5
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A sharp pain zipped through Shirley's arm as she tried to open the front door to her home. She grimaced as all the hair on her battered flesh stood up. The ones that failed to, had already been stuck down by her dried blood.

She delivered the lightest knock on the door, barely keeping herself upright. She waited.

The door flung open and her parents were squeezing to fit the door frame. For a split second, on their faces, there was anger, but for the rest, the vehement emotions boiled out to nothing.

Her mother stood there, too stunned to react, but her father leapt into action, lifting his beaten child as if she were a baby, to her bedroom. On the way, Shirley savoured every second, every heartbeat, every breath they shared, letting go completely into his securing grasp.

She gazed up at him, eyes large with fondness. "Papa?"

"Oui, Mon amour?"

"Thank you."

He looked at her. "You don't need to thank me." He trudged up the stairs.

"Still." This made him smile. She grasped onto his shoulder. "Je t'aime. Now and always."

While her mother opened her bedroom door, he said, "Je t'aime aussi, darling. More than life itself."

"Heh, me too."

After all the rushing, her father gently laid her on the bed. The mother went away to get the first-aid kit, and he sat beside her, his fingers being used to gently rub her arm.

"Would you like me to take you to the hospital?"

"Aren't you going to ask me what happened?"

"What already happened, already did. We must deal with what's immediate first."

Her eyes scanned her father's face. "I don't think anything's broken. All the damage is surface-level. Some aloe vera and bandaids should do the trick." She was lying. She definitely suffered some broken ribs.

"Okay." His eyes said he didn't fully believe her, not blinking in an attempt to catch her, in case she slipped up. "I'll go to Mickey's. Get everything we don't already have."

"Sounds great..." He got up to leave, but she held onto his wrist. He sat back down. "After all this, can you promise me one thing?" She bit back the agony it took it to sit up. "Promise me you'd build yourself up?"

"I build myself after I build you." By then, her mother joined them.

"Heh. You wouldn't have to worry about me anymore, pop."

"Quoi?"

Her mother spoke up. "Let her rest, Grégoire. She's been through enough."

"Non." He persisted, causing his wife's head to snap in their direction. The girl only laid back down. "Shirley. What do you?—"

"Grégoire!"

•••

Shirley could no longer smell blood, but the damage within her was beyond repair.

She lay on her bed, listening to muffled murmurs that came from beyond her bedroom door. Soon, they ceased and her mother came back in.

"Your father went to Mickey's."

Shirley nodded.

Her mother's lips tightened and then became loose. "Can I... hold you?"

Shirley gazed at her mother. "Of course."

"It wouldn't hurt, right?"

"Of course not." With that, her mother went to the other side of the bed and cradled her baby.

When silence embraced them, Shirley interrupted it. "Maman?"

"Yes?"

Shirley faced her mother, relishing in the comfort that hugged her aura. "Je t'aime... profondément et immensément."

"Je t'aime aussi, chérie. Profondément et immensément." They smiled and then Shirley's lips began quivering downward, tears piling at her waterline. Her mother embraced her once more. "Don't worry, Bebe. This pain. It will pass."

"Non, it won't."

"I know it feels like that. It feels overwhelming, feels like it's been going on forever. You just want it all to end." This resonated deeply with the girl. "But you just have to hold on, because, at the end of the day, it's just a feeling and feelings come and go."

"How are you so sure this one will?"

"Because I'm human, Shirley. I too felt douleur."

Shirley sighed. How could she ever think her mom would get it? How could she think someone else would possibly understand her pain?

"Maman?"

"Oui, cher?"

"Can you..." The girl closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do, but it was hard, so hard to execute. She opened them. "Can you please go get me some milk?" Her voice cracked.

"Sure," her mom replied, but by the time she reached the door, Shirley stopped her.

"You don't have to get it if you don't want to."

"Non, of course I will, bebe. It's okay."

Shirley held onto her own fingers. "Okay..." She looked at her mother. "Then, can you warm it?"

Her mother smiled. "Bien sûr, cher."

"Thank you, mom." Her mother tried to leave again, but she stopped her once more. "Maman!"

"Yes?"

"Je t'aime," she said softly.

She couldn't help but giggle. "You're too adorable, Shirley." Her smile slowly faded upon noticing Shirley's serious expression. "I love you more."

Shirley admired the last bit of her mother that she ever saw, thick locks opulent in the deepest shade of brown.

It was then time; she had to act fast. She made her way to her desk, succeeding at fighting through the agony that exploded throughout her being.

She found the key and twisted the lock. Click. The draw rolled ajar. She saw the firearm, and her fingers fell into place. An inkling of hesitation crept in. Fear drew it out and obliterated it. She felt her heartbeat in her ear canals.

With the firearm in her quaking clutch, she wiped under her nose. This made her aware of her wet face; tears were spilling over the waterline uncontrollably. She pathetically rose and went to her door, locking it. Soon, her mother would find her; soon she would be dead.

Shirley considered not going through with it. All that truly mattered was her parents, and they loved her immensely.

They expected recovery. They expected to hold her again and tell her how much they loved her—expected to tell her that no matter what, they would always have each other. But they wouldn't get the chance because Shirley was selfish, and those factors did not deter her. And because of that, they would never feel the warmth of her breath again.

Shirley wore determination like a belt, a belt she crafted herself with cheap leather that reddened the flesh upon contact. A belt that held every fibre of her body in place. A belt that if remained or removed would end in her demise. She chose the former; she tightened it and tightened it until she popped.

Shirley Clement raised the firearm between her untamed brows and pulled the trigger.

'There is tremendous power in taking a life'. Tami Hung says in her book Dust To Dust. 'To take a life: the phrase implies to take the energy of another living creature and add it to one's own life force.' This always conflicted Shirley, leading her to question what would happen when one takes their own life; if you take energy from the self, will it pour back in?

The answer... was a deafening no.

In the end, it all boiled down to one thing: control. Shirley had it all, and then she clicked it into the body of a measly gun.

She was the vessel in which potential prospered and then she was nothing, nobody. She panicked and chose a quick alleviation, but it wasn't worth it. This revelation only occurred a fraction of the second after the gun was fired—only occurred after the control was ripped from her grasp—only after the poor girl was left without a choice.

•••