I remember the day she was born. I mean, it's a little hazy and everything – drugs, you know – but I remember it. She'd squealed and fidgeted when Ibrahim put her in my sweaty arms, and she was slippery with blood and other gooey body stuff, but she was beautiful. And when she opened her eyes, I cried.
She has those exact same eyes, now. Perfectly innocent, unaware of all that she has been through, good and bad.
I suppose I should be relieved. Rose doesn't remember him, and the absence of a future with him can't hurt her anymore. But what about their happy moments? The time they spent laughing, joking, kissing. The time she spent with her friends. Her childhood. The rebellious teenage years – all gone, gone forever, the doctors say.
Ibrahim is quiet beside me, a shadow of a man. He got to know her in Russia. My witty, sarcastic, lovable little girl. How could he help but adore her?
And now he's lost her, just when he thought he had her back. We've both lost her, and I could've sworn that our relationship was getting better, because I tried, I really did…
The smallest of sobs escapes me. Ibrahim's arm makes its way around my shoulders. I curl into him.
I miss her – God, I miss her. I think I always have, and I didn't know it, somehow.
Dimitri Belikov comes into her room, takes one look at us, and slowly stutters his way back out the door. Ibrahim has murder written on his face. At this point, though, I'm not mad – just very, very disappointed.
I honestly thought he was better than that.
Suddenly, Rose stirs, thick lashes fluttering, and I take my old love's hand, because I know I won't be able to look into those awful empty eyes without him.