As I lay there, hidden beneath the shroud of a stretcher, my mind raced with the chaos of betrayal and bewilderment. Everything felt surreal, as if I were trapped in a nightmare from which there was no waking. I could hear the distant murmur of first responders, their voices muffled yet urgent. The world above was a maelstrom of activity, but all I could focus on was the chilling revelation that my own flesh and blood had attempted to end my life.
In that moment, the weight of my daughter’s actions pressed heavily upon my chest, suffocating me more than the seatbelt that had once pinned me to my seat. How had we come to this point? Where had the love gone wrong? My mind replayed fragments of Emily’s childhood — her first steps, her graduation, family vacations where her laughter had filled the air like sunshine. Where had that child, my child, disappeared to?
The journey up the cliff felt like an eternity, each jolt and vibration of the stretcher a visceral reminder of my fragile existence. Tom’s presence beside me was a silent anchor, tethering me to the here and now. His breathing was labored, each inhale a rasping testament to his injuries, yet his determination to protect us both was a palpable force in the space we shared.
