Raheem probably yearned to tell me everything would be fine, but he held back. Obviously, he knew even a single word would snatch the little bit of composure I had. Even when we were alone for the lifetime it took to arrive at the hospital, he said nothing. Once he parked the car in the lot, I unfastened my seatbelt and reached for the door handle.
He touched my arm. "Whatever happens, please, be strong and know that I will always be here."
"Nothing will happen to my sister." I pushed open the door and darted toward the building, distancing myself from him and his negativity.
'Nothing would happen to my sister.' I recited this like it were a spell; like it could quell my pounding heart; like it could undo whatever had already happened.
These were mere words, and could change nothing. But I had hope. Wouldn't that save me this day?
I burst into the building, my heavy heartbeat the only thing I could hear, the stench of grief smothering me. Raheem blurred past me. He headed for the nurses behind the counter. "Cynthia Brown. Where is she?"
"One moment," the nurse directly in front of him said. While she searched for Cynthia's details, I feared my heart would explode. "Room 13."
The words had barely left her lips when I darted into the passageway she pointed at, my eyes scanning the doors for one tagged '13'. A million thoughts flooded my mind. Cynthia was really here. My sister, the one I loved so much, was here, fighting for her life.
If only she hadn't left for the party, then everything would be fine. No, if only that woman hadn't tried to kill me, then my sister would probably have spent the night at home. What if I had followed her to the party? Maybe I'd have been able to save her.
I slowed my pace as my eyes found the door. I looked over to Raheem and sucked in a deep breath. What awaited me on the other side? Would I be able to control myself when I saw her lying helplessly, stuck in a situation she didn't deserve?
Tentatively, I reached for the door and wrapped my fingers around the handle. The door gave way, letting me into the room.
I could not fathom the scene before me. My stepmother, the stranger who'd tried to kill me, sat beside my sister who lay in bed. But she wasn't really sitting. The wideness of her torso mounted upon Cynthia blocked her of view.
Rage clouded my reasoning and I dashed toward the woman I once called mum. I gripped her shoulders and yanked her off my sister. Yesterday she'd tried to kill me, and today, here she was, smothering her very own daughter to death.
"Get away from her!" I yelled. I had not lost my sister in the bombing. I certainly would not lose her to this woman.
I turned to look at my sister, the beauty I feared I'd never see again. A gust of emotions slammed into me. I clamped my palm to my lips, suppressing a scream.
Her skin, once flawless, had become a shadow of itself. I felt a squeezing sensation in my chest as I drank in the image before me. I wanted to look away, to shield my eyes from the girl who lay on the bed. Her skin had seared to the bone, making her almost unrecognizable.
But what troubled me was the look in her eyes. Cold and lifeless, they told me I had lost once again.