Ketlen huddled in a fetal position, like a scared child trying to disappear inside her own body. She trembled. She sweated. She cried with spasmodic sobs, the harsh sound of unchecked despair, dry and suffocating, echoing in the dark, unlit house.
Beside her, a half-empty bottle of Klonopin rested—like an open grenade on the dirty living room rug.
"Why...?" she whispered.
Her voice was fragile, disfigured, as if crushed under the weight of her own weeping. Hoarse. Almost nonexistent. A final breath trying to understand existence.
In her mind, the same scene repeated like a corrupted film on an eternal loop.
Her mother, in pajamas, gently touching her shoulder.
"Come on, sweetie... time to get up."
That voice.
So sweet.
So full of love.
And of life.
Life that now lay faceless in the middle of the street, burned and riddled with bullets.
They had said goodbye just a few hours ago. Such a brief and cruel interval that it seemed like a cosmic irony.
Ketlen pressed her head against her knees, as if to crush the memories with her own skull—was this karma for killing the two?
She just wanted it to stop.
That's it.
Just silence.
But the silence made her remember the three. They would never make noise again.
Both lay discarded somewhere on the street. Lifeless.
Was this a contrast designed by the Devil? Some moral rule that reverted onto her? If she killed those two, why didn't they just take two? Did her whole family have to be destroyed? Or did the universe know something she still didn't?
Just a few hours ago, all three were home. Warm, talking, breathing, sharing stories and memories. What were they now, but bodies that no longer moved?
But thinking clearly was never her strong suit—especially on difficult days.
Her trembling hand reached again for the Klonopin bottle.
The cold glass felt almost comforting, like the touch of something that finally promised oblivion amidst the icy chill of the night—the kind you feel at a burial, in a cemetery at night.
Memories came like bombs, exploding in her mind, growing more and more intense.
Pain.
Guilt.
Revolt.
And even the cursed medicine bottle reminded her of her mother.
Her mother, who hated strong medicine.
Who begged her to only take natural things.
"Melatonin 3mg with skim milk, sweetie..."
"Lemongrass tea. Come, sit with me."
"Passion fruit juice, sweetie. It helps calm you down."
Small things. Delicate. Careful.
She always wanted to protect her in the smallest details. Even with pills.
And then came Pedro.
The destroyer of everything.
The beginning of the end.
He was the one who pushed—and she was the one who killed.
Who calmly whispered that 0.5 mg wouldn't hurt anyone.
Who offered the first night of sleep.
And delivered addiction along with the pillow.
"You son of a bitch..." she snarled through gritted teeth, squeezing the bottle so hard her hand hurt.
With a choked scream, she hurled it with all her might against the wall.
The sound of glass shattering echoed dry and painful.
It was the sound of impotence.
Her old pajamas with drawings of a yellow, wide-eyed family were soaked with sweat, tears, and fear—a cruel contrast to her grandmother's favorite music.
The small, childlike prints seemed to mock her.
As if that tiny body, curled and trembling in the dark, was still a child who believed the world could get better with warm tea and a mother's embrace.
But now there was only darkness.
And outside...
Sirens screamed in the background of the ruined city.
Distant voices clamored for help. The city burned in flames. And inside that silent room, a young woman sank into a bottomless abyss, where every heartbeat was a rope about to snap.
Beneath her, soot had infiltrated from the smoke outside. It was a mixture of her family's remains and those of others.
Ketlen couldn't stop crying. She simply had no idea what to do now. There would be no dinner, no family movie, no arguments, or a play session with Davi.
They were all dead.
...
And then a strange sensation emerged...
The walls of the room seemed to shrink around her. The ceiling arched, curving like a misshapen jaw about to chew her up.
The floor felt heavy.
She felt heavy.
"Ugh..." She frowned, clenching her eyes. "Damn it..."
The dose was high. Too high. And now fear came, wishing a "good night" to mom's former princess, who had already gone to sleep.
Not the fear of war. Not the fear of loss.
The sweet, raw fear of dying. Of seeing what's on the other side. And, even more... the fear of being alone when she died.
She tried to stand up, desperate, her eyes fixed on the small light of her phone on the table. But her legs failed. Her body collapsed like a dying star.
The sound of her own sobs choked her.
She was entering a dark, damp, silent hole. Like the womb of the end of the world.
Crawling, she managed to reach out and grab her phone. Davi's last voicemail was still there. Did it make sense? Maybe not, but she listened again.