Shattered Lives Sample
Prologue
Something horrendous is coming my way. I sensed it the moment I awoke this morning — the same feeling I had the day Mom died. My chest feels heavy, and a piercing headache is gathering strength. I’ve tried to ignore the unease all day, but the sense of foreboding reaches a crescendo as I continue knocking on Annie’s door. Where the hell is she? When I spoke to her yesterday, she’d assured me she would be home today. I call her once again, but no luck. A flurry of texts. No response. My breathing quickens. My stomach churns. I fear the worst.
A final series of knocks.
Nothing.
I wait ten seconds, my heart sinking further with every tick.
Frantic, I fish out the key she gave me a while back after I insisted, only to be used in emergencies. I struggle to steady my trembling hands and fit the key in the slot, but once I do, it turns without a hitch and the door opens.
I smell pizza. Fresh. I step inside and glance towards the kitchen. The box on the countertop confirms what my nose already told me. So she must be home, or must have been at some point to have ordered her favorite meal. Not something she would have done if she had planned on ending things. My disquiet eases a bit, but not entirely.
It’s eerily quiet, with no one in sight. I want to call out to her, but my throat has gone dry and words refuse to emerge. I hustle around the apartment, desperately hoping to discover her alive and well. Perhaps I’ll find her huddled in a corner, engrossed in a thriller novel, oblivious to the world around her. The kitchen, the bedroom, even the closets — she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe that’s a good sign, I try to convince myself, but it’s a futile effort.
There’s only one place I haven’t looked, so I hurry towards the bathroom. It’s only a short distance from where I’m standing, but in my agitated state it seems like I’m running a marathon.
The door is open a crack, with a sliver of light streaming through. A strong lavender scent hits me, along with a hint of bleach, even before I enter. I push the door open wide. The first thing I see is the bathtub, filled to the brim with water. A step closer and I lay eyes on the naked, still body underneath the surface. My heart’s hammering inside my chest now. I rush to her, hoping I’m not too late.
“Noo, noo, noo.” I’ve finally found my voice.
My hands shake as I make a clumsy effort to unplug the drain and pull her head out of the water. Water splashes out of the tub, spilling on my jeans and shoes. Glug, glug, glug. The water starts draining. She’s not breathing. No pulse either. I’m panicking now, though I can’t afford to. I take in a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the urge to throw up. Maybe I can still revive her. I try to drag her out, but she’s heavy.
Before I can make another attempt, I realize I should call 911 first, so I dial and put the phone on speaker, placing it on the sink. It’s a struggle, but I manage to haul her out and lay her on the floor. My muscles burn with the effort. Sweat oozes out of my every pore. Down on my knees, I’ve just completed a round of CPR when someone answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My sister, she’s … she’s not breathing.”
The rest of the call is a blur as I answer the dispatcher’s questions while trying to resuscitate her. I’m losing hope — and my nerve. My little sis isn’t responding. The dispatcher assures me they’re sending help right away. She instructs me to continue with the CPR. So I keep going, knowing deep inside that it’s a lost cause. But I can’t afford to lose her. I must keep trying. I must not give up.
Something horrendous is coming my way. I sensed it the moment I awoke this morning — the same feeling I had the day Mom died. My chest feels heavy, and a piercing headache is gathering strength. I’ve tried to ignore the unease all day, but the sense of foreboding reaches a crescendo as I continue knocking on Annie’s door. Where the hell is she? When I spoke to her yesterday, she’d assured me she would be home today. I call her once again, but no luck. A flurry of texts. No response. My breathing quickens. My stomach churns. I fear the worst.
A final series of knocks.
Nothing.
I wait ten seconds, my heart sinking further with every tick.
Frantic, I fish out the key she gave me a while back after I insisted, only to be used in emergencies. I struggle to steady my trembling hands and fit the key in the slot, but once I do, it turns without a hitch and the door opens.
I smell pizza. Fresh. I step inside and glance towards the kitchen. The box on the countertop confirms what my nose already told me. So she must be home, or must have been at some point to have ordered her favorite meal. Not something she would have done if she had planned on ending things. My disquiet eases a bit, but not entirely.
It’s eerily quiet, with no one in sight. I want to call out to her, but my throat has gone dry and words refuse to emerge. I hustle around the apartment, desperately hoping to discover her alive and well. Perhaps I’ll find her huddled in a corner, engrossed in a thriller novel, oblivious to the world around her. The kitchen, the bedroom, even the closets — she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe that’s a good sign, I try to convince myself, but it’s a futile effort.
There’s only one place I haven’t looked, so I hurry towards the bathroom. It’s only a short distance from where I’m standing, but in my agitated state it seems like I’m running a marathon.
The door is open a crack, with a sliver of light streaming through. A strong lavender scent hits me, along with a hint of bleach, even before I enter. I push the door open wide. The first thing I see is the bathtub, filled to the brim with water. A step closer and I lay eyes on the naked, still body underneath the surface. My heart’s hammering inside my chest now. I rush to her, hoping I’m not too late.
“Noo, noo, noo.” I’ve finally found my voice.
My hands shake as I make a clumsy effort to unplug the drain and pull her head out of the water. Water splashes out of the tub, spilling on my jeans and shoes. Glug, glug, glug. The water starts draining. She’s not breathing. No pulse either. I’m panicking now, though I can’t afford to. I take in a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the urge to throw up. Maybe I can still revive her. I try to drag her out, but she’s heavy.
Before I can make another attempt, I realize I should call 911 first, so I dial and put the phone on speaker, placing it on the sink. It’s a struggle, but I manage to haul her out and lay her on the floor. My muscles burn with the effort. Sweat oozes out of my every pore. Down on my knees, I’ve just completed a round of CPR when someone answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My sister, she’s … she’s not breathing.”
The rest of the call is a blur as I answer the dispatcher’s questions while trying to resuscitate her. I’m losing hope — and my nerve. My little sis isn’t responding. The dispatcher assures me they’re sending help right away. She instructs me to continue with the CPR. So I keep going, knowing deep inside that it’s a lost cause. But I can’t afford to lose her. I must keep trying. I must not give up.