Opening Scene — Memoirs of Johan
Hearts pounded; the air in the room had turned tight and metallic.
I was terrified to my bones as I cradled Sarafina in my arms, her skin pale, her blood soaking through my shirt. The red felt hot, accusing.
She had slit her wrists.
My mind refused to believe it, but the guilt was already there, heavy as lead, pressing on my ribs. I blamed myself for every breath she might not take.
With my voice breaking, I begged the doctors in the emergency ward to save her — to save my dying heart from drowning in guilt.
Pacing the corridor, hope and despair tangled like wire inside me, I couldn't find a single steady breath.
Then the doctor appeared. His eyes softened. "She's stable," he said.
When they let me in, I sat at her bedside. She lay still, a fragile echo of the woman I'd known. And as I watched the rise and fall of her chest, memories began to crowd the edges of my mind — the choices, the passions, the betrayals that had led us here.