Your eyes well up with warm tears but not one spills on your cheeks. You utter the words no three times under your breath. You drop to your knees, soaking your jeans with blood. Your mother lay there eyes open with slit wrists. The smell is overwhelming and you notice your niece in her crib, dead too.
“I’m sorry. I know what you’re going through,” Luis whispers as he pats your shoulder.
“Do you really?” you look up at him with angry eyes, “Have you seen your own mother with slit wrists? Did you just witness your brother getting shot in the god damned face?” Luis just looks away leaving behind a sad silence. Your emotions are spinning and you’re not quiet sure what you’re feeling. Anger and sadness, with a hint of relief? Relief knowing that they weren’t diseased like the others, or was it a different kind of relief?
You shake your head and walk to your room. It smells of baby powder and cigarettes. You rummage through your drawers looking for clothes. You pack your things and close the door.