Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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The house is silent. The twins and Mari are asleep. Alice's absence only adds to the quiet. The lack of music coming from her room, the missing sound of her feet padding across her bedroom as she practices her footwork. And despite the late hour, Mum is still at work. She returned to her job after the trial, just before the internal investigation stripped Dad of his title and job. Or we pretend Mum is working. I know where she really is. And who with. He makes her smile. He makes her happy. Smiles are hard to come by, and she deserves them. So, like Mari, I just nod my head when she says she has another late night at the office. Chanel No. 5 emitting from her skin, her lips fluttering with a secret smile.
I pick up my bag, packed as lightly as I can keep it. I turn for one final look at my bedroom. On the wall, the Polaroids and photos are still pinned in place. All except for the unmistakable gaps where Owen's photos had been fixed whilst he was on remand, and where I'd torn them down after he'd refused to see me. Their absence is a shadow clinging to the walls, the sun has faded the wallpaper around the square.
Quickly, so fast, I barely realise I'm moving, I rush to the hiding spot and scoop up the tin where I'd stashed all the photos. I hadn't looked at it in months, but I hadn't been ready to destroy them. Even though I'd lit a dozen matches, each one blown out in a haze of tears and sighs. I can't leave it behind. Without thinking, I stuff the tin into my backpack. I close my eyes, and take a breath. Echoes of the photos, of Owen's face, of my smile lying in his arms, burst behind my eyelids, matching the rhythm of my heart.
And then I walk out of my room. Shutting the door with an anticlimactic click as I leave my life behind. I tiptoe along the hall, careful to avoid any rogue floorboards the thick carpet can't muffle.
"What are we talking? Weeks, months... do the transplant team know?" A groggy voice calls out before yawning. Mari switches on the light in the hall and I flinch.
"What are you doing..." Exhaling, I slump against the wall, dropping my bag on the floor and shooting her a harsh look. "You'll wake Dad."
She rolls her eyes. Her severe expression clashes with her cartoon cat pyjamas. A rare burst of whimsy from someone so pragmatic. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest.
"He's downstairs. Wide awake. Like always. Which you'd know if you were really here."
"But I'm not," I say and the hardness melts from her face. "I haven't been in a long time."
She looks away, her lips pursed.
"I should convince you not to do this. Whatever it is you're doing. But you're right. I keep waiting for you to wake up. To snap out of this. But you're not going to, are you?"
I say nothing, searching for the words to comfort her. But I find none and from the expression on her face, she knows that too.
"No... I'm not. It won't be forever. Just until..." The words drop from my lips, and I glance at the ground. "I've never lived a life. I spent every moment since I got sick waiting. Waiting to get better, waiting for a heart, for a miracle. And then I was waiting for him. I can't wait anymore. I would have waited for him as long as it took, as pathetic as that sounds, but... he doesn't want me. And I won't waste any more time waiting to get over him. I don't know what living is, but I'd like to find out."
