when you came in, the air went out, adna

[adna]

one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing
one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling
one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide

Her sister’s words make her dizzy—leave her disoriented.

Did she know?

Did she somehow know?

Because she had made Beth special, and she had woken up alone. She had been the one who was crushed. She gladly lay down and let him put his heel on her throat because she didn’t know how to do anything but fall for him. She felt the columns of her heart shift the first time he had pressed his mouth to the ridges of her spine, and she didn’t know how to go on when she has been so irrevocably changed by him.

But she can’t say these things to her sister.

She can’t admit just how right she is without also admitting her unknown transgression.

So she just smiles, the gentle curve of a scarred lip sad, as she realizes the depth of her family’s sorrow. They had no right to be this sad. They had no right to drown in their own pain, but they found themselves back at the bottom of the lake again and again. No matter where they turned, they ended up here.

She opens her mouth to say something—to say anything—but nothing comes. Nothing but the sound of her sharp inhale and slow exhale, the feeling of toxins she is desperate to release into the wild. Quietly, she closes her mouth and just looks at her sister, watches her come apart, and she hates herself for the secret she is now keeping—this secret she is tucking away like she has any chance of her never knowing.

“I am so sorry, Sabbath,” she finally manages, even though she knows that her sister has no idea just how sorry she is—just what she is sorry about. “I would love to meet your daughter.”

Even if it carved her up.

ADNA