Dancing with Time

The Price of Eight Million

'Remember me with smiles and laughter, for that is how I will remember you all. But, if you can only remember me with tears, then don't remember me at all.' ― Anonymous.

New York, A Few days ago. 

A frigid wind clawed at twenty-year-old Juliet's face, starkly contrasting the turmoil within her. Her long, brunette hair whipped around her like a distressed flag, the salty spray from the churning river below stinging her exposed skin. With his penchant for fractured beauty, even Picasso might struggle to capture the storm brewing in her emerald eyes, now squeezed shut. 

Another tear traced a glistening path down her porcelain cheek. Her slender frame trembled, each gust a cold caress from a world that felt increasingly indifferent. Her shoulders slumped under an invisible weight, the picture of despair. A girl fractured beyond repair stood at the precipice of oblivion.

The relentless roar of the waves crashing against the rocks a thousand feet below echoed in the cavernous silence of her mind. A dizzying drop, a chilling finality. The bridge of her nose, usually dusted with a smattering of freckles, was flushed a precarious pink. It was hard to tell the wind's bite or the sting of unshed tears.

The New York sunset, a masterpiece of fiery pinks, molten oranges, and bruised violets bleeding into inky indigo, was a spectacle wasted on Juliet. Its ethereal beauty remained unseen, veiled by the thick grief clouding her vision. Even the last gasp of sunlight, valiantly fighting the encroaching darkness, couldn't pierce the heavy shroud of her despair.

Once vibrant and alive, the world had become a muted canvas painted in shades of gray. Five months had passed since the accident, yet the Thanksgiving tragedy replayed on an endless loop behind her closed eyelids. Memories, her tormentors, held her captive. Her hands fisted into tight balls, nails digging crescents into her palms, a futile attempt to replace the soul-crushing ache in her chest with a physical sting.

A sudden shrill pierced the silence, jolting her back to the present. The sound was a lifeline thrown from the abyss of her thoughts. Her emerald eyes snapped open, startled by the encroaching darkness. The phone screen, a beacon in the gloom, displayed her father's name.

"Hey, Dad," Juliet answered, surprised by the uncharacteristic steadiness in her voice.

"Juliet, honey," her father's worried voice crackled through the receiver. We need to talk. Can you come by the office?"

A tremor ran through her. Once known for her shyness and quiet optimism, Juliet felt a cold dread in her stomach. The accident, the coma – it felt like a domino effect, each event toppling over the fragile house of cards that was her life. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed to have extinguished, leaving her in a chilling, suffocating darkness."Sure, Dad," Juliet choked out, her voice tremor contrasting her usual composure. Each new blow felt like another shard of ice piercing a heart already fractured beyond repair.

Below, the ocean churned against the jagged rocks, a tempestuous mirror to the turmoil within her. The moonlight, which once painted the scene with an ethereal glow, now seemed to mock her with its indifference. Beauty held no solace; her senses were numbed by grief.

"Where are you? I'll send a car," her father's voice crackled with worry, starkly contrasting his usual authoritative tone.

The image of a quick escape, a final plunge into the churning water, flickered across Juliet's mind.

Exhaustion gnawed at her, a cold fist gripping her insides. Hunger was a dull ache, easily ignored. How long had she stood there, the wind whipping her hair, the relentless waves echoing the relentless sorrow in her soul?