Three years later, Lily and I finished our last exam in high school. I was twenty, Lily was nineteen—a month away from her twenties too. We both did well, with flying colors. We were happy, or at least Lily was.
I wasn't.
Where would I go now? Sure, I could rent an apartment, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that I couldn't sleep alone in a room anymore. After that night, the trauma never really left me. It clung to me, tightening every time the lights went out. It almost turned me insomniac.
The only thing that helped was knowing someone else was in the room. God bless Mia—her presence made sleep bearable. But now she was gone.
Fuck, I need to go for therapy, I thought. I need help. I can't always run.
I tried to convince myself I was ready, but deep down, I knew I wasn't. Still, I forced myself to take the first step. I registered my name at Ravenshore Medical Center, a hospital not too far from my apartment.
They told me my appointment had been confirmed and that I was officially booked in. The words sounded heavier than they should have. Therapy. It felt strange to even think about it. They said I should come in a month later.
A month.
It didn't sound long, but to me, it felt like an eternity—thirty more nights of trying to fall asleep in a room that still echoed with everything I was trying to forget.
Out of the thirty days, I spent the first ten still sharing a room with Mia. Lily came by five times during those days, just to sleep beside us. Since we were almost done with school, the teachers were lenient. We had officially graduated.
After the ceremony, Lily hugged me tightly, refusing to let go, like she could somehow protect me from everything I was still running from. She didn't want to leave me alone, but I forced her to go with her parents. They had missed her so much. They even offered to take me in, but I turned them down. I told them I'd already rented an apartment—which was true—and assured them they didn't need to worry. They said I was never a bother, but I still refused. I didn't want to impose.
The remaining nineteen days felt heavier than they should have. Every night, I either dreamt of stabbing Uncle Luke, or of him chasing after me. Sometimes he caught me. Sometimes I woke up the moment he touched me. The usual.
No matter how many times the dream repeated, I always woke up around 2 a.m.—startled, afraid, confused. Then I'd just lie there, listening to the silence.
But life goes on, after all.
Indeed, life goes on.