I throw my head back as I let out a hoarse cry, the pained sound drowned out by an approaching ambulance’s sirens. The chilly air burns my lungs as I take in a sharp breath.
My dad shows up out of nowhere and kneels next to me, tugging me into his side as he holds me.
I can’t hide the way my body trembles. “I don’t understand. How can something like this happen? It’s the twenty-first fucking century. People don’t just die in childbirth anymore.”
“I’m sorry, son. There’s nothing that could’ve been done.” My dad chokes.
“So what? How the fuck am I supposed to look at Kaia without thinking of her?” I hate how weak my voice sounds to my own ears.
“You can look at her and see the last beautiful thing her mother created. She needs an uncle now more than ever.”
I clench my fist around blades of grass, tugging on the pieces, ripping them out to ease the edginess. “I don’t want her. I want Johanna back.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I fucking do. I want to turn back the clock and erase this shitty day from history.” I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about my confession. My tightening chest reminds me of the pain burrowing itself in my heart, testing my sanity.
“We can’t. But think of your brother and what he’s going through. Be strong for him.”
How can I be strong for him when my heart is going through a fucking paper shredder?
“I can’t.” I choke on the words, my voice a croaky whisper as my tears return, flooding my eyes as I think of Johanna. Of us getting in a paint fight while setting up Kaia’s nursery. The image fills me with dread and nausea all over again.
I don’t know how to cope with any of this shit. I’m unequipped to handle the brewing feelings, the painful memories, and the dull ache making itself at home inside of my chest.
My dad holds on to me, sitting in silence as pained breaths escape our mouths.
December 30th isn’t only the day of Johanna’s death. It’s the day I let go of myself, shoving my broken heart so deep inside of my body I wouldn’t be able to identify the tattered remains if I tried.
Sophie
Present Day
Not to be dramatic, but I just experienced the worst sex of my life.
No, I’m not joking, but I wish I was. It’s the whole reason I hide in my bathroom, whispering to myself while the object of my frustration lies on my dorm bed.
Andre Bianchi: math whiz, business fraternity vice president, and voted most likely to leave you unsatisfied two rounds in a row.
“I should have taken the flavored condoms as a warning sign. No self-respecting male who has an inkling of a woman’s body would have flavored condoms. Stupidest purchase ever. Also, who invented those because no woman in their right mind wants to lick a condom!” I whisper to myself, brushing down my barely ruffled blonde hair. It’s further evidence supporting my sucky sex life. My hair looks as good as it did this morning when I brushed it. My makeup is barely smeared, and there are zero signs of rosy cheeks or post-coital glow. Green eyes blink back at me, looking as lackluster as my sex life right about now.
My chest squeezes to the point of difficulty breathing, reminding me of my disappointment yet again.
Clearly, I’m getting more A’s than orgasms at my university. I don’t know why the thought bothers me, but it really does. I don’t sleep around, and I can count my sexual encounters on one hand. Worse, none of those include a happily ever after for me. I’m starting to consider myself broken because how can this keep happening to me? The guys get off fine while I blink up at the ceiling, wondering what I experienced.
No endorphins released. No postsex bliss. Nothing. Niente. Nada.
This recent encounter hits me hard. What’s the point of attending university if I’m going to live in my dorm, barely associating with others, experiencing sex once a year with a fellow bumbling accounting major? It ends with me asking them to go with a smile, pretending they rocked my world when I really sucked their dick while mentally listing off my pending assignments.
“Oh God. I thought about my accounting professor while giving a blowjob. This is the lowest of lows,” I mumble to myself, barely withholding a groan.
I can’t allow this to happen to me anymore. My type A personality is biting me in the ass, and not exactly in the Hi, my name is Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey is my daddy kind of way.
“Sophie, you’re going to march out there and tell him to hit the road. It’s past your bedtime, and you need to sleep off this terrible mood.” I sigh as I gather the courage needed to face the poor guy outside.