Chapter 1 (Momy, Papa Wake)
My name is Isabella. I’m sixteen years old, and I cry… a lot. I cry when I’m tired. I cry when I’m scared. And lately, I cry just because my heart is too full to do anything else.
Tonight is no different. I’m hiding under my blankets, the darkness comforting me more than the light ever could. My cheeks are soaked. My eyes burn, red and swollen. I’ve been like this for what feels like hours. It’s been a terrible few weeks.
Mom and Dad can’t seem to go a day without screaming at each other. Their voices are like knives now—cutting, sharp, and always loud. Sometimes I wonder if they even remember I’m here.
I reach for my phone, shove my earphones in, and turn the volume all the way up. It’s something I never do. But tonight, I need to drown it all out. The yelling. The questions. The silence in between.
And Gabriela… my twin. My other half.
They say she was shot three times.
They say.
I don’t even know what to believe anymore. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it. All I know is what they’ve told me. That she’s in a coma. That I can’t visit her. That I shouldn’t ask questions.
But I do ask. I ask in my head every day. Why her? Is she really alive? Why can’t I see her?
It all started after the incident. That’s when everything changed. That’s when the fighting got worse.
But tonight... tonight feels different.
Even with my music turned all the way up, I can feel it. Something is wrong. A new kind of wrong.
I yank out my earphones.
From the other side of the wall, I hear Mom's voice.
"The time is over, John," she says. Her voice cracks. She sounds like she’s pleading.
“Why did you do this?” she cries. “Why did you do something like this? I won’t give up another child. I won’t!”
My heart drops. Another child? That’s me. She’s talking about me.
I sit up in bed, my breathing shallow.
“Angelica, please,” my father says. “There must be another way.”
“There’s no other way!” she screams.
The next thing I know, the door flies open and Mom rushes into my room.
I panic. I dive back under my blankets, shaking. But she comes straight to me, her face pale, her eyes wild—red like mine, but not from sadness. From fear.
She grabs my wrist. “Come, Bella. Come with me now.”
“Mom! What are you doing?” I cry, trying to pull away.
But she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t explain. She just drags me toward the wardrobe.
“Mom, please!” I scream. “What’s happening? Where are we going?”
No answer.
She opens the wardrobe and starts pulling at something I’ve never seen before—something hidden behind the clothes. There’s a panel. A lock. A pin. She opens a secret compartment, and I freeze.
“How long has this been here?” I whisper.
She doesn’t reply. Her eyes are on mine, desperate. “You need to hide. Now.”
“I don’t want to! I want to stay with you!”
But she shoves me in, hard. I stumble back into the small space, dark and cold.
“I love you, Isabella. Your father loves you too. We always will.”
The door slams shut.
I pound on it. Kick it. Scream. But nothing opens.
Then… silence.
Then… footsteps.
Then… a car. Doors slamming. Voices. Shouting.
And then—gunshots.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
I cover my mouth with both hands, trembling. No. No. No.
They’re looking for me. I hear them tearing the house apart. Glass shattering. Furniture thrown. Men cursing. One of them yells:
“Where’s the girl?”
I freeze. I don't move. I barely breathe.
Footsteps.
They come close. Closer.
The wardrobe door creaks open.
A man stands there. He sees only coats and dresses. He scans quickly.
“Wait,” another man calls out. “The window’s open. She probably escaped.”
He curses under his breath and storms off. The door shuts again.
Silence.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I don’t know.
Eventually, I find a small button near the floor. I press it. The panel slides open with a quiet click.
I crawl out, barely able to walk. My legs shake. My hands are numb.
I stumble into the living room.
And then I see them.
Mom.
Dad.
Lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath them.
I drop to my knees.
“Momy... Papa... wake up,” I whisper.
They don’t move.
“Please… wake up...”
Tears fall like rivers. I scream. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.
Voices. I hear voices outside. The neighbors.
They rush in, trying to help, trying to understand. Some take videos. Some cry. One woman holds me close and calls the police.
But I don’t hear her.
I hear nothing but my heartbeat and the silence that’s fallen over the house like a blanket.
Everything feels distant. Unreal.
And I know it in that moment: everyone here will leave. They will forget.
Even the kind girl beside me—she’ll move on. People always do.
They say time heals. I don’t believe it.
I am alone now.
I look up, past the ceiling, beyond the roof. I speak to the only one I hope is still listening.
“God,” I whisper, “please walk with me. I know you won’t remove the fire… but please, enter it with me.”
