Rain slashed through the night sky, the fierce wind causing water droplets to pelt against the windows in angry torment. The storm was a force of nature, one strong enough to match the pain that raged through my body. In agony, I screamed, my cry louder than the thunder that boomed outside.

Voices called out around me, the sound a distant echo in my mind. I didn’t know if it was because I couldn’t hear them, or if it was simply, I didn’t want to hear them. The scent of antiseptic was pungent in the air, but I barely smelled it. I could only focus on the pain. The pain in my heart. In my body. I couldn’t decide where it hurt the most. I only knew I ached all over from the fire that lashed through me.

I whimpered in misery as more molten heat erupted inside me, the pain so severe, I thought I might rip in two. An unexplainable urge to escape came over me. I knew this day would come, but I didn’t know if I could endure it for much longer. Tears clouded my vision, blurring the shapes throughout the bright white room as a barrage of questions ran through my mind.

When would it end? What about when it was all over? Could I go through each day facing the reminder of something I could never have?

The questions terrified me, and they were ones that played in my mind for the better part of a year. I didn’t know if I wanted to do this. I didn’t know if I could do this. I wanted to believe I could survive, but I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to get through it. Somewhere in my mind, I knew the physical agony was only temporary. But I also knew the torment in my heart would never fade.

The knives tearing at my back and abdomen seemed to subside, allowing me a moment to remember the day I discovered my fate. I had tried to run. That night was similar to the current one with pouring rain, flashes of lightning peppering the blackened night sky.

I had come home and packed my things in a fury, not paying much attention to what I was doing. I recalled how I struggled to muffle the sound of my sobs as I dumped the contents of my dresser into a suitcase, praying I remembered to pack the essentials in my distraught state. There had been a creak in the floorboards of the old Victorian house that I lived in. The sound had caused me to startle.

Glancing up from my suitcase, I had spotted my mother standing in the wood door frame of my bedroom. I recollected how kind and sympathetic her eyes were. When she spoke to me, I had nearly crumpled from the sound, her voice soothing me in my darkest moment.

“I know why you’re trying to leave, Cadence,” she had said. “You don’t have to run. We will get through this together and as a family. Come now. Wipe those tears. There’s a good thunderstorm outside. From the sounds of it, St. Peter is having a good game of bowling with the angels. How about we go sit on the back porch and enjoy the show?”

I forced my mind to focus on the present day and stared up at the woman who stood next to my weakened body. My mother. My one constant and always my rock. Tears swam in her eyes and I felt my sadness swell. I was consumed with loss and regret. I never wanted to disappoint her. Although she assured me I didn’t, I was never able to shed the cloak of shame I wore day in and day out.

Thunder boomed again outside, causing the windows to rattle. My heart constricted. St. Peter wasn’t bowling with angels today. No. This storm was a display of God’s wrath. Despite my mother’s strong front, I knew I had destroyed her. This pain was my punishment.

I dropped my head between my shoulders and tensed as a new kind of burn ripped through me. The searing flames were back, alive and stronger than before. My body racked with sobs, quivering and shaking until I felt I couldn’t take it any longer. I looked up again at the woman who meant everything to me. Her eyes, a vibrant green that matched mine, were filled with worry. But they were also full of strength. I tried to call on every whisper of encouragement she ever gave me, needing to hear her words to get through this suffering. Perhaps it was selfish. I didn’t deserve to draw on her strength, but I didn’t know if I could continue on without it.

My mother’s hand stroked the top of my head, over and over again, quieting my tears. It was then, in the quiet, I heard it. The sound was like the most beautiful calliope music, a powerful melody that made all the pain and torture disappear.

And suddenly… I was free.