ANIKA VARMA
Sirens.
She could hear them now, the blaring sound cutting through the silence that there had once been. Red and blue lights following, almost in sync, not quite. Off. One, two, three seconds behind the deafening sounds. Trying to catch up, trying to match the others’ dance, never catching, always one, two, three seconds late.
She was too late.
Not the sirens, it was her. Too late. One, two, three seconds. Four, five, then six.
Time ticking too quickly, mocking her as she tried to run, to catch up. Be there before it would be too late, before time would have the last laugh, before the noise stopped, before the flashing lights won the race.
Was it all just a deadly trick? A game?
Her imagination?
No.
No, it was all too real, felt too real. Looked too real.
No one could play a trick like this, not even her own mind. Surely someone would tell her that soon enough, that this was happening, that she was too late. Hadn’t been quick enough, hadn’t been smart enough, hadn’t been brave enough.
Hadn’t been enough.
That the deep red color on her hands was there, that it was her fault. That she could’ve done more to prevent this, could’ve done more to stop this. To stop him.
She hadn’t done enough and it was all her fault.
The death of a young woman, who barely had the chance to live her life before it was taken by a concoction that she had been responsible for.
The upheaval of her family, leaving her husband, her daughter, feeling afraid, needing to worry for their safety, for their lives.
Lives that had been altered by her actions, by her selfishness, by her desires, her intentions. Ones that may have been good, but not even that fact could change what had happened, what she had done, what she had caused.
Her fault, her fault, her fault.
It was all her fault and Iseul couldn’t escape that fact, couldn’t erase it. Couldn’t change what had happened or the results of it.
The words played over, and over, and over again in her mind as if they were a tune that she couldn’t be rid of, a song that she was forced to keep singing, keep hearing. One that told her all of what she had done, what she had caused, and what could come.
A song that became sirens in the middle of the night when she tried to sleep, only waking to find her breathing heavy, her heart racing, her hands shaking.
A tune that sounded the high pitched ring of the alarm, of Harsh and Leila’s screams, of her father’s laughter and taunts.
Of things that were promises that served as a reminder, that were the threat lurking in the dark, in the depths of her mind, somewhere outside of her home. Always there, refusing to leave her alone, constantly reminding her of what she had done.
Of who she could still lose.
