I’d keep shining, keep being the sun.
But how do you shine when the light’s gone out?
How do I be the sun when I don’t even feel the smallest bit of warmth?
I don’t know who I am anymore. But I know I’m not her.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the same spot on my ceiling that I have been staring at for the past week, when the knock comes. Sharp. Repeated. I stay still, ignoring the knocks just like each one that came before it.
A voice calls out my name, one I don’t recognise. “Miss Sandoval? It’s the police. We’d like to speak with you.”
My heart pounds in my chest like a trapped animal as I slowly rise from my bed.
My legs nearly give out, but I manage to make it to my door, opening it with trembling fingers.
Two officers stand there, an older man with salt and pepper hair, and a younger woman, bleach-blonde hair styled into a slick-back bun.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ethan Lawson.”
They don’t say much more, other than telling me to grab my things and that I need to come with them.
The station is cold, but not as cold as their questions. They sit me down in a windowless room with flickering lights, a coffee sat in front of me that I don’t touch.
“There were… inconsistencies,” the guy, Mark, says, fingers steepled. “Blood on the bed. His, and yours, Miss Sandoval. The scene was brutal.”
I stare at the table. Why was I being questioned in a police station when I was the one who was raped? I was the victim, not him. He might be the one who is dead, but I’m the one who has rotted away.
“Miss Sandoval,” the young woman says, pulling me from my internal battle. “What happened that night?”
I breathe in slowly, and then I lie. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Besides, how could I tell the truth? “Oh, he raped me, and then a seven-foot demon killed him because he owns my soul?” I’d be institutionalised; they’d never believe me.
“I don’t remember much,” I whisper. “He gave me a drink, then... I… um.”
My voice cracks, and I feel my anger rising inside of me. How can I still not think about it or speak about it without breaking? I’m pathetic.
I clear my throat, still unable to look either of them in the eye. “He raped me,” I grit out. “He raped me, and then I passed out.”
They don’t even flinch at the confession, skimming past it like it’s a minor detail just because he’s dead.
“Do you know who could’ve hurt him?”
Yes. “No, I don’t.”
They ask me the same questions six different ways, trying to catch me in a lie only I know I’m telling. My throat burns from the effort of keeping my voice level. I feel like I’m going to throw up.
After what feels like hours, they finally release me. No charges, not yet, because they don’t have enough to hold me. I walk home like a ghost, haunting the streets with my misery.
I call my dad that night. I don’t know why. Maybe I needed to hear something—anything—remotely comforting. Something fatherly, like he used to be when I was younger. It rings, and rings.
He finally answers. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Dad, I—”
“You got twenty bucks I could lend?”
I blink. “I—Dad. Something bad happened. I—”
“I just need it to cover this bet. It’s important, Daisy. Please.”
He doesn’t hear the break in my voice, but why would he?
I hang up the call, not bothering to try and speak to him further.
It was stupid enough of me to even think he’d care, never mind try and convince him to listen to me.
He wasn’t the father I knew when I was young, just like I wasn’t the daughter he knew either, not anymore.
I climb back into my bed and train my eyes back onto the same spot on my ceiling as the tears begin to fall again.
By the end of the second week, I stopped pretending.
The textbooks gather dust like the forgotten relics of a girl who thought she had a future.
My makeup bag stays sealed, and the mirror in the bathroom is covered with a towel.
I can’t stand to look at her, the girl who let it happen.
The girl who was brave enough to face a literal demon, but somehow couldn’t stop her boyfriend from raping her.
I eat enough not to die; I drink when my lips crack too much to ignore it.
But that’s it, I’m just doing the minimum of both so I don’t rot away.
My body feels too heavy and too hollow all at once.
I spend my days in bed, chewing at my lip until it bleeds, whilst I pick at the skin around my fingers mindlessly.
I know I can’t keep doing this. I can’t sit here and sink further and further without an end in sight.
But every time I think about moving, about healing, I feel like I’m choking.
Hope is something sticky and toxic that I’m not allowed to touch anymore.
Then comes the quiet. It always finds me at night, when the world goes still, and the thoughts are unbearably loud in my head. That’s when the weight in my chest crushes down on me. It’s suffocating.
“I can’t do this anymore.” I grit out into the silence.
I throw off my blanket and make my way to the bathroom, my limbs feeling foreign.
I rip the towel down from the mirror, and for the first time in weeks, I look at myself, truly look at myself, and despise what I see looking back.
It’s not me. It’s some hollow-eyed ghost of a girl who used to be sunshine and sass.
The dark circles under my eyes are dark enough to qualify as bruises, looking like I’ve been awake for a year straight.
My skin’s gone grey, my blonde hair, usually so bright and bouncy, hangs like brittle straw.
Everything about me is dull, the furthest thing from the sun possible.
“I’m not the sun,” I whisper. It becomes a chant, loud and laced with fury and pain. “I’m not the sun. I’m not the sun. I’m not the fucking sun.”
I open the cabinet under the sink, staring at the bottles that line the shelves, untouched until now. “I’m weak. I’m weak. I’m weak.”
I pull out the bottles of pills and take them into the shower, switching on the water.
Not because I plan to wash, but because it’s easier to fall apart under noise.
I sink to the floor, curling my knees to my chest as the cold tile bites through my skin.
A scream rips from me, loud and desperate.
I slam the back of my head into the wall repeatedly, like I’m trying to knock the shame out of my skull.
With shaking hands, I open up the bottles, and I start swallowing.
One.
Two.
Three.
The pills go down like stones, each one heavier than the last.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper, throat tight. “I really tried. I tried to be the sun. I really did.”