Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

CHAPTER 7
ELENA DOESN’T LEAVE the bedroom until the second we land. I sit in the
cabin with my legs crossed, nursing the scotch Marcelline handed me,
waiting for her to enter and give me a piece of her mind, but the moment
never comes.
A dull twinge radiates in my gut, thorns spiraling outward and clawing at
the organ beating inside my chest. Something adjacent to guilt, brushing the
corner of the feeling without letting it fully set in.
I haven’t felt bad about my actions in years, due in part to the fact that I
engage in a lot of charity work at free clinics in order to absolve myself.
Not that it helps me sleep any better at night, but at least it keeps my
mother from rolling over in her grave.
Yet now, considering the way I dragged Elena into my mess, and the way
I’m leaving her half satisfied, shame worms its way into my brain, cloaking
me in its vile shadows.