26. Lucie
Lucie lay in her bed, wrapped in her covers. Her face was swollen from crying and what her father had done. As she fiddled with the communicating bracelet Finn had gifted her, she realized she’d woken up in a harsh reality where she was the second person she’d stitched up today.
It was stupid to dream.
Hope was a luxury for those with light ahead. But Lucie had nothing—just heavy, all-encompassing darkness.
All she had to look forward to was a cage.
Finn hadn’t come back. He didn’t want her, and after what her father had done .
. . Finn wouldn’t be able to stand to look at her.
She didn’t move. Didn’t want to call Finn.
Didn’t want to explain to everyone some fake story with a fake laugh.
The horrible disfiguring of her life was all her fault because she wasn’t brave enough to shoulder everyone’s judgments.
This was her bed, her suffering, and she needed to lie in it.
Lucie closed her tear-filled eyes.
Surrendering to the darkness.
And wished darkness would take her with it.
F
a
l
l
i
n
g
into an abyss.