Frida
I drive like a mad woman to my parent’s house, racing through my neighborhood with my heart pounding in my chest. The neighbors glare daggers at me for driving like an i***t when I jump out of the car, but I don’t care. I left Stan in the goddamn basement without his insulin, and now I’m terrified I might have accidentally killed him. s**t. He better not be dead; he cannot be dead!
I rush towards the door, fumbling with the keys in a frenzy. The neighbor’s dog is barking at me, and I yell, “Shut up, Buster!” before finally managing to open the door. I throw off my shoes in the hallway, lock the door and run toward the staircase with my pulse flaring against my neck.
“Stan?” I ask. “Are you alive?”
There is no answer.
Guilt pierces my chest, and for the first time, I question wha
