C3 Echoes of betrayal

Suffocating pain clawed at Monique's throat, each rasping breath a struggle.

Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled down the street; a soul lost and adrift in a sea of her grief. Bumping into oblivious figures, she barely registered their curses, her mind consumed by the smoldering embers of betrayal.

'’Alex,’'she whispered, the name a desolate echo on her lips. It was a talisman against the encroaching darkness, a fragile thread tethering her to a life ripped apart.

She found herself at the columbarium, drawn by an invisible force. The small blue urn, cool against her trembling fingers, bore the inscription: "Alexander Beaumont; forever in our hearts."

Each stroke of the name felt like a fresh wound.

Collapsing onto the cold marble floor, she leaned against the smooth surface, the chill seeping into her bones a faint echo of the icy grip of grief that held her captive. Memories, sharp and vivid, flooded her mind.

Three years ago, on a rainy morning filled with mist, a motorcyclist rode along a winding road approaching a Y junction. The raindrops painted the world in shimmering hues grey, as if nature itself was weeping. Sadly, the rider lost control, and his bike skidded off the wet and icy road like a shooting star in distress.

The chaotic dance of destiny continued as the motorbike crashed into a sturdy Kia Seltos SUV. The impact was forceful, sending the SUV into an uncontrollable spin across the wet road.

The climax of this unfortunate ballet occurred when the Kia Seltos collided head-on with an elegant Mercedes-Benz E-Class luxury sedan. The once-elegant car twirled in the air, losing its grace and ending its performance as it plunged into the river below.

Meanwhile, the Kia Seltos clung precariously to the edge of the bridge, held in place by a twisted guardrail that seemed to pierce through it like a darkened sword.

Inside the now-wrecked Mercedes-Benz were Clinton, his 2-year-old daughter Sahara, and

9-month-old Alexander. They had been on their way to Sahara's classmate's birthday party, but joy turned into a haunting symphony of sirens and distant thunder.

When Clinton came to, he was being rescued from the wreckage by firefighters. Sahara, though her fate unknown, had already been taken to the hospital.

Unfortunately, Alexander had drowned.

The unimaginable loss of Alexander lingered like a heavy mist in the air.

Later investigations revealed the tragic origin – the motorbike rider succumbed to a

sudden medical incident, unwittingly setting the wheels of tragedy in motion.

Behind the wheel of the Kia Seltos was Lydia, a newcomer to town, her first day of work marked by an unexpected baptism of chaos.

Sahara recovered in no time while Lydia slipped into a two week long coma. On the other hand, Clinton had sustained some fractures and had to use a wheelchair and clutches For some time.

That rainy morning left a lasting mark on their lives – a sad picture of loss, survival, and the echoes of a crash that still lingered.

Monique, at the time, was a thousand miles away, her own world collapsing as she grappled

with Constance's terminal diagnosis. The news, when it finally arrived, was a

hammer blow, shattering the fragile peace she'd built.

‘"How could they?" she cried, her voice raw with anguish. "How could they steal his name, his memory, and parade it like a trophy?"

The echoing silence of the columbarium amplified her pain. Was it a cruel joke, a twisted

attempt to reclaim what they'd lost? Or a callous disregard for the gaping wound they'd reopened in her heart?

Nightfall painted the sky in shades of bruised purple as Louise found Monique, a huddled figure cradling the urn, her lips whispering Alexander's name like a mantra against the encroaching darkness.

"Mrs. Monique?" Louise's voice, a beacon of warmth in the chilling silence, finally broke through Monique's daze.

Louise knelt beside her and reached for her hand, her touch a silent balm on Monique's raw emotions.

"Mrs. Monique," Louise whispered again, her voice laced with concern, "what happened?”

"He...they named him Alex," Monique rasped.

Her red-rimmed eyes, burning with fury, glistened with tears as they rolled down her face, tracing new paths on her pale cheeks. "Clinton and Lydia... they named their son Alexander," she choked out, the words grating against her throat.

Louise's gasp was almost audible in the stillness. "No, he wouldn't!" she exclaimed, disbelief etched on her face.

Monique clutched the urn tighter, her tears falling like a summer rain. "He did," she whispered, each word a shard of glass in her voice. "They did. How can they do that? How can they steal his memory?"

Louise, her heart heavy with empathy, knelt beside her. "I don't know, Mrs. Monique," she admitted, her voice gentle. "But I know you have to find a way to deal with this. For yourself, for Sahara."

Monique clutched the urn tighter, her knuckles white. "I can't," she choked out. "Not like this. It's like they're spitting on his grave."

Louise squeezed her hand, her touch a silent promise. "I know it hurts. It's supposed to. But you're not alone. We'll figure this out, together."

Louise's arms enveloped around the younger woman, a silent refuge against the storm raging within. As Monique wept, her shoulders shaking with grief and anger, Louise held her close—a silent promise of support in the face of this unimaginable pain, just as she had over the past ten years.

~~~~

Louise brought her home and led her to her bedroom.

Monique stood in the room, looking lost, her emotions still in disarray.

‘’Mrs. Monique," Louise whispered, approaching her gently. "It's okay, you can let go of the urn now. Come, let's get you into bed."

Monique's fingers, cold and numb, relinquished their grip on the urn.

"I will run the bath for you," Louise continued, even if she knew she would get no response. She walked into the bathroom and ran the bath, fetching a

change of clothes for her.

Gently leading Monique to the bathroom, fearful of any impulsive actions, Louise stayed with her as she bathed, chatting about everything amd nothing, her chirpy voice a stark contrast to Monique's somber mood.

Later, Louise assisted her to bed, Monique's thin frame feeling fragile against the older woman's strength.

"I will go get you something warm to eat," Louise offered.

Monique shook her head.

"Even if you're not hungry, you have to at least put something on your stomach. You haven't eaten anything the whole day."

Monique turned her attention to the urn next to her deceased son's picture. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

As Louise turned to leave, Sahara slipped into the room, her eyes swollen with worry.

"Mama?" she whispered, climbing onto the bed and snuggling next to Monique

Monique wiped her tears, but alas, they still found their way to the surface. She forced a smile and opened her arms.

"Hey, honey."

She pulled Sahara close, their tears mingling as they sought solace in each other's embrace.

That night, Monique dreamt of Alexander. He was laughing, running through a field of sunflowers, his hair catching the golden light. In his hand, he held a small blue butterfly, its wings shimmering with an otherworldly glow. He turned to Monique, his eyes sparkling with life, and whispered, "Don't let my memory be forgotten."

When she woke up, the butterfly's shimmering image lingered in her mind.

Nighttime soon gave way to dawn. As dawn painted the sky with the faintest hint of hope, Louise opened the door and peeped on the mother and daughter pair. Sahara, her small face etched with worry, even in her sleep, nestled beside her mother.

"How is she?" Daniels, asked from the doorway.

Louise offered a reassuring smile. "She's asleep," she said, "but she'll be alright. She has to be."