Croía. Her name alone makes the back of my throat taste sweet, like blood and honey. Her kiss is a ghost pressed to my lips, stubborn and addictive. I drag my fingers across my mouth as if I can smear it back on and catch her taste again. She’s a hunger I can’t fill, an itch under my skin that I’ll tear myself raw to scratch.
At the nurses’ station, I pause, my phone still burning in my palm. Another glance, another useless refresh. What if someone took her? Or worse, what if she’s hurt? A slow growl curls up my throat but I swallow it down before anyone sees. I can’t let the mask slip. Not yet. I force my legs to move down the corridor, to the next patient.
The hallway stretches ahead, sterile, and endless, lined with closed doors and dim lights that hum just a little too loudly. The air smells faintly of disinfectant, but underneath it lingers with something sweeter, like decay hidden under bleach. The walls are a tired green, scuffed near the base where stretchers have scraped past, and the linoleum floor gleams in patches where it’s been over-mopped.
Somewhere ahead, a nurse’s cart rattles and squeaks, the sound echoing off the tiles. Each step feels heavier than the last. Another body on a bed. Another routine. Another distraction that’s no distraction at all.
During my lunch break, instead of going for something to eat, I find myself holed up in the cramped little internet café beside the hospital. The smell of stale coffee and burnt toast clings to the walls, mixing with the low hum of old computers and quiet murmurs of half-finished conversations. None of them register. My eyes are glued to the battered screen in front of me, the cursor blinking in the search bar as if it’s mocking me for hesitating.
I’m hunched over a sticky keyboard with my heart pounding, seemingly a drum I can’t silence. I should be eating, resting, ordoing my damn job. Instead I’m here. There’s still no sign of Croía on the camera feed. It’s been hours and all I see is an empty room. I can’t stand it. I can’t breathe without knowing.
My fingers hover over the keys as I type Croía McLochain, the letters forming as if it's a confession. I backspace. Type it again. Backspace. My head tells me to stop. I’m acting insane, obsessed even. My heart won’t shut the fuck up. It demands answers. I glance at the clock on the wall, ten minutes left before I’m due back on the ward. I curse under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. Then slam my finger down on enter before I can talk myself out of it again.
The search loads painfully slow, each second stretching as though a sharp blade rips across my throat. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find. I just know I need something, anything, to explain… her. To tell me where she is, and why she feels like the missing piece I didn’t know I’d been bleeding for.
My foot taps restlessly under the table as the page finally loads, line after line of old links and scraps of information. My eyes dart over them, hungry and desperate. Somewhere in this sea of digital noise, there must be a truth. Something to make sense of the woman who kissed me like salvation and then vanished.
Croía McLochain. Where the fuck are you?
Right away, a news article catches my eye, the headline enough to make my vision blur at the edges. Tragic car accident claims lives of McLochain family.
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I swear the whole café must hear it. My hand hovers over the mouse, trembling. No, no, this must be a mistake. However… that’s the date, from ten years ago. The same fucking date that changed my life forever.
I click the link. Again, the page loads slow. Every second twisting my guts tighter. Then there it is, in black and white.
It doesn’t name anyone in the article, but I know exactly what accident they’re talking about. My hands shake as I try to catch my breath. This was the collision that killed my parents. I’d heard whispers about another family being involved but until today I was never brave enough to look it up. Cowardly, as always. I didn’t see the point; nothing was going to bring them back. However, now it does matter. Why the fuck did this come up when I searched Croía’s name? What does she have to do with this? My stomach twists. Was she involved? The thought makes my throat close up.
My fingers hover over the keyboard and I shut my eyes. All I can see is that headline burned behind my eyelids. I don’t want to know, but I need to.
Reluctantly, I take a breath, steady my hands, and type her name again. Croía McLochain – car crash. There has to be more.Caithfidh go mbeadh.(There has to be.)
Panic hits me like a ton of bricks when I pull up another news report. This one names the families involved in the crash. The McLochains and the Foleys. The room spins as I try to process it. That’s why her name was so familiar.
All this time, and it was her family too. One night that ruined everything for both of us.
My stomach drops. Now it all makes sense, but nothing makes sense at all.
Frantically I dig deeper, clicking link after link. Every article blurs into the next. None of them name the dead outright. My heart hammers so hard it feels as if it will split my ribs.
I’m nearly ready to give up when realisation hits. I know where I can find the information. Hospital records. That’s where the truth is. That’s where it’s hiding.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I slam the browser shut and nearly knock the chair over in my scramble to stand. Practically tearing the café door off its hinges as I shove my way outside. The air is sharp in my lungs, but it doesn’t slow me down, I’m already jogging down the street. I have to know if it’s true. If her family was in that wreck too. The thought alone burns in my skull as though it’s acid. I can’t breathe until I see it for myself in cold, undeniable black and white.
Once I’m back at work, I don’t waste a single second. I head straight for the nurses’ station, ignoring everyone and everything. I need the main computer in the back office, that’s where the old records are stored. If I’m going to tear this wound open, I need it done now.
I’m half-expecting someone to stop me, but the place is mercifully empty. Slamming the door shut behind me, my heart rattling in my ribs as if it wants out. My hands tremble so badly I keep hitting the wrong keys. Eventually though, I get her name typed in. I force myself to breathe as the system drags its feet, loading every file tied to her name.
Nothing. No mention of any crash. No admittance. Nothing. Thank fuck. Relief floods me so hard I nearly slide out of thechair. For a second, I let my head drop back, sucking in air as though I’ve been drowning, but the relief doesn’t hold. That name, McLouchain, keeps needling at me. I can’t leave it alone. It’s like a scab I can’t stop picking. I lean forward again, my pulse pounding in my ears as I type just the surname this time, narrowing the search to the date burned into my brain.
Three results pop up. Éire McLouchain. Martin McLouchain. Síobhan McLouchain.
My vision doubles as I stare at the names. My fingers hover over the mouse, they won’t move. I survived this once,barely.I clawed my way back from that wreckage piece by piece.Beagnach nár éirigh liom é.(I almost didn’t make it.)
Do I really want to dig it all back up? Peel the scar wide open? For answers I’m not sure I can handle. I loved my parents, and I love them still, so much it feels like knives in my chest. But I don’t know if I can stand to feel their death, fresh, all over again. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
Frozen I sit with the cursor blinking. My heartbeat is so loud, like a gunshot in the quiet room, wondering if this is the moment I tear my entire world apart all over again.
Curious, I turn my gaze toward the sound of a woman’s voice, just as a slender black shadow peels itself from the dim corner of the room. I freeze, caught off guard by the sight. Who is that?
