Staring at the white ceiling after, I was flooded with memories of eleven years ago. That day marked one year since we adopted Buddy. Despite his own hunger, Alexander bought a big cake for Buddy’s birthday, celebrating the day we rescued him.
He had promised to celebrate Buddy’s birthday every year.
My brother had teased Alexander, saying he treated Buddy better than people, calling him family.
But now, Chelsea shed a few tears, and Alexander brushed aside Buddy’s death as if it were nothing—like Buddy had deserved it somehow.
I couldn’t shake the image of Buddy lying in a pool of blood, and my heart felt like it was tearing apart. My whole body ached as if it were crumbling.
I fumbled for some painkillers, and after swallowing them, the pain finally eased a little.
But the agony persisted, and I was drenched in cold sweat, too weak to move, my eyelids heavy.
Just as I was about to drift off, the bed sank beside me, and Alexander’s hands found me, pushing my skirt up to my waist.
I realized it was him.
His hands, once tender and familiar, now felt foreign, coated with Chelsea’s perfume. I recoiled in disgust.
“Don’t touch me!”