The stain of blood started at the middle of the wall, ending where she rested on the floor. Blood pouring from her face and shoulder, it didn’t hurt anymore. When you’ve spent a life knowing nothing but pain, oddly enough, it becomes normal. Slow tugs for breath. Her eyes remained fixed on the ghost in front of her. Her grandfather once again begged the young girl to come home. If she crossed over, he could finally take all of her hurt away, like he did as a small child. The way she was now, no Band-Aid would fix her this time.
“It’s time to go,” Joe said, his hand reaching for his granddaughter to take.
Sobbing, her body shook at the thought of never seeing her daughter grow up. She would be like Kaine. Another parent who left their child to fend for themselves. Gypsy promised Grace the day she first held her that she would never do this. She would never leave her without a mother’s love.
Holding her hand out, the tips of her fingers shaking, the words weeping from her mouth. “I can’t go. Not yet. Please understand. If it was just me, I would go, but its not,” she whispered.
Slowly his hand retracted as the image began to fade, “I can’t come back anymore. Always remember me, Mary. When the butterflies come, always know that I am watching over you. I love you, my Mary had a little lamb.”
“Las Vegas Police Department. Come out with your hands up,” called the voice from the other side of the door.
“Please help me,” Gypsy called, her last words before the pain took her away from it all.
A foot landed in the center of the rotting door, the scene inside a slaughter of sorts. Blood splattered around the room. The room actually smelled better with the aroma of a fresh kill.
“Get the medics. We have one alive, and 2 dead. This one will not make if they don’t get the fuck in here,” the cop yelled.
“Shiiiiit,” the paramedic whispered the moment he stepped into the room. “You better get homeland security here now. This is the President’s sister,” he added.
24 hours later
“Miss Kennedy, how are you feeling?” the doctor asked as he took a seat next to the hospital bed.
Gypsy kept her eyes sealed tight, the light that filtering through the open blinds threatening to scorch her retinas. Clearing her throat, whispering, “I’ve been better I guess.”
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how is the pain,” he asked.
Her tongue moistening her cracked lips, “about a 6, but I can handle pain. I’m a pro at it.” Holding back laughter, that was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.
“Good, now. We need to discuss a few things if you think you’re up for it. If not, it can wait until you are,” he asked.
“Now. I don’t want to prolong it, but first, please close those blinds,” whispering.
With the blinds now closed, the doctor sat back in the seat, strumming through the chart. “The wound should heal in 4-6 weeks, but there is something else we need to talk about. As a normal routine, when you were admitted, a rape kit was done. Bruising and trauma were found in the cervix. Some needing a few stitches. Is this something that we should know about?” he asked, closing the chart.
Gypsy sealed her eyes back, closed, the heat of her tears pouring down her cheeks. “That man, Dominic, he hurt me,” she whispered. Gulping, her stomach quivering to hold back vomit, even talking about it made her insides retch with disgust.
“Okay. All the swabs were clean, but we did an ultrasound internally to assess the damage. It seems he caused some internal damage and it will impair your ability to ever carry a child to full term again,” he said. Without warmth in his voice, the doctor stood, patting her hand before leaving the room.
Without warning, the tears came rushing down her cheeks in a river of despair. No, she never planned on another child, but to be told you could never carry one again broke her soul. Lifting the container of water from the tray, she threw it against the wall, sobbing over something that could never be. A life taken from her that was never even there.
“Why am I still alive,” she whispered.
I am stopping this story here. My heart is broken.