Hope
"Do you want coffee or hot chocolate?" Ms. Franca asks, extending a pristine handkerchief toward me.
I shake my head, declining both. After Grace's accident, I've learned not to trust just anything touching my skin. Instead, I use the back of my jacket to wipe away the tears.
When I storm out of the hostel, bawling my eyes out while wandering past the hotel garden, Ms. Franca happens to drive by. She reverses her car to check on me. She introduces herself as Brookshigh's medical therapist for humans. That's the only reason I agree to follow her to her office.
I fucking need therapy. I can't keep going through all this and pretend I'm fine. It's maddening as hell.
"You have such beautiful hair," she says, gently massaging my scalp. If not for courtesy's sake, I'd wrap my arms around her shoulders and cry.
The worst part about being broken is enduring it alone, knowing no one truly gives a damn about you.
