Return From Grave: Reclaiming My Betrayed Heart

er three years, not for

cing me with a quiet, grateful orphan named Gabriela. She stole my fat

mother's wedding dress, a final piece of her to ho

cursed me to drop dead. In a blind rage, I slapped her. She

maniac, my body gave out. I collapsed, coughing up blood,

, the words bubbling out with b

wning horror, but it was t

long, took my hand. "We'll be reborn," she promised, her eyes blazing with fur

pte

ing headlines that had followed me for three years, a ghost in every major newspaper: "Th

torn her influential family apart. Most people, I knew, were relieved when I left, breathing a collective sigh of

brity-the one whose meltdowns were public, whose grief was weaponized against her, whose sanity was always in question. Now, after years

r even revenge. I was here for a burial plot. A final resting p

n Cemetery. The air here was always different, hushed and respectful, a stark contrast to the clamor of the city and the noise inside my own

. The stone was cool beneath my fingertips. It felt like yesterday the wor

s. The scent of expensive cologne, the stiff posture, the sile

mth, like a perfectly pressed shirt withou

carried, but the love I lost. What was I doing here? I was dying. Slowly, painfully, from the insid

r pang in my abdomen, a dull ache that seemed to mock my every move. It was

eel. It was an old habit, deflecting with sarcasm, a defense mechanism honed over y

dmiration, when he was my protector, my confidant. That was before Mom died. Before the love in his eyes turned to ice, replaced by a c

, not a question, but an accusation. "And now, su

e fading bruises from the surgeries, the gauntness beneath my clothes. To shove my medical records

ds trembled slightly, a tell-tale sign of the raging storm within. My body

ning my face, as if searching for something, per

he one with a tiny etched ballerina on the front, a gift she' d given me for my fif

"Just in time for the anniversary, right? I'm sure y

"We did. And you we

augh escaping my lips. "To be blamed? To

ce was laced with a weariness that almost sounded like pity

o waste my precious remaining breaths on anger. The only resentment I held was for the cruel hand

. The silence, the unspoken accusations, the ghosts of what we once were. It was too much. T

ndless love and patience, had promised to get it, even though it meant driving across town in a sudden downpour. She

g our father's, saw not a heartbroken child, but the cause. The innocent desire for a birthday cake, twisted into a monstrous demand that led to her death. They neve

irl Mom had sponsored, from a disadvantaged background. After Mom died, they adopted her. She was everything I was not: qu

es, Brandt's gentle smiles. I fought back, in the only ways a hurt, neglected child knew how. I rebelled. I broke rules. I

ve certainly changed. Less... theatrical." He looked

t desperate need, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell, calm in its surrender. There was no room for their love, or their hatred, in the face of what was co

h catching in my throat, "three

n his posture. "Dad wants you to co

battlefield, a place where every corner held a me

e Scandalous Daughter," "Boston's Maniac." They reveled in every accusa

ven by jealousy. My childhood sweetheart, Corey Dodson, who had once been my fiercest defender, stood by her side, his eyes hard with accusation. He had bought into her lies, just like everyone else. He was the one

ic hospital, signing the papers without a glance, his face a mask of cold

, cut me off completely. There was no home to return to, no family left to salvage. I left Boston, n

My voice cracked on the last word, a raw edge of emotion I hadn't meant to reveal. My chest tightened,

damage, the cracks in my carefully constructed facade. I took a step back, my gaze hardening, p

ines of the city, anything but his face. I could feel the familiar pressure building behind my

saw a flicker of something that resembled... regret? But it vanished as quickly as

. And I had to face it, just as I