AYLA
I stared at what would be dad's cold, lifeless body — not twisting or twitching under the blanket.
Too still.
Too bloody dead.
"And where did he shoot himself?" I asked, eyes hollow.
Dr Dray pulled the white blanket that smelled like death, or whatever the fuck that thing they placed on dad's body was.
"Here." He pointed at the side of dad's head.
Lifeless. White as shit. Hard as a rock.
I felt sick.
Bile rose up my throat, and before I had any time to stop it, I turned around and threw up everything in my stomach.
Acid singed my throat, and I wiped my mouth with the back of a hand.
My ears rang; my lungs closed up, and I couldn't breathe. I gripped Millie's arm, panic tearing through my chest.
"Pumpkin… you don't—"
"No." I pulled away, turning back to the body. "I want to see the scar."
I viewed everything in snapshots: the blanket, dad's head, the cut on his lips.
