Healing was not a cinematic montage; it was a bloody, exhausting battle fought one day at a time. Some nights, the trauma overwhelmed Hailey, and she would cry until she was violently sick. Some nights, I would lock myself in the bathroom and scream into a towel, tormented by the guilt of my own blindness.
But we were no longer captives in a house of horrors.
We relocated to a small, sunlit apartment on the opposite side of the county. The floors squeaked, and the kitchen was tiny, but it was a sanctuary. Hailey began intensive trauma therapy. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the frost began to thaw. I saw glimpses of the girl she used to be. She picked up her camera again. She started sketching. The hoodies were eventually folded and put away in the back of a drawer.
One quiet Sunday afternoon, we were sitting cross-legged on our new, second-hand rug, eating cartons of steaming lo mein. The coastal sun was streaming through the sheer curtains, casting warm geometric patterns across the floor.
