From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 6

**Storm Behind Sleeps**
**by George Orwell**
**Chapter 6**

Even after relocating to that forgotten town, nestled three hours upstate, the shadows of my past clung to me like a relentless fog. No matter how far I tried to run, the remnants of my old life were inescapable, haunting me at every turn.

Quinn’s social media presence was a dazzling showcase of their seemingly flawless romance, a constant reminder of what I had lost. Each post was a curated highlight—Zachary whisking her away to Africa to witness the majestic great migration, their hands intertwined as they crafted matching rings in a quaint artisan workshop, and the nauseatingly sweet couple selfies that dripped with affection. I could almost hear the laughter echoing through the pictures as they visited her rural hometown, where he played the savior, distributing care packages at the senior center with a charming smile.

And then there was Zachary’s face, plastered all over the internet—his story unfolding like a blockbuster film. The legendary cop who had gone deep undercover for a decade, dismantling the most notorious crime family in the state, was a figure of admiration and awe.

At the corner bodega, whispers about the Whitmore takedown filled the air, painting Zachary as a heroic action figure, larger than life. It was infuriating.

When you’re engulfed in despair, you find yourself consumed by hatred.

I hated Zachary for the devastation he had wrought upon my life.

I despised my father for the choices that led us to this point, choices that had irrevocably altered the course of our lives.

I loathed the world for its relentless cruelty, the way it seemed to revel in suffering.

But above all, I detested myself for my perceived weakness, for not being strong enough to withstand the storm.

In the depths of my anguish, I withdrew from the world. I stopped leaving my apartment, stopped engaging with life.

A solitary box of ramen stretched to last me an entire week, a meager sustenance I barely had the will to prepare.

When thirst struck, I drank directly from the tap, the cold water a stark contrast to the numbness that enveloped me.

Nights blurred into one another as I lay in the darkness, staring at the peeling ceiling, watching the paint flake away like my will to live. I observed as the room transitioned from the inky blackness of night to the muted gray of dawn, eventually yielding to the pale morning light that felt foreign and unwelcome.

My weight plummeted to a mere ninety pounds, a physical manifestation of my despair.

During this bleak period, Zachary reached out to me once, and it was all because of Quinn.

Apparently, she had “casually mentioned” how much she adored a bracelet I used to wear back in college, and he wanted to know where he could purchase one.

His voice, when it came through the phone, was flat and devoid of emotion, as if he were discussing the weather rather than reaching out to someone he once claimed to care for.

“Your father committed crimes. I did what I was trained to do. That’s not on me. But we had ten years together. Doesn’t that mean anything? Aren’t we at least friends?”

The very notion of his friendship felt like a cruel joke.

That was the moment when everything shattered within me.

In a moment of desperation, I made the irreversible choice to slit my wrists.

It was my landlord who found me, arriving to fix a leak that had long gone unattended. He called 911, his face a mask of concern as he realized the gravity of the situation.

After I was stabilized, he informed me that I had to vacate the apartment by the end of the month.

I was left with nowhere to go, no one to turn to in my time of need.

Then, unexpectedly, an elderly woman, one who eked out a living by returning recyclables, offered me a place to stay.

“Sweetheart,” she would say with a gentle smile, “most of life is hard. But nothing lasts forever. You just have to outlast the pain.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify