37. 37
37
LYLA
I wake with a start, another nightmare slowly vanishing. Blinking, I realize I’m in my bedroom. I groan and roll over, feeling the effects of another shitty night’s sleep. My head aches from the wine I had drunk last night in the hopes of getting sleep, and I inwardly berate myself for thinking that it would help.
It never does.
A heaviness settles over me, bone deep and pulling me down further.
“You’d be better off dead.”
Those words from when I was sixteen seeped into my subconscious. I had called him from the hospital, letting him know that I was alive. I had survived.
It hadn’t mattered to him. He told me he wished I had succeeded.
Something aches within me, making it hard to breathe. Every emotion is suffocating me, pressing harder and harder on my chest. I can’t take a full breath and my eyes burn with tears.
It’s too much — always too damn much.
My thoughts stray to Parker and how he had reacted yesterday. I can’t blame him for reaching his limit; I’ve certainly met mine .
“You’d be better off dead.”
Like a bad song on repeat, I feel like ripping out my hair as I silently beg the words to stop. I let out a sob I didn’t realize had been lodged in my throat as I begin shaking, vibrations racking my body. It’s so overwhelming, to feel this deeply. I wish I could turn it off, but the emotions continue their torment.
It’s been a month and I’m worsening every day. Today, it’s shifted into overdrive.
It’s darker, more sinister, cruelly unleashing itself upon me. I feel entirely hopeless and know that I can’t hold out much longer. The voices are taunting me, baiting me to act.
Before I can register what I’m doing, I’m in the kitchen. Cold metal hits my palm, causing the shaking to intensify. I grip the knife harder, feeling the steel indenting my hand as my knuckles turn white with the exertion. Another sob lurches out of my chest.
It’s too much. I’m drowning, choking on every wave.
And I just want it to stop.
The knife hovers over my wrist, a siren call playing its seductive tune. I try to fight her sweet music, but I know it’s incurable. I’m desperate to give into her. Suddenly, pain lances through me, beginning where the knife digs into my flesh and running up my arm until my body feels it’s on fire.
Then, adrenaline courses through my system, dulling the pain and making me feel more brazen.
A river of red flows out of me, coating my wrist. I repeat my assault on the other side, feeling lighter with every drop of blood that exits from my veins. I let out a sigh, feeling the emotion slowly drain from my body, shoulders relaxing as I focus on the ache of my mutilated flesh.
I begin to feel light-headed and slide to the floor, feeling something damp soak into my clothes. Blood has begun pooling around me and I can feel the contrast between the cold tile floor and my warm ichor. Something in the back of my head demands that I call for help, knowing there’s too much blood. But that voice grows quieter and quieter, until it’s barely above a whisper.
My vision blurs as I look down at the puddle of crimson surrounding me. As I drift off, I think of icy blue eyes that have become my safe haven. Eyes I long to see one last time.
If there’s a life after this, I know I’ll find him there.
Then, everything goes black.