Chapter Thirty Four
Bridgette
My pen finishes its final stroke before looking over the letter. Brad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Okay, that’s a crock of shit. We always argue and fight, even as recently as this week, but he’s a great big brother. He wasn’t able to protect me from everything, but if he was capable…if he knew what started happening when he was around less and even more frequently when he moved out…he would have. I know it, and for that, I love him.
Slipping the letter into an envelope, I write Brad’s name across it before setting it to the side. I debated on writing a letter to my father. Telling him exactly what I thought of him and that I was looking forward to seeing him in hell. Obviously, I was going to burn. I’ve been a horrible person in my life and I’m only twenty-one. But him? There will be a special section of hell for him, and the torture and pain I suffer from every day will be worth it to witness him swim laps in a river of fire and lava until the end of time.
Grabbing one more piece of paper, I stare at it. How the fuck do I write down everything that I want to say? Everything that I feel? It’s impossible. I have endless amounts of emotions running rampant through my mind.
That’s part of the problem, though, isn’t it?
Instead of thinking and planning, I just do. I bleed all over that page. I sob and ache as I write down everything I was never brave enough to say in person. Everything I wasn’t brave enough to say, even in my first letter. I explain everything, and then I finish with a red kiss to the front of the envelope next to Maggie’s name and seal it.
I wait for fear to hit me, the heaviness of what comes next. It doesn’t, though. Instead, I feel…light. Lighter than I’ve felt in years. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m…at peace.
Standing up from my desk, my feet slowly move across my dorm, stepping into the bathroom before I open one of the vanity drawers. My hand reaches down, wrapping around that familiar orange bottle I’ve been staring at for weeks. As soon as I brought it home, I knew what I was going to do with it. I’ve thought about it a million times over, but never thought once I could drum up the courage to actually follow through.
I feel myself slipping away, though. Perfectly healthy on the surface, but there is no mistaking the rotting decay that is eating me from the inside out. It’s time, it has to be. I truly know that it’s time because I no longer feel the bite of fear in my veins at the thought.
My footsteps are light, practically floating me from the bathroom to my bed, sitting down on the edge of it as I reach for my flask. It’s become a necessity these last few months. A disgusting thing to admit, I know. But it’s the truth. This little silver container is the only reason I didn’t take this step sooner. It’s been good to me, shielded me, so I think it’s only right that it’s here with me now.
Opening the orange bottle, I dump the contents into my hand. I only took four out of the entire prescription originally. Those first two days were the most painful. After that, everything seemed to have faded. Numbed.
Of course, that could have been the vodka.
Ten white pills remain in my hand. They look so innocent at first glance. If you knew nothing, I’d bet you’d never expect what kind of damage they can do. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure what kind of damage they can do, but I have to hope for the best case scenario.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before lifting the pills up to my mouth, pouring them in before raising the flask. I wash the pills down with a generous gulp of vodka, wincing as the burn pushes the chalky pills down my throat.
When my mouth is empty and the burn from the alcohol travels down my throat, I know it won’t be long now.
Laying on my back, I stare up at the ceiling, hyperaware of every nerve and every cell in my body. A chill runs through me, but I don’t feel cold. I feel…numb, and I’m so goddamn tired of feeling numb.
I used to be afraid of death, terrified even. Only now have I realized there are so many more things to be afraid of. There are so many things worse than death. Death is the end, there is no denying it, but that’s the best part. It’s the end. It’s over. Nothing bad will ever happen again. No more pain or hurt or abuse. It’s done.
I’m not sure how long I lay there for. Long enough for my heartbeat to slow, my breathing becoming more and more shallow until it all just…stops and I slip away.
Finally.
Peacefully.
I’m free.