Blossom in Winter (Blossom in Winter #1)(127)

“Is Emma here?” I ask, thinking of something.

“Yes. She actually came here to see you many times.”

I stand up, feeling half dead inside. “I’m going to surprise her, then.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere. First, you need to see a doctor.”

“Mom, please, let me go to Hudson. I’m suffocating here.”

“I’ll go with you, then.”

“Oh, Mom, stop! I can still book an Uber,” I snap back.

“Petra, you’re not stable. You can’t go alone. You are ill!”

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything dangerous. See? Uber booked to Emma’s.”

I head to my bedroom, put on a simple black hoodie and jogging pants, take my wallet, and look around. “Do you have a spare key?”

With a scolding face and a defiant glare, Mom stands in the doorway of my bedroom, probably to block my way. “You are not leaving this house.”

“Can’t I go out to see my friends now? Am I gonna be your prisoner?”

After some pondering, Mom finally hands me her key. “Here. Promise me you’ll be back in four hours. No more. And text me once you arrive and when you leave her house.”

“I promise. My Uber just arrived. See you later.”





It will be an easy death. A simple injection will put me to sleep for good and silence the pain my body and mind can no longer bear. It’s two a.m. Alone in bed, I take out the syringe and flask I bought today while Mom thought I was in Hudson Valley. Then I fill the syringe with the yellowish liquid. I close my hand as hard as I can so the veins will become more prominent on my forearm. Without thinking twice, I perforate one with the needle, press the plunger, and see the liquid entering my veins.

The poison will be fast, they said. It won’t take longer than fifteen minutes to stop my heart completely. I shut my eyes, just like I’m sleeping. I know Mom could come check on me at any moment.

They also said before you die, you see your entire life flashing before your eyes. But all I can see is the life I dreamed of with him. The life I didn’t live. From the day he would’ve gotten down on one knee and proposed, to the day we would’ve exchanged our wedding vows, to the day he would’ve cried with happiness finding out I was pregnant, to the day we would’ve held our newborn for the very first time… Years later, we’d be running in the green fields of Bedford Hills with our children on a warm, sunny day. We’d have picnics by the lake. Alex would make paper windmills that spin when you blow, and the kids would giggle, enchanted by them. We’d go to Aspen and teach them how to build a snowman and how to ski, but most importantly, they’d be loved and cherished, and they’d never feel lonely like I did growing up.

Then I picture myself in bed with him, waking up together. He’d smile at me and, like every day, he would say, “Good morning, wife.”

A big grin would warm my face. I would touch my pendant and give him a kiss. “Good morning, husband.”

But suddenly, I feel myself crying.

“Why are you crying?” he asks.

“Because this is not real…” I tell him. “And the truth is so ugly that I can’t live with it.”

“Oh, Petra.” He reaches out, gently taking my hand. “Why would you go that far for me?”

“Because I love you,” I mumble, eyes down. “Why go on living if I can’t be with you?”

“If you are dying, then I want to die too.”

At that instant, he turns to the nightstand, opens the drawer, and pulls out a sharp, pointed knife.

Breathing feels harder and heavier as he gently takes my hand and puts the knife in my palm, closing it. “I want to go with you.”

“I can’t kill you. I love you so much,” I reply through tears. “You have to live. To be happy.”

“I can’t. Do it for me. For us.” He puts his hands over mine and sets the sharp knife over his heart. “Take me with you,” he implores.

“No,” I whimper in pain seeing him like that.

“You have to.”

“No. I can’t kill you.” I want to remove my hands from the knife but he’s holding them so tight. I close my eyes and shake my head repeatedly.

“Petra, look at me. Look at me!” I obey. “Do you love me?”

“More than anything.”

“Then please don’t leave me here. Take me with you.” He keeps pressing the knife against his chest. I tremble, seeing his flesh perforated and blood emerging. “Do it, Petra.” I can’t strike him. I’m motionless. “Do it!”

“No!” I cry harder, shaking my head as I see the knife going deeper into him.

“Do it,” he yells louder.

“No!” I abruptly pull the knife from his chest, and with all my strength, strike as hard as I can into my own heart.

Then I take one last look at his blue eyes, give him one last smile, take one last breath, and the pain is finally gone.





Chapter 35





Bedford Hills, August 27, 2020

Alexander Van Dieren





They told us she should wake up two weeks after her accident. Then four. And, well, now they just say she should wake up before the end of the year. Nothing makes sense to me. Her brain is stable, her lungs too. She breathes normally on her own, but she doesn’t wake up. Science feels futile and in vain, at times like this. Petra remains a total mystery to every physician we have seen. A complex paradox that no one understands despite the countless tests and brain scans. She should be awake, they’ve said repeatedly. Yes, she should. But she is not.