Draven's Point Of View
My mother sobbed hysterically, her arms wrapping tight around our necks, clutching at our jackets as if she would drown if she let go. Her fingers dug into the fabric with a desperation that spoke of every terrible thing she had endured that night, as though releasing us even for a moment might unravel the fragile relief flooding through her.
I could feel her heart hammering against my shoulder, a frantic, uneven rhythm that mirrored my own, and for a moment none of us moved, locked together in the wreckage of what had almost happened.
The basement smelled of copper and damp concrete, and somewhere beneath the sound of her weeping I could hear my own pulse roaring in my ears, refusing to slow.
