Page 4 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“I said open the door!”
I move slowly, like I’m walking underwater. My fingers find the lock. I slide it open with a soft metallic click that feels far too small for what’s on the other side. When I pull the door back, two officers stand there, shoulders squared, hands hovering near their weapons like they’re expecting a threat.
All they see is me.
One of them scans over my shoulder, taking in the room. The body on the floor. The purse spilled open. The flashing red and blue lights bouncing off stained wallpaper.
“The kid’s alive,” he shouts over his shoulder, and before I can process the words, his hand is on my arm.
Not rough. Not gentle either. Just firm.
He pulls me out into the night air, guiding me past the threshold like I might shatter if left inside too long. The other officer rushes past me, disappearing into the room where my mother lies.
The cold hits my damp skin. I hadn’t realized how hot the room had been until now. Sirens scream. Neighbors peek out from behind curtains and cracked doors. The whole motel parking lot is bathed in spinning red and blue light, everything pulsing like a heartbeat.
Paramedics swarm me almost instantly.
“Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me.”
Hands guide me toward the ambulance. I don’t fight. I don’t resist. I let them sit me down on the edge of the open doors. The interior smells sterile, so different from the mildew I just stepped out of.
A flashlight beams into my eyes. I blink against it.
“What’s your name?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Did you take anything tonight?”
Their questions pile on top of each other, fast and clinical. A blood pressure cuff tightens around my arm. Fingers press against my neck, checking my pulse. Someone gently lifts my injured wrist, examining the crescent cuts where her nails broke skin.
But none of it really lands.
The only question that cuts through the noise comes softer than the rest.
“Are you alright, sweetie?”
The EMT holding my wrist looks at me like I’m something fragile. Like I might collapse at any second. Her thumb brushes near the bleeding marks, careful not to hurt me.
I look past her.
Past the ambulance.
Past the officers moving in and out of the room.
They’re working on my mother now. I can see the back of a paramedic kneeling over her. I know what they’re doing. Compressions. Oxygen. Procedures. Movements that feel almost theatrical at this point.
Too late.
I turn my eyes back to the EMT.
For a second, I think about lying. About breaking down. About giving them the version of me they expect to see. The hysterical daughter. The grieving child.
Instead, I swallow.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady, almost eerily so.
It surprises even me.
