SIXTEEN.

“Oh, my god, Ivy…” Lowering her gaze to the ground, she whispers, placing a hand over her heart. “I am. I'm so sorry.” Her voice is raw and brimming with unsaid emotion.

If I had a dollar for the number of times someone offered me their sympathy, I’d be living in a penthouse in the CBD.

“Don’t be, you have nothing to be sorry for. It’s not like you were there.” I pick up the glass of water that remains on the bedside table. “It happened eleven years ago. It’s a distant recollection stuck in the back of my head, infusing itself with the rest of the bad memories I have.” I say as I toss the rest of the water back in one gulp.

An awkward silence lingers between us. It’s the kind of silence that I expect every time I open up about my past. It leaves people speechless and occasionally, it’s the only kind of response I need.

Because fuck trying to dive deep into my traumatised past, digging through the skeletons hidden in my closet.

I knew from the moment that the tip of my sculpture knif