SAKI
I don’t know how many beers I’ve finished. I think I lost count. That’s all I’ve been doing in the weeks I’ve been locked up in my apartment. Every day, Soren comes to see me. And every day, I ignore her.
Heck, she literally looks like Grie. She’s the spitting image of that damned sibling of hers. But I don’t blame her—it’s not her fault that Grie is her brother. It’s not her fault that she looks exactly like him. No one is to blame. No one except Grie. He’s the only one at fault. Only him—
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, the loud music from the apartment next door making my headache worse. And of course, it has to be rock music. I’ve been wanting to knock on their door for a while now, but I feel too dizzy, and every time I try to stand up, I just collapse back down.
I lie down on the floor, still clutching the empty bottle in my hand.
What now?
What are you going to do with your life, Saki?
Is this it? Is this all you’ll ever do? Grie is in prison now. He won’t be getting out. Maybe it’s time… time for you to start fixing your life, too.
But how?
I’m still mourning the death of my sister, Saica. Just the other day, she was given a lethal injection. The only thing I saw of her was her lifeless body. And I still can’t accept that our mother only showed up when she was already dead.
She was old now. Walking with a cane, her hair completely white. She took Saica’s body and had her cremated. I couldn’t bring myself to go with them. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t accept it.
But I still can’t forgive her.
Them—I will never forgive them.
So how am I supposed to fix myself? How do I even begin? I have nothing left. Nothing at all. Not even my dignity.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I force myself to stand, swaying slightly as I step out of my apartment. The sunlight blinds me momentarily, but I ignore it. I march straight to the door next to mine and knock. Hard. Repeatedly. The person inside better hear me over their damn music.
And I succeed. The door swings open, and I’m met with a woman whose body is covered in tattoos.
I stare at her.
Ah...
She’s young. Yet old. I mean, she’s young—maybe eighteen or nineteen. Too young. But she’s also old. Too old. Her tattoos are the proof of her suffering. That’s why she has so many—because they symbolize every pain she’s endured. I can see it. And she’s sad. Like me. She’s suffering. Like me.
“Hi,” I greet politely. “I live next door. Could you turn down your music? Sorry, but I’m trying to get some rest.”
She opens the door wider without a word. Her sad eyes just stare at me.
And suddenly, I remember my sister. I don’t know if people around her ever noticed, but Saica always looked so sad. Always. And I know she was sad before she died. She never wanted to admit it, but I knew. She was always, always sad.
“Come in,” the woman says softly, offering a small smile. “I’m Marchaela Cherry. As in ‘Marka-ela.’ But you can call me March. Like the month.”
I stand straight, but I sway slightly, and she quickly reaches out to steady me.
“No—” I immediately refuse. “All I want is for you to turn down the volume—”
Before I know it, she’s successfully pulled me inside her apartment. She sits me down on an old sofa, then walks over to the speaker and turns off the music. Silence fills the space.
Then, from one of the rooms, a small child—around three years old—suddenly appears.
“Ma, why did ya turn it off?” the little girl asks with a British accent. Probably from watching Peppa Pig.
“It was too loud, Irish. We have a guest,” March says before glancing at me with a small smile. The child looks at me too, waving cheerfully. I force a smile back.
“Go back to your room,” March tells her daughter. “You can watch Peppa Pig if you want.”
I knew it. She got the accent from cartoons.
And the kid—she’s her daughter. I think. Teenage pregnancy, most likely. Ah, she must have gone through hell if she really had a baby so young.
“She’s my daughter,” March says as she sits beside me—almost too close. “You know, teenage pregnancy.”
Hmm. I know.
I don’t answer. I stay in place, my eyes roaming around the apartment. Everything is neat. Organized. Clean.
“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” March suddenly asks. I turn to her, and she gives me a gentle smile. “I always see you with your foreigner boyfriend. And I hear you crying at night.”
I stare at her intensely. “I hear you, too. Ever since I moved in.”
She looks stunned for a moment, but then she gives a small, knowing smile. “I know.”
I look away again.
I don’t have time to stay here. I’d rather drown myself in alcohol than sit here with her. I don’t even know her. And even though I know why she let me in, I still don’t want to stay.
“I’ll head back now. Thanks for turning the music off,” I say as I stand. Thankfully, I manage to stay upright and walk out of her apartment. I return to mine and immediately shut the door behind me.
I stop in my tracks and look around.
The complete opposite of March’s place. It’s dark here. Messy. Miserable. One look and no one would feel comfortable staying in this place.
But here—here is where I find calm. Here is where I let out all my anger at the world.
I walk toward my bedroom. But before I can enter, I clutch the doorframe.
The dizziness is worse. My vision is spinning. And I don’t know if it’s just because I’m drunk.
“Shit,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut.
The next thing I know, everything goes black as I collapse onto the cold, hard floor.
WHEN I WAKE UP, I know I’m in a hospital. The smell of alcohol and disinfectants lingers in my nose. I slowly open my eyes. And I’m right. I’m in a hospital.
“You’re finally awake, Saki.”
That beautiful voice—it’s from the person sitting beside me. I turn to look. It’s Soren. Her face is serious, but I can see the worry in her eyes.
“Hi,” I greet. “How long was I out?”
“A while,” she says. She leans back in her seat, running her fingers through her undercut hair.
“Damn,” she mutters softly. “What are you doing, Saki?” she whispers, her eyes full of sadness.
“Same question,” I say. “What am I doing?”
Her eyes glisten with tears. “You’re pregnant,” she whispers. “One month.”
What—?
I let out a bitter laugh. Then I almost burst into hysterics, but my throat is too raw.
“Wow,” I mutter. I want to clap, but there’s an IV in my arm. “That’s amazing,” I say sarcastically. “Repeat that again? I think I misheard you.”
I hope I misheard her.
I really, really hope I did.
She bites her lower lip, then lets it go. “You’re pregnant, Saki. One month. I’m sorry.”
I laugh again, shaking my head as I place a hand on my stomach.
“I’m pregnant?” I ask bitterly. “Then fuck this child. I don’t want it.”
Soren immediately tries to stop me, but I thrash against her grip.
“I don’t want this!” I scream. But before I can do anything reckless, the door bursts open, and doctors rush in.
I already know what they’re going to do.
No. No—I don’t want this.
I reach for Soren’s hand, my grip weak.
I shake my head slowly.
I don’t want this—I don’t want it. Please.
****